Category: English

After my mom divorced my dad—who was always “too busy” to be home—life got tough. She adopted the “calm and collected” persona. Never fought for anything, never raised her voice. The neighbors all said she was a saint. So, I became her mouthpiece. The things she “couldn’t” say, I said. The people she was “too polite” to offend, I cursed out. The neighbors all whispered that I was petty and rude, nothing like my saintly mother. Then one day, a local drunk tried to assault her. Mom was putting up a desperate fight. Without thinking, I grabbed a glass bottle and smashed it over his head, saving her. I ran to the stairwell to call for help, but Mom shoved me from behind. I tumbled down the stairs, my spine shattering against the concrete steps. Paralyzed from the neck down. It turned out her “desperate fight” was just foreplay. It turned out the drunk was her high school crush, the bad boy she never got over. They moved in together immediately. One afternoon, I woke up from a nap because the bed was shaking. I opened my eyes to see the drunk on top of me. I wanted to fight, but my body wouldn’t move. In a panic, I screamed for Mom. But then I saw her peeking through the doorway. Her eyes weren’t filled with horror, but with jealousy. Despair swallowed me whole. I bit my tongue off, but I didn’t die. So I starved myself. That finally did it. Mom shook her head, sighing with fake pity. “I told you not to be so hot-tempered. You should be calm like a chrysanthemum. Now look, you’ve lost your life.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of the divorce. My parents asked me: “Who do you want to live with?” I chose Mom, of course. I have a debt to repay for her “great kindness.” 1 “Nina, who do you choose?” Mom asked, calm and confident as always. Dad looked devastated, but a glimmer of unrealistic hope still shone in his eyes. He pleaded silently. I buried the hatred deep in my eyes. “I choose… actually, let me use the bathroom first. You guys discuss the other stuff!” I pulled out my cracked phone—Mom’s hand-me-down—and texted Dad: [Dad, I want to live with you, but I’m going to choose Mom. Please don’t be sad. I’ll come back to you soon. Delete this after reading.] I flushed the toilet and walked out. Dad looked like a new man. The despair was gone, replaced by a rosy glow of vitality. I never realized how much my choice in my past life had destroyed him. Mom shot him a look of disdain and started her guilt-tripping routine: “Guess I wasted my time. Can’t wait to go meet your little mistress before the ink is even dry, huh?” 2 The “mistress” Mom referred to was Aunt Diane, Dad’s childhood friend. She had pursued him once, but Dad was already in love with Mom. Dad, being the honest idiot he was, told Mom everything. Back then, Mom just laughed it off. Proud as a peacock, she wouldn’t deign to be jealous of a “country bumpkin.” Now that she wanted a divorce, she suddenly cared about Aunt Diane, painting Dad as morally bankrupt. But in my past life, it was this “country bumpkin” who brought me food and water after I was paralyzed. Dad argued back, face red, but Mom just crossed her arms and said coolly, “See? I hit a nerve. Why else would you react so strongly?” Dad was clumsy with words. Every time he tried to defend himself—”I haven’t even spoken to her in years!”—Mom would cut him off with a breezy, “I don’t believe you. Don’t bother explaining.” “I didn’t do it!” Dad shouted again, but this time, his voice was firm. Because he knew his daughter believed him. 3 In my last life, Dad gave Mom the house and most of his savings because he was afraid I’d suffer. He left with almost nothing. Mom accepted it all calmly, as if she were doing him a favor. “He gave it willingly,” she’d say. I suspect she had been badmouthing Dad to me for years, using the “evil stepmother” trope to scare me into choosing her, all to secure his assets. The irony is, I believed her lies, chose her, and walked straight into hell. “You want to eat? Make it yourself. Girls need to be independent. Go wash the dishes!” She’d push dirty plates at me—leftovers from her delicious stir-fry while I stared at my bowl of plain white rice. When I lived with Dad, he never let me touch dish soap, saying it would ruin my hands. “Just study,” he’d say. With Mom, even adding an egg to my instant noodles was a crime. “I need that for breakfast tomorrow. Why are you so greedy?” She canceled my piano lessons immediately. “You have no talent. Why waste the teacher’s time?” 4 “Nina, hurry up. Me or your dad?” Mom stared at me intensely. I didn’t disappoint her. “I choose Mom.” Mom smiled, a victory lap in her eyes. “Jack, she made her choice. Now let’s talk assets.” I almost laughed looking at the divorce agreement she drafted. It left Dad with nothing. This was my “saintly” mother. In my past life, she used me as a weapon. This life, I’m aiming that weapon right back at her. “Mom, if Dad gives us the house, where will he live? We can go to Grandma’s, but he’ll be homeless! He just lost me, now he loses his home? That’s so sad!” Mom’s face twisted. Her “thoughtful little jacket” was suddenly letting in a draft. She stammered, trying to maintain her persona. “Well… I didn’t really want this dump, it’s just closer to your school.” I cut off her retreat. “Oh, Mom, Grandma’s house is only a few minutes further by bus. It’s fine.” Mom’s face went dark. “I… I’m doing this for you!” I smiled, showing all my teeth. “Don’t worry, Mom! I have a conscience, just like you taught me. I wouldn’t let Dad be homeless just to save five minutes on a bus ride!” Mom’s face cycled through colors like a broken traffic light. 5 With no other choice, she glared at me and changed the agreement. Dad kept the house, but he had to pay her $60,000. They both signed. The divorce cooling-off period was over, so the paperwork went through fast. They got their divorce certificates. Mom let out a huge breath. She had been terrified Dad would back out. “Transfer the $60,000 to my account,” Mom said, her “calm” facade cracking with greed. “Mom, what’s the rush? Let’s transfer the house title to Dad first.” Mom frowned but went along with it. A few days later, the title transfer was done. “Now transfer the money!” Mom’s patience was gone. “Didn’t you lend your brother $80,000?” Dad said coldly. “You keep $60,000 of that debt. Transfer the remaining $20,000 to me. Here’s my account number.” This was the script Dad and I rehearsed. Mom’s brain short-circuited. The math was simple: Assets were split. The $80,000 loan was a marital asset. Dad was owed half. Mom: ??? “Jack, what do you mean? You’re not paying me, and I owe you $10,000? You tricked me?!” Her “calm” persona shattered into a screech. Dad looked innocent. “I didn’t trick you. Just stating facts.” “You know my brother used that money for a house! He can’t pay it back now! How am I supposed to live?!” “How you live is none of my business. You knew he couldn’t pay it back, so why did you lend it?” 6 Dad was a steelworker. Hard labor, long hours, living on-site. Mom called it “never being home.” Years of sun and sweat made his skin rough and dark. Mom, pampered with skincare products paid for by him, looked young and fresh. The work was brutal, but the pay was good. Dad handed every paycheck to Mom. After expenses and mortgage, they had saved $80,000 in eight years. Then my uncle needed a house and a dowry. Grandma called, spun a sob story, and Mom—saint that she was—wired him the entire savings. When Dad found out, he nearly had a stroke. Mom just said, “Money is worldly. Helping my brother is a good deed.” Dad literally coughed blood and passed out. When he woke up in the hospital, he realized Mom wasn’t a partner. From then on, he stopped giving her his savings. Just a fixed allowance. Mom knew she messed up, but she refused to apologize. She just endured the budget cuts. Life was quiet until Mom met Steve.

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I scrolled past a trending thread on my feed after clocking out. The title asked: “Should you pursue someone who is already in a relationship?” One comment, in particular, caught my eye. It read: “Absolutely, you should.” “Five years ago, I moved next door to a gorgeous, high-achieving guy. He had a girlfriend at the time.” “I became friends with both of them first. Then, I played the victim, fabricating a story that his girlfriend had hurt me, making sure I looked weak and vulnerable. That immediately created a rift between them.” “They started fighting often. During their worst argument, he came to me to vent, and I kissed him. He lost all control instantly.” “That same night, his ex-girlfriend was probably still crying over not getting into her dream college.” “Now, I see my choice was definitely the right one. He’s a partner at a listed company, and we’re getting married soon. If I hadn’t been proactive back then, I wouldn’t have this life now.” Then, the tone shifted into gleeful cruelty: “As for his ex? She’s a trainwreck. She didn’t go to college. She’s probably going to rot in the gutter for the rest of her life.” A cold shock went through me, sharp and paralyzing. Because I realized, with sickening certainty, that I was the ex-girlfriend she was talking about. 1 My first instinct, upon reading that smug, detailed confession of relationship sabotage, was to close the tab. I’d lived through that betrayal; why reopen the wound? But my finger froze on the screen. The profile picture was the reason. It was a photo I knew intimately: the first picture of Sienna and Owen together, one I had taken myself on his birthday. I stayed on the comment thread for what felt like an hour. Most of the replies were tearing her apart—calling her a snake and a home-wrecker. But a chilling minority supported her. They argued she simply made the best choice. “This is how you level up. Snag a high-potential guy early and jump classes. Nothing wrong with wanting a better life.” “Even without this twist, they probably wouldn’t have lasted. I don’t think she did anything wrong.” Standing by the street curb, a sudden gust of wind caught me off-balance, and the cheap dinner I was holding slipped, rolling into a muddy puddle. I bent down and fished the ruined sandwich out, dropping it into a trash can. I was the ex-girlfriend in that comment. Owen and I broke up. I missed out on college. Then, my mother, the person who loved me most, had a terrible accident. There were times when I considered ending it all, a dark period I only started crawling out of in the last few years. It was only then, tossing the wet wrapper, that I realized it had been five years—five years since Owen and I split, and three years since I had truly, completely let him go. The old pain, the crushing humiliation, had faded, much like the scars on my wrist had healed, dissolving into the wind. 2 Back in my tiny apartment, I started tidying the mountain of chaotic sketches on my desk. Sienna was right about one thing: I hadn’t gone to college, and the opportunity to “jump classes,” as she put it, seemed to have passed me by. As I tucked the latest charcoal drawings back into the filing cabinet, my hand brushed against a thin, yellowed envelope—a letter I hadn’t touched in years. The handwriting on the front was bold and decisive: “For Eliza Only.” In his note, Owen had once written that he would give me everything he had. Yet, in the end, I felt like I had lost everything because of him. My mind was violently dragged back to the past. Owen and I were childhood sweethearts, practically raised as siblings. We lived in the same quiet neighborhood, back when his family was still whole. As his father’s business expanded, he spent less and less time at home. Owen constantly came to our house, saying our place felt like a home, while his felt like a mausoleum. When he was six, his father had an affair. His mother smashed everything in the house overnight—including her affection for Owen. During the messy divorce, his parents treated him like a hot potato, neither one wanting him. His once-warm, three-person home was reduced to an empty shell. My parents, seeing the lost, miserable boy, took him in, caring for him as if he were their own son. From then on, Owen and I were inseparable. He was the definition of exceptional: brilliant grades, movie-star good looks. I was just… average. Not beautiful, not a genius, my only notable talent being my knack for drawing. But I never felt I didn’t measure up to him. He always said that my family gave him all the warmth he had, that we were his real home. He called me the single beam of light in his darkening world. The incident happened during our freshman year of high school. We were walking home after late study hall, taking the usual shortcut through a dim alley. We ran right into Owen’s father. He reeked of cheap liquor, his eyes darting wildly. He had lost his fortune, and the woman he cheated with had left him. Now, he was back for Owen. Owen refused to go. His father lunged, trying to drag him away. I didn’t hesitate; I threw myself in front of Owen and screamed at the man until he finally staggered off. My legs were shaking so hard I could barely stand, but all I cared about was protecting Owen. That night, he held me tighter than ever, whispering that he would only ever love me. As high school progressed, Owen’s excellence attracted a steady stream of girls. He was the undisputed top student. I, meanwhile, was just an art student with mediocre grades. I started to worry that he would outgrow me. But Owen would just smile, pinching my nose. “Silly. How could I ever leave you? I owe you and your parents everything. I could never repay your kindness.” I genuinely believed we would be happy forever. Until Sienna arrived. It was a scorching summer day. I was at Owen’s house, working on homework, when the doorbell rang. Standing there was a girl with bright, sunny braids. She introduced herself as the new neighbor, her light, cheerful voice seeming to cut through the oppressive heat. An immediate sense of dread settled in my gut. Perhaps it was because she was stunningly pretty. Or perhaps it was the way her eyes lingered on Owen, a faint, undeniable spark of interest in their depths. I soon learned that my gut feeling wasn’t a mistake. It was a premonition of the slow-motion disaster that would consume the rest of my high school life. 3 The very next day, I learned that Sienna hadn’t just become Owen’s new neighbor; she had transferred to our school. We had just finished a round of exams, and the teacher was reviewing our scores. I, the average student, had somehow managed to get the highest grade in English. The moment the teacher opened her mouth to praise me, Sienna appeared at the classroom door. The whole class erupted. No one cared about my grade anymore; all eyes were fixed on Sienna. “Wow, we have a transfer student? I’ve never seen a girl this beautiful on campus!” I soon learned she would be joining our class. What I didn’t expect was her choosing me as her deskmate. “Eliza, you’re the only girl I know in this class. You’ll have to help me out.” She beamed. “I know you and Owen are close. Can you bring me along when you guys hang out?” Her smile was like the winter sun—bright, warm, and impossible to refuse. A chill ran down my spine, but I couldn’t find a reason to say no. From that day on, a third person was wedged between Owen and me. I never had many friends in class. But once Sienna arrived, the other students quickly decided that she and Owen were the obvious, destined match—even if Owen was supposed to be dating me. “The class queen and the quarterback. Why is Eliza always sticking herself in the middle?” “Who knows? Some people just try to punch above their weight.” Back then, I genuinely considered Sienna a friend. I even asked her if the students were right, if I really didn’t measure up to Owen. Sienna just laughed sweetly. “Of course not, Eliza. I mean, you’re not exactly pretty, but Owen doesn’t care about superficial things like that.” “Oh, right! Owen wants to take you to the amusement park this weekend. He was too shy to ask you himself, so he made me pass on the message. Don’t forget!” Though Owen and I had an unspoken understanding, this was our first official date. I left school early that Friday. Despite the torrential rain, I traveled to a distant mall to buy Owen a gift. I picked out a silk tie. The saleswoman asked if it was for my boyfriend, and I shyly nodded. The day of the date, I wore a light yellow sundress and let my ponytail down for the first time. Waiting outside the amusement park entrance, I kept wondering if I was overdressed. I waited until nightfall, but Owen never showed. My texts went unanswered. My excitement was replaced by dread. I started worrying that something terrible had happened to Owen. It was pitch black outside. Rushing to his house, I tripped, falling hard into the dirt. My yellow dress was ruined, covered in mud, and the gift tie flew out of my hand. I burst through his front door. My relief at seeing him alive vanished when I saw Sienna lying on Owen’s bed, looking fragile. Owen was standing next to her, preparing a mug of cold medicine. “What are you doing here? Where have you been? I couldn’t reach you all day.” His voice was angry, not relieved. “Don’t you know Sienna got drenched yesterday? She fainted with a fever this morning. If she hadn’t been my next-door neighbor, who knows how dangerous it would have been?” He didn’t apologize for standing me up; he just lashed out at me. In all the years we had known each other, he had never yelled at me like this. Sienna’s eyes welled up with tears. “Eliza, I know you had an emergency yesterday, but why did you have to take my umbrella in such a downpour?” “I didn’t have any cold medicine at home, and my parents are out of town. I kept texting you, but you blocked me! Thankfully, I came over to Owen’s house just before I passed out. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.” She choked out a sob. “Eliza, I saw you as my best friend here. Why would you do that to me?” Owen reached out and gently wiped her tears. He cut her off, his voice soft. “It’s okay, Sienna. That’s enough.” I was frozen. In Sienna’s narrative, I was the villain. Tears sprang to my own eyes. After a long moment, I finally spoke, reaching out with the ruined tie. “I didn’t take your umbrella, I just—” But Owen didn’t even look at me. He handed the glass of medicine to Sienna. I felt like an invisible stranger. After a few minutes, I finally turned and walked out. That night marked the beginning of our first cold war. When school started, I quietly moved my seat, no longer sitting next to Sienna. But the class’s attitude toward me grew colder. Sienna had told everyone that I was targeting her because of Owen, successfully painting herself as the injured party. Everywhere I went, the whispers followed. “See? I told you she wasn’t good enough for the class heartthrob. She just had to butt in.” “The class queen is so sweet; she still tried to be friends with her. Now she’s being a snake. Who does she think she is?” Suddenly, I was the pariah, a scorned girl, even though I had done nothing wrong. Even Owen refused to meet my eyes. A girl of seventeen can only endure so much humiliation. Finally, after late study hall one night, I found Owen. He was sitting at his desk, patiently going over Sienna’s corrected exam paper. He looked surprised to see me. We walked home together. I poured out all my bottled-up anger and confusion, asking him why he was treating me this way. But when I described how Sienna had deliberately misled me about the amusement park and then framed me for stealing her umbrella, Owen frowned. He cut me off with an edge of impatience. “I don’t understand why you always have such a massive chip on your shoulder about her. She’s not the manipulative person you’re making her out to be. She’s not into petty drama.” “Since meeting Sienna, I’ve realized how fiercely jealous you are, Eliza. She’s only ever been kind to you, yet you keep slandering her. Is it because she’s prettier that you have to constantly drag her down?” His voice dropped lower, his tone accusatory. “Do you have any idea how bad her fever was that day? She was still saying it must have been her fault for saying something too harsh to you.” I was stunned into silence. After all these years, Owen wouldn’t grant me the most basic level of trust. “Eliza,” he said, and the words were sharp and clean, severing us. “After knowing you this long, I’m honestly disgusted. Are you so unremarkable that you can’t bear to see anyone else shine?”

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My twin sister and I were two halves of a whole, though we looked nothing alike, and we were only able to afford school thanks to a scholarship from a local tech mogul. But every time the university deposited the poverty assistance money into my sister’s account, the funds would immediately vanish. To keep me from worrying, she took on a shady job—a “black market gig,” as she called it—which led to her death. The university organized a memorial service for her. I stood in the corner of the room, listening as Sloan Foster, the unofficial queen of the freshman class, whispered and laughed with her circle. “Seriously, who knew taking a sip of your Smartwater could clean out someone’s account? You’re going to be a financial dominatrix by graduation, Sloan!” Sloan scoffed, cutting her friend short. “My family’s worth tens of millions, darling. I don’t care about the loose change.” “It’s just a new app. It’s not like using it on those people matters. Watching them scramble, totally frantic over a few hundred bucks? God, it’s hilarious.” That’s when it hit me. The vanishing money, my sister’s desperation—it was all a game to them, orchestrated through some kind of system transfer. A year later, I earned my acceptance to the same university Sloan attended. I lived my life the way my sister had—working hard, taking on part-time jobs—and I made sure to cross Sloan’s path again and again. Sure enough, she noticed me. Her eyes held that distinct glint of a hunter spotting their prey. Not long after, the university’s top benefactor came to campus to present the scholarships. I was on the recipient list. Sloan walked over, a bottle of premium mineral water in hand, her smile dripping with false concern. “Rowan, you look exhausted. Why don’t you take a break and drink this?” I took the bottle with a grateful smile. The second she turned away, I poured the contents into the glass of imported tea set out for the mogul. She liked playing the deposit transfer game, did she? Fine. This time, I’d play a round with much higher stakes. 1 The university had gone all out for the Donor Gala, a lavish event designed to secure major endowments. Dozens of alumni were invited—all captains of industry, financial titans, and political power brokers. Malcolm Price, the local tech mogul and one of the wealthiest men in the state, was the guest of honor, tasked with personally presenting the $10,000 Scholar’s Award. As a member of the Student Committee, I was busy setting up the main ballroom with the other volunteers. The atmosphere was one of frenetic, high-stakes energy. “Rowan, you look exhausted. Take a break and grab this.” Sloan’s voice was laden with concern as she smiled and offered me the mineral water. I wiped the sweat from my brow, giving her a shy, appreciative smile that was eerily similar to my sister’s. “Thank you, Sloan.” She was about to say more, but a staff coordinator called her name from across the room. Sloan answered, then turned back to me, her tone soft but carrying an unmistakable command. “Your lips look chapped. Make sure you drink the whole thing, okay?” I nodded enthusiastically. Watching her turn and walk toward the coordinator, the smile slowly slid from my face. I lowered my head, my fingertips tracing the chilled surface of the bottle. Sloan. Her methods were exactly as I remembered. Approach your prey with the biggest display of kindness you can fake. Then, use that intimacy as a chance to shatter their every hope. Watch them suffer, collapse, and finally be destroyed by despair. Just like she did to my sister, Lyra. We’d lost our parents young, and Lyra and I survived on the tech mogul’s scholarship. Lyra was kind and open-hearted. She’d met Sloan at the university and instantly considered the popular, wealthy girl her best friend. But from the moment she met Sloan, the monthly scholarship payments would mysteriously disappear from her account. She contacted the bank, filed a police report—nothing helped. The account was consistently zeroed out, as if the deposit had never arrived in the first place. Lyra never told me. She was afraid I’d worry. Instead, she listened to Sloan, who convinced her to take on that “fast money” gig—the one that got her killed. I didn’t learn the truth until the day of Lyra’s memorial. The whole nightmare began with a single, doctored bottle of water. A single sip, and the money in your account was silently, seamlessly transferred. From that day on, I had one goal: This university. I studied until my eyes bled and finally earned a spot here, where Sloan reigned. Sloan. My sister gave you her full trust and unconditional kindness. And you paid her back with playful theft and total annihilation. People who betray true kindness have to pay their penance. I lifted my head, my gaze settling on Malcolm Price, who was currently greeting the university administration at the front of the ballroom. My fingers tightened slightly on the bottle. You love the deposit transfer game? Fine. This time, I’ll let you play a much, much bigger one. 2 The memory flashed away, and the bottle of water in my palm was already warm from my body heat. I scanned the room, quickly locking onto my target. Spencer King. Student Committee Vice President. Heir to the formidable King Hospitality Group. He also happened to be the nephew of the regional bank president. The absolute picture of money and influence on campus. I adjusted my expression—a perfect mix of shyness and appropriate deference—and walked over. “Vice President King, you’re working so hard. Would you like a bottle of water?” Spencer had just finished hauling a crate of decorative props. He stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow, and turned to me with a grateful smile. “Thanks, Rowan. That’s really kind of you.” But just as he reached out to take the bottle, a sharp, piercing voice cut through the background noise. “No!” Spencer’s hand froze mid-air, his brow furrowing in confusion. I turned my head, feigning surprise. “Sloan? Why are you shouting?” Sloan met Spencer’s questioning stare and her composure faltered for a brief second before she quickly regained control. Her friend, Jessie, jumped in, immediately turning the focus onto me. “Rowan Hall, don’t think we don’t see right through you! What is this, a ploy?” “A scholarship kid like you trying to cozy up to Spencer King? Please. Did you think handing him a Smartwater was your ticket out of the cafeteria line? Know your place!” She turned to Spencer, her voice laced with exaggerated caution. “Be careful, Vice President King. Who knows what kind of garbage people like her, desperate to climb the ladder, would put in a bottle of water?” Spencer looked at me, a flicker of suspicion clouding his eyes. The commotion had drawn the attention of the surrounding committee members. The people who were usually friendly or indifferent now gathered around, their faces alight with the malicious joy of watching a public spectacle. “I’m just saying,” one girl sneered, giving me a dismissive once-over. “A charity case like her trying to catch Spencer’s eye? Seriously?” Another guy chimed in. “Yeah, people need to know their worth. Poor kids belong in the library, not trying to social climb.” “Look at her playing the innocent victim. I bet she scavenged that bottle from the recycling bin.” A final comment sparked a round of laughter. I tightly gripped the water bottle, my knuckles white, shaking my head in manufactured panic. “No, it’s not! This water… Sloan gave it to me just now…” Jessie paused, then put her hands on her hips, her expression growing sharper. “If Sloan gave it to you, why are you trying to give it to Spencer? Trying to play a dirty little Cupid, are we?” The crowd roared with jeers. “How shameless! Using Sloan’s kindness to impress Spencer!” “She’s clearly jealous of Sloan. The class queen is beautiful and rich, and Rowan? All she can do is fake cry.” “If Sloan gave it to her, why isn’t she drinking it herself? Does she have something to hide?” Sloan stared me down. “Rowan, you haven’t got some kind of issue with me, have you?” I waved my hands frantically. “No, no! Sloan, you’re always so generous and kind to me. Why would I have an issue?” Jessie and Sloan exchanged a look. Jessie scoffed. “If you don’t have an issue, prove it. Drink the water. Now. Right here in front of everyone.” I bit down hard on my lip, fighting to suppress the triumphant smile that was threatening to break through. Sloan had done half my work for me. Their desperate attempt to prevent me from transferring the water to Spencer only confirmed my suspicion: The transfer system was still active, and its effect could be passed on through my handing the water to someone else. I forced a trembling sob, my eyes red-rimmed, managing a sorrowful, twisted smile. “If you don’t believe me… then I’ll drink it.” I unscrewed the cap, raised the bottle, and chugged two mouthfuls. Water trailed from the corner of my mouth. I stubbornly wiped it away, my expression anxious and vulnerable as I looked up at them. “Is that enough?” Jessie nodded, satisfied. “That’s better. Keep drinking, girl.” I gave her a grateful, almost subservient smile and finished the entire bottle. Sloan and Jessie exchanged another glance, a signal that their sport was finished. The rest of the crowd, seeing the drama end, dispersed back to their posts. I let my pathetic facade melt away, and when no one was looking, I slipped into the back utility closet and retrieved the other bottle of water I had hidden earlier. Sloan only gave me one bottle. I certainly wasn’t going to use that one to test her. I uncapped it, drank a sip myself, and then poured the remainder into the water cooler that supplied the hot water for the VIP tea station. 3 By mid-afternoon, the main ballroom was almost finished. Sloan walked up to me, holding her phone, her voice unnervingly cheerful and warm. “Rowan, perfect timing for a quick vlog! You’re one of the new award recipients!” “Tell everyone—what are you going to do with the ten thousand dollars?” She’d asked Lyra that same question last year. My sister had faced the camera, nervous but her voice ringing with such gentle determination. “I’m going to save every penny for my little sister.” “When she graduates, I’ll finally throw her the birthday party she deserves.” That clip was posted online, tagged with the trending hashtag #AngelSister, and garnered millions of praises. But when Lyra’s account was emptied, Sloan bought a new trending topic, publishing a forged screenshot with a vicious, cutting headline: “Angel of Charity” Blew $10K Scholarship on Male Escorts in Late-Night Club Binge—Scamming the Whole Internet! The online sentiment immediately turned toxic. My sister couldn’t track down the money, and she was powerless against the tidal wave of online abuse. That’s when Sloan, ever the “good friend,” had appeared, suggesting she go to a club where she could “make fast cash.” It ended with Lyra being assaulted, degraded, and found dead in a dark alley on a rainy night. My hands, clasped behind my back, clenched into tight fists, but I raised my chin and smiled into Sloan’s phone camera. “Ten thousand dollars. I’ve never seen that much money in my life. It’s enough to last me a long time.” “But I want to take half of it and donate it to a foundation for disadvantaged children.” “Do good, and good will find you.” Sloan’s eyes brightened, clearly pleased with the answer. She tried to pry further. “With this money, you won’t have to worry about living expenses this semester, right?” I lowered my gaze, letting a suitable shadow of sadness cross my face, forcing out a pained laugh. “My family… they’re gone. It’s just me now.” “Thank goodness for the scholarship. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to stay in school.” In that instant, I saw the undisguised, hungry excitement in Sloan’s eyes. A girl alone. Her last lifeline of money. There was no more perfect “toy” than this. She must have been anticipating the moment when the money vanished, the moment I, utterly alone, would collapse in total despair. She seemed satisfied and walked away toward another group of students. I watched her back, my smile gone, replaced by an arctic chill. She didn’t hear it. Do good, and good will find you. It was my sister’s favorite phrase. I used to tease her for being so naive. But she would always say, “Oh, just you wait. The universe will be so blinded by my good karma that it has to look out for you, too.” But the universe didn’t look out for us. It only took the one light I had left. I stared coldly at Sloan, who was now laughing and joking with someone. I picked up the electric kettle and walked back to the water cooler. The university president had spared no expense for this gala, even procuring rare, imported black tea for the guests of honor. Sloan, you love to manipulate people and bask in the thrill of stripping away their hope. I want to see what happens when Malcolm Price, the city’s most powerful mogul, becomes the victim of your cruel little game. Will you still find the deposit transfer game so “hilarious?” 4 I poured the recently boiled water into the delicate ceramic teacups. The tea leaves, hit by the scalding water, twisted and rolled like a condemned man in agony. I watched the silent tragedy unfold, then meticulously placed the finished cups on the VIP table. The faces I usually saw on the Wall Street Journal or Forbes were starting to take their seats. When Malcolm Price arrived, the crowd instantly surged toward him with handshakes and effusive flattery. At two o’clock, the gala officially began. The first segment involved the host introducing Malcolm Price and the scholarship recipients—including me—to the stage. When I gave my acceptance speech, my voice was filled with the perfect degree of excitement and gratitude. Malcolm Price was visibly pleased with my heartfelt, worshipful testimony. After he delivered some obligatory, high-minded remarks, the staged segment finally ended. Backstage, I stayed busy, all the while keeping a close watch on the main hall. On the stage, students were performing a carefully choreographed dance routine. Following the performance, Price announced a new, expanded scholarship initiative. In the audience, the guests of honor, encouraged by the university president, started to sip their tea. A little distance away, Sloan checked her phone, a small, cruel smirk playing on her lips. She sauntered over to me, her expression a mix of condescension and outright mockery. It was a devastatingly cruel combination of pity and superiority. “Rowan, I assume your scholarship hit your account by now?” I nodded slowly, feigning realization, and pulled out my phone. My eyes widened as I checked the balance, and I froze in place. Sloan’s smile stretched wider. “What’s wrong?” My hands were shaking, my face ghost-white. I looked up at her, my expression blank, overwhelmed by an imagined, crushing defeat. “Sl-Sloan… my money… my three years of savings… it’s all gone…” “The money from my jobs, the scholarship—it just vanished. That was… that was my survival money… How… how could this happen…” I gasped for air, clutching my chest, and sank to the ground in manufactured despair. Sloan crouched down, her voice a poisonous whisper, filled with the exact, twisted pleasure I knew she sought. “How could that happen?” “Maybe you had some hidden debt or a late payment, and the money was immediately routed away? You know, last year, I met a girl just like you. Crying about working hard to support her little sister, only to blow the whole scholarship on male escorts at a late-night club.” I snapped my eyes open, the sheer rage in them almost impossible to contain. I scrambled up, looking utterly distracted and distraught. “No! I’m calling the police! I have to get my money back!” Sloan curled her lip, looking at me as if I were a pathetic insect. At that exact moment, the host on stage was mid-sentence, his voice booming. Suddenly, Malcolm Price bolted to his feet, shouting into his phone. “Say that again?!” The host stopped instantly, stunned into silence. A profound, deathly silence fell over the hall. The shaky voice on the other end of Price’s phone echoed loudly in the acoustically sensitive room. “Call the police! You have to call the police! Someone has definitely hacked and stolen from my bank accounts!”

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While accompanying my kid to a casting call, I was squatting by the road eating a boxed lunch from the crew when I ran into my ex-boyfriend, whom I hadn’t seen in six years. Suppressing his excitement, he looked at me with feigned indifference: “Chloe, didn’t you run away without even saying goodbye?” “Still so useless after six years? You even chased me here?” Liam Song is an internationally renowned director, and my former secret boyfriend. We had agreed to go public after I won the Magnolia Award. But backstage at the ceremony, someone drugged him. I rushed to save him, but amidst the chaos, countless reporters stormed in. Thinking I would do anything for the award, he cut ties with me in front of the cameras: “To be an artist, you must first have morals. Those who are shady and seek shortcuts don’t deserve to be called actors.” After that, I was blacklisted by every major award and became a pariah in the industry. Overwhelmed by cyberbullying and huge breach-of-contract penalties, I announced my retirement and left Beijing. I never expected to run into him again six years later on the set of Southern Trees. Looking at my silence, Liam pulled an outdated diamond ring from his pocket and threw it at my feet. “Pick it up and put it on. I can marry you.” 1 The diamond ring on the ground was one I had polished by hand 9,999 times six years ago, intending to propose to Liam. But when I left, I threw it in the trash. How did it end up in his hands? Seeing me stare at the ring in silence, his face darkened. His bro, looking exasperated, slapped him on the shoulder. “You finally found Chloe, why are you still acting tough? Forgot how you were practically suicidal trying to find her for six years?” Then he looked at me urgently: “Chloe, since you left without a word, Liam has been looking for you for six years.” “These six years, he missed you like crazy. He even created the movie Southern Trees for you.” “Why are you holding back? You schemed so hard back then, didn’t you just want to marry him today?” Scheming. Unscrupulous. These labels have stuck to me since the day I got involved with Liam. Director and actress—it sounds like a transaction ripe for gossip. Especially since he was a famous director and I was a no-name actor who hadn’t even reached the D-list. But Liam’s love was very presentable. Whenever his industry friends questioned my motives, he would righteously tell them: “Chloe and I are truly in love. One day, she will become the best actress in the country!” I held my breath back then too. My pride made me want to stand at the same height as him through my own efforts. For the next three years, I refused every resource Liam offered. The first thing I did every day was run to various film sets. I played corpses, I worked as a stand-in. Finally, in the fifth year, a villainous supporting role I played got scolded into viral fame. Excitedly, I went to find Liam to share my joy. But the moment I opened the door, I saw an impossibly beautiful woman holding his arm. “Chloe, let me introduce you. This is Wendy. She’s been developing her career abroad and just returned today.” The familiar room was filled with my favorite flowers and balloons, but all of it was to celebrate another woman’s return. That day, I suppressed my sadness and shared the cake I bought with them. After Wendy left, Liam mysteriously held up a confetti cannon. As confetti drifted down, he hugged me and sincerely congratulated me: “Chloe, congratulations. You’ve finally been seen.” Because I loved him, the gloom that tormented me all night was easily soothed by him. In the days that followed, I continued to hustle on sets. Everyone called me “Desperate Chloe.” But only I knew I wanted to stand beside Liam openly. Wendy, who had returned, was already somewhat famous and skyrocketed to stardom with her beauty. When she attended events with Liam, just standing together made fans scream “ship it.” But not me. If I got close to Liam, the internet would explode with “D-list actress tries to seduce famous director.” Liam wanted to go public out of anger at the comments, but I still had my pride. I stopped him, saying I didn’t care, and turned to work harder on my acting, sweeping up supporting actress awards. Two years later, when my agent recommended I audition for the lead in Liam’s movie, I cried tears of joy. I thought I finally earned the chance to stand with Liam. But at the audition, Wendy was there too. Her casual remark, “With Sister Chloe’s relationship with Liam, this lead role must be yours,” ruined everything. The disappointment in Liam’s eyes almost drowned me. That day, Liam kicked me off the set. We had the biggest fight of our eight-year relationship. 2 Although Liam explained later that he was afraid Wendy’s words would be heard by others and spread rumors disadvantageous to me. Because he knew how scared I was that people would attribute my efforts to nepotism. But I was still sad for a long time. I could see it. Back then, he almost instantly assumed I wanted to secure the lead role through our relationship. After all, everyone in the industry knew that being a “Liam Girl” could rocket a nobody to the A-list. After that, I turned down all scripts related to Liam and took a role in an arthouse film by another director. While I was disconnected filming, Wendy became the lead in Liam’s movie. Meanwhile, netizens dug up their childhood history, discovering their families had arranged a “baby engagement.” Overnight, the Liam-Wendy CP (couple pairing) took the internet by storm. By the time I finished filming, netizens had even photoshopped their wedding photos. When I confronted Liam, he was impatient: “Chloe, if Wendy and I liked each other, we would have been together long ago. Where would you fit in?” His attitude stabbed me like a knife. Increasingly panicked, I leaned against his chest, carefully asking for a promise. “Liam, when I win the Magnolia Award for Best Actress, let’s go public, okay?” I thought, once I’m Best Actress, I’ll be worthy of him. Liam agreed immediately without hesitation. My anxious heart was smoothed over. But soon, Wendy started appearing frequently in our chat logs. “Wendy’s understanding of the character matches mine perfectly. Filming with an actor like her is exhilarating!” “Wendy had an idea today that gave me instant inspiration.” Wendy, Wendy… It seemed without her, we had nothing to talk about. So I became silent. Liam didn’t notice; he was busy marveling at finding his muse. But Wendy noticed. She called me out and handed me a glass of water like we were chatting casually. “You’ve gotten enough from Liam. When do you plan to leave him?” This sentence erased all my efforts over the years. I trembled with rage. “Every role I got was through my own effort, nothing to do with Liam!” I spoke firmly, as if that could cancel out her humiliation. But she laughed disdainfully, like she heard a funny joke. “Sure, you and Liam haven’t gone public, but everyone in the circle is sharp. You think they don’t know about you two?” “Those scripts that came to you, dare you say they weren’t because of his face?” “Chloe, fooling others is fine, don’t end up fooling yourself…” Her words were a loud slap in my face. My straightened back could never straighten again. That night, I received an invite for a top-tier variety show. Liam was also invited. When I asked if he would go, he was on a call with Wendy discussing the script. He put down the phone, asking me in a weird tone: “Didn’t you say you didn’t want to appear with me? Or is your movie coming out and you want to leech off the hype?” I froze, then looked at him agitatedly: “Why would you think that of me? Did Wendy say something to you? She…” Liam interrupted me unhappily: “Enough, Chloe, it has nothing to do with her.” “If you want to use my fame, let’s just go public now. All this sneaking around is too troublesome.” Before, when he suggested going public, I refused but felt warm inside. Now, it felt like a poisoned needle, piercing my heart full of holes. 3 After saying that, he picked up his phone and continued discussing the script with Wendy. My agent and I declined the variety show invite. But the next day, “Chloe Suspected of Pursuing Director Song and Rejected” trended, hitting #1 instantly. The movie I was in capitalized on the hype, and the box office was ten times higher than expected. Later at a gathering, one of Liam’s friends toasted me: “Chloe, you’ve been with Brother Song for ten years, finally tasted the sweetness. Without that trending topic, how could your movie do so well?” As soon as he finished, Liam punched him. “Chloe’s success has nothing to do with me! Say that again if you dare!” A good gathering turned into a brawl. When I dragged him home, he wiped the blood from his mouth and asked meaningfully: “Heard you were nominated for the Magnolia with that movie?” I lowered my head to treat his hand, humming a “yes.” He scoffed, then kissed me recklessly. The taste of blood made me want to retch. After the kiss, he rubbed my swollen lips. “Chloe, if I weren’t a famous director, would you still be with me?” A sense of sadness and powerlessness wrapped around me. I wanted to ask: Liam, did you forget? When we got together, you weren’t a famous director yet. The Song family had been in business for generations. When they learned Liam wanted to direct, his father cut him off. All his early works were supported by my meager earnings from bit parts. But I couldn’t ask. Liam’s suspicion of me was a seed planted when Wendy appeared. Nothing I said could uproot it. I thought it was time to end this unequal love. Love is like building a house. Without trust, the foundation is unstable. No matter how glamorous it looks, it will collapse sooner or later. The day of the Magnolia Awards, I went backstage to find Liam. I wanted to tell him, win or lose, our promises were void. We’re breaking up. But when I found him, his face was flushed, breathing heavy—obviously drugged. The entertainment industry never lacks dirty tricks and hidden eyes. Worried someone was setting him up, I supported him to leave. But at the door, countless cameras stormed in, flashes blinding me. “Director Song, what is your relationship with Chloe? Is she really your secret girlfriend as rumored?” “Ms. Chloe, you’re competing with Wendy for Best Actress. Is exposing your relationship with Director Song a ploy to boost your chances?” Acting-wise, I was leagues ahead of Wendy. Traffic-wise, I wasn’t even a fraction of her. Everyone thought I directed this scene to suppress Wendy and win. Liam thought so too. He felt he was a tool for my ambition. I fulfilled his friends’ words: I was with him for profit. He pushed disheveled me away, eyes full of disappointment and disdain: “Chloe, for an award, you’d drug me and stage this?” I looked at him in shock: “Drug? I didn’t! Liam, I just…” “Enough! I don’t want to hear your excuses!” Liam pulled himself together, adjusting his clothes. He knew acting was my life’s pursuit, that any slander would destroy my efforts. Yet he faced the cameras, word by word: “I have no relationship with Chloe.” “To be an artist, you must first have morals. Those who are shady and seek shortcuts don’t deserve to be called actors.” With that, he left without looking back, leaving me to be crucified by reporters. Because of Liam’s “accusation,” I was removed from the Magnolia list, and contracts were cancelled. Crushed by debt and cyberbullying, the Film Association blacklisted me as a “tainted artist.” I became a rat crossing the street. I couldn’t stay in the country, fleeing abroad like a deserter. In six years, I cut ties with everything back home. I never thought accompanying my kid to an audition would bring me face to face with the person I never wanted to see again. Ignoring the ring, I tossed the lunch box and turned to leave. But Liam grabbed me. His face was pale, but a hidden panic was visible in his eyes: “Chloe, not even a word? Do you want to avoid me that much?” I sneered, pushing him away: “Liam, I don’t think we have anything to say. Stay away from me, unless you want the paparazzi to splash more dirty water on me.” Remembering six years ago, Liam’s face went white. He picked up the ring and held it in front of me. “Chloe, the past is past. Stop making a scene, put it on…” He tried to force the ring onto my finger. But the moment my hand opened, he froze. Staring dead at the pigeon-egg diamond on my ring finger. “This is…” Before he could finish, a little girl in a princess dress ran over. She stood between us, arms spread to protect me. “Bad man, let go of my mommy!” 4 A ring on the ring finger wasn’t enough to prove I was married. Liam simply thought it was fake, a prop. But the daughter raised the heart he had just put down. The diamond’s color was beautiful. Liam’s gaze moved over me, asking in disbelief: “You… married? And had a child?” “That diamond isn’t cheap. Did you marry for money…” I understood his implication. Years ago, he thought I drugged him for an award. Now he thought I married a nouveau riche for money. Without opening his eyes to see how beautiful my daughter is—her dad must be breathtaking. I picked up my daughter, looking at Liam with cold eyes. “I am married, but it’s not as dirty as you think.” “I’m not so poor I can’t afford a diamond.” His thoughts exposed, Liam’s fists clenched unnaturally. If you looked closely, you’d see his knuckles turn white under the trembling. Whenever Liam was embarrassed or breaking down internally, he did this. After so many years, his habit hadn’t changed. Only things have changed. I’m no longer the girl who cares about his feelings. I walked toward him with my daughter. His empty eyes colored instantly, but my next words hit him like a club. “Narrow path. Move.” Liam ignored it, staring at my daughter who looked like me, voice tight. “Is she really your daughter?” Impatience rising, I was about to speak when my daughter’s childish voice interrupted. “Uncle, we’re looking for Daddy. Can you move?” “And I am Mommy’s daughter. Asking like that is rude.” Two sentences made Liam’s eyes red. His voice raspy. “Chloe, you said you’d marry me. Why break your promise and have a child with someone else?” “Remember? You said if we had kids, boy or girl, the first one would be named Song Muqiao (Song adores Qiao).” “Do you remember…” I scoffed. “Liam, bringing up the past, is it fun? We broke up ages ago, didn’t we?” Something triggered him. He grabbed my shoulders excitedly, shouting. “We didn’t break up!” “You left without a word six years ago! I’ve been looking for you!” “Chloe, you abandoned me and had a child with another man. Did you consider my feelings?” Sensing my daughter’s fear, I shook off his hands and slapped him. “Are you crazy!” “Did you consider my feelings back then?” “One word from you can make or break a person.” “Liam, you destroyed me.” My words made Liam breathe fast, eyes flickering. Yes, how could he not know Director Song’s words could kill? After a long stalemate, Liam explained. “I was… angry at the time. I didn’t expect…” I smiled. “Didn’t expect what?” “Didn’t expect irrational fans doxxing me, sending razor blades? Didn’t expect being secretly filmed and pointed at whenever I went out? Or didn’t expect the overwhelming hate online?” “I almost died. See the scar on my wrist? I did that myself. The penalty fees were suffocating!” “What did I do wrong? Just loved an excellent director?” “Because of your angry words, everything I worked for was denied.” “Where does Director Song get the confidence to think I’d marry you after all that? Do you deserve it?” 5 Liam staggered, red eyes full of pain. Looking at me with guilt. “Chloe, I’m sorry… I didn’t know.” “I was too impulsive. Thinking you drugged me… I couldn’t control myself. Not verifying it in time was my fault.” “But when I understood everything, you were gone.” Liam cried as he spoke. He looked truly regretful. But I just wanted to laugh. He actually did it. “If you really felt sorry, why didn’t you clarify to the media after finding out?” “Afraid of damaging your reputation?” Liam is such a hypocrite. But in the adult world, there is no right or wrong, only interests. Then, Liam started talking about others’ difficulties. He wanted to clarify for me. But the girl who drugged him had a poor family. Sick parents, a brother in school. She was forced to do it, she needed money. If exposed, she’d have no future. And I had some achievements. Liam thought time would make people forget. “So? You want to say you had difficulties, and want me to praise your kindness?” My reaction was different from what he expected. He was speechless, at a loss. “Chloe, I’ll compensate you.” “I’ll clarify for you right now. I’ll give you whatever you want. I just beg you to forgive me.” Clarifying now is useless. I will never forget those pains. I looked at Liam coldly. “I don’t need it.” “Liam, do you know? For six years, seeing news about you made me want to vomit.” Liam’s eyelashes trembled, looking dazed. His head buzzed, blank. Seeing me leave, he snapped back. He reached out, but I dodged. Seeing my disgust, he withdrew his hand awkwardly. But he blocked the path completely. To pass, physical contact was unavoidable. I looked at him impatiently. Liam didn’t move. “Move!” Liam looked hurt, voice tight. “In such a hurry to find him?” “Is he better than me? Can he give you more?” “As long as you want, I have endless resources. Chloe, why not choose me?” I looked at him silently. Maybe guilty, he couldn’t meet my gaze and looked away. “Liam, when we were together, you weren’t a famous director. Likewise, I wouldn’t marry someone for resources.” “In those years, I fought for everything I wanted. Remember that. I never relied on you. Instead, in your poorest years, I supported your dreams.” No matter how many times I say it, he doesn’t believe it. Is it love or resources? He still doesn’t get it. This time, I was really annoyed. I shoved past him and left with my daughter. Smooth sailing. The only thing affecting my mood was Liam’s lingering scent and his gaze following us.

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I was the canary in the golden cage, handpicked by the billionaire heir Julian to tame his wild younger brother. My job? Love bombing him. Control Asher with “love,” stop him from street racing, fighting, and partying. It worked like a charm. I was raking in double salaries. Until the day I turned on the waterworks again. “Ash, please don’t race tonight. I’m so scared…” Asher just lit a cigarette, his expression bored. “Relax. Your man’s unbeatable.” I turned my head, dread pooling in my stomach, and saw the prize for tonight’s race. A girl in a white dress. Shit. My double income was toast. I silently pulled out my phone and drafted my resignation email to Asher’s brother. 1 Asher Sterling was a menace to society. His hobbies included: Sending people to the hospital via illegal street racing. Beating other rich kids to a pulp. Playing the field so hard that socialites were ripping each other’s hair out over him, causing PR nightmares for the Sterling Group. Because Asher was constantly trending for all the wrong reasons, the company stock was taking hits. Eventually, a secretary escorted me to meet the eldest son of the Sterling family. Julian Sterling sat with his long legs crossed, assessing me calmly. The secretary announced, “She’s the most beautiful hostess at The Sapphire Club.” After a long silence, Julian looked away, his slender fingers writing a check. The secretary handed it to me. I glanced at the number. Paused. Then I smiled. “Are you looking for a sugar baby?” The secretary explained, “It’s for the second young master.” Then came the instructions. Asher likes girls with long hair and white dresses. He hates girls who are too sharp or confrontational. He responds to softness, not hardness. When the briefing was over, Julian spoke his first words, his tone cold. “You’ll get this amount every month, deposited directly into your account.” He was certain I wouldn’t refuse. I fingered the check. After a moment, I gave Julian a brilliant smile. “Deal.” I really couldn’t refuse. 2 I was planted by Asher’s side. After he “saved” me for the third time, he looked down at me, a smirk playing on his lips. “We keep meeting like this, don’t we?” I lowered my head timidly. “I’m sorry to trouble you again.” Asher clicked his tongue, twirling a lock of my hair. “Being too pretty isn’t always a blessing. Why are you always getting bullied?” The night wind lifted the hem of my white dress. My long hair danced gently. My eyes reddened. After a long pause, I whispered, “I… I’m used to it. It’s been like this since I was little.” Asher froze. Just then, his friends stumbled out of the bar. “Ash, what are you doing in this dark alley?” One of them eyed me, reaching out to touch my face with a lecherous grin. “Where’d you find this beauty? So fresh.” Asher slapped the hand away, frowning. “Fuck off.” The others quickly smoothed things over. “You’re blind, man. She’s clearly with Ash.” Once they slunk away, tears spilled from my eyes. I grabbed Asher’s sleeve. He didn’t pull away. I looked up, meeting his gaze with trembling hope. “Because you’re here, they didn’t dare hurt me.” Asher wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. My lashes fluttered. I summoned my courage. “Do… do you have a girlfriend?” The night wind was cold. I shivered. Asher bent down and scooped me up effortlessly. He said casually, “Not right now. Don’t plan on having one later, either.” I stared at him blankly. Asher carried me toward his sports car parked at the intersection. Several eyes were on us. I buried my face in his chest, mumbling, “It’s okay. I… I don’t need a title.” My answer was within his expectations. After all, a young girl’s love and dependence are always so obvious and passionate. Asher smirked lazily, placed me in the passenger seat, and kissed me. “Cool.” 3 Everything went smoothly. In everyone’s eyes, I was beautiful, gentle, and oblivious to Asher’s wealth—just purely in love with him. I loved him so much I worried constantly. I didn’t want him racing or fighting because I was terrified for his safety. I didn’t want other girls around him because I loved him so much I was afraid he’d fall for someone else. But since I had no title, I couldn’t throw tantrums. I could only cry and beg him softly. Luckily, Asher seemed to like me enough. Whenever I cried, he caved. He behaved for a long time, shocking everyone. Asher took me shopping, to movies, on trips. We took photos, kissed, and slept together. His friends said he was a changed man. Julian must have been satisfied too; he tripled my salary. I became the canary in Asher’s hand, pampered and spoiled. Many saw me as the frontrunner to become the next Mrs. Sterling. Honestly, I didn’t know if Asher really cared or if I was just a novelty. But I knew one thing: Julian Sterling would never let a bottle girl from The Sapphire Club marry into the family. Even though I was brought to Julian on my first day. To elites like them, just being allowed into their circle was a privilege. I couldn’t—and didn’t deserve to—ask for more. So, when I was on the verge of tears again, begging Asher not to race… He just pulled out a cigarette, unbothered. “Relax. Your man’s unbeatable.” This was the first time, outside of the bedroom, that he refused me. My eyes reddened. “Ash.” Asher didn’t look at me again. He crushed the cigarette under his boot and walked toward his black sports car, which hadn’t been touched in months. His back was straight and tall. The crowd whistled excitedly. It had been a year since Asher raced. I had a premonition. I turned my head slowly. A girl in a white dress was being led by several men to the platform where the “prize” usually stood. She looked down uneasily, a picture of vulnerability. In that moment, I felt a mix of emotions. A socialite glanced at me, inspecting her manicure. “You were sick a few days ago and didn’t go to the bar with Asher. That girl was a hostess there, getting harassed. Asher saved her.” I blinked slowly. Processing the information. In those ten seconds, I wondered: Did Julian order a new custom canary for Asher? Impossible. Julian Sterling wasn’t sloppy. Besides… this girl looked scared but stubborn. She lacked my practiced affectation. I sighed, looking up at the sky sorrowfully. My eyes filled with tears—muscle memory at this point. But I was genuinely sad. My double salary was gone. Seeing my expression, the socialite scoffed. “You really forgot your place. This day was coming sooner or later.” I silently unlocked my phone. I googled “How to write a resignation letter.” I needed it to be professional yet poignant, maybe squeeze a severance package out of Julian. After all, I worked hard. 4 Asher won. The other racer crashed. Chaos erupted as the ambulance sirens grew louder. No one dared blame Asher, so they turned on the girl. “If anything happens to Caleb, you’re dead! Just wait.” The girl backed away, trembling. Asher sneered, blocking her. “Real brave, guys. What does this have to do with her?” I watched them for a few seconds. Then I walked over, took off the jacket Asher had draped over me earlier, and put it on the girl. I spoke softly. “It’s cold tonight. Don’t catch a chill.” Meeting Asher’s probing gaze, I smiled gently. “You helped me on a night just like this.” The girl stared at me, stunned. Then she looked at Asher. “Mr. Sterling, she is…” Asher didn’t answer. He just looked down, staring at me. Under his gaze, I couldn’t keep up the fake smile. I gave a bitter twitch of my lips. Because… Forget the severance package. After this mess, Julian might dock my pay for the month. Sigh… dock it if you must. I saved enough. Wait, what if they sue me for damages?! The thought terrified me. I looked increasingly distraught. The girl nervously clutched Asher’s shirt. “W-what’s wrong with her? Does she not like me…” Asher looked away from my face, comforting the girl calmly. “No. Don’t be scared.” I walked away, soul-crushed. Many people were watching, enjoying the show. They hadn’t expected my downfall to come so soon. Asher didn’t chase after me. The girl was sweating from fear, so Asher had someone take her to change. I was sweating too. I wiped my palms on my dress, opened my email, and sent the drafted resignation to Julian. The language was sincere, expressing gratitude for the opportunity and dedication to the job. Gotta cut ties before I get blamed! Just then, the manager of The Sapphire Club called. “Sunny, can you come in tomorrow? You left some stuff in your locker.” I paused. Right. “Okay.” After hanging up… I called a cab to the apartment I secretly bought. To maintain perfect skin and energy for Asher, I rarely stayed up late. Now that I was free… I took out my SIM card, curled up in bed, and doom-scrolled until dawn. I woke up the next evening, put in a new SIM card, threw on a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, and went to The Sapphire Club bare-faced. It had been so long since I felt this relaxed. The manager was stunned for a second when she saw me, then took me to get my stuff. She didn’t ask questions. I grabbed my things, waved goodbye, and turned to leave. Then I heard a familiar voice. “Is this the place?” Magnetic, lazy. The girl whispered yes. The entourage chimed in. “Ash is so good, coming back to settle the score for the little lady. Those guys are screwed.” Asher looked at the manager. “Bring everyone who worked her shift.” I silently pulled a mask from my pocket, lowered my head, and tried to sneak away. “Sunny He?” Someone gasped. Seriously? You recognized me like this? I messed up my hair and shook my head. The manager seemed to sense my reluctance. She stepped forward, smiling. “Who is that? Young masters, ladies, let me show you to your private room.” I felt a surge of gratitude. The next second, my wrist was grabbed. Asher’s voice rang through the gilded lobby, brokering no argument. “Look up. Take off the mask.” I froze. But I didn’t move, staring at the floor, playing deaf. The room was dead silent. Until a weak voice cried out, “Ash, my stomach hurts.” A few seconds of stalemate. Asher let go of my hand and walked toward the girl. I walked out step by step, nerves taut. Terrified there was more to the script. Only when I was in the cab did it hit me. The scent of cedarwood on Asher had been replaced by a faint floral perfume. They must have spent a lot of time together… To smell like each other.

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Eight years into my marriage with Grant Hawthorne, he brought her back. Lacey Bloom. His high school sweetheart. The one that got away. Lacey was effortless. She possessed that wide-eyed, fragile charm that disarms people before they even realize they’ve been conquered. Despite drowning in debt, her “kindness” and “warmth” won over the entire Hawthorne dynasty in record time. My husband, the stoic CEO, softened around her, rekindling a romance that felt like it belonged on a movie screen. My own children, Bella and Leo, decided within weeks that this sweet, indulgent woman was far more suited to be their mother than I ever was. I wasn’t heartbroken. Actually, I was relieved. It meant the plot of this novel was finally concluding. 1 So, when my daughter stood before me, face twisted in bratty disdain, demanding I apologize to “Auntie Lacey,” I didn’t even look up. I just continued pruning the excess stems from the white hydrangeas in the vase. Snip. Snip. “Mom! If you don’t apologize, Leo and I aren’t going to acknowledge you as our mother anymore!” “Okay,” I said, my voice flat. “Then don’t.” I looked at the girl standing there—this child who was practically vibrating with entitlement. I felt nothing. I remembered nearly dying in labor to bring her into this world. I remembered the years I spent begging the best private tutors in Manhattan to teach her piano and French, giving her the skills to survive in this shark tank of a social circle. I remembered the nights I argued with Grant, fighting for her right to inherit company shares, not just a trust fund. I had given her everything. But since Lacey appeared, the narrative shifted. Lacey told them they were “just kids” and shouldn’t be crushed by expectations. She encouraged Bella to skip her lessons. Suddenly, Bella wasn’t practicing scales; she was shopping on Fifth Avenue with Lacey, racking up credit card bills. If this was the path she chose, I wouldn’t stop her. I was just the supporting character—the “cold wife”—in this book. My arc was over. The System had graded my performance, and soon, I’d be cashing out. Two weeks. That’s all I had left before the System extracted me back to the real world. I set the shears down and finally glanced at her. My eyes were empty. Bella flinched. A flicker of panic crossed her face. She wasn’t used to this. For her entire life, I had been the desperate, hovering mother. I had never just… rejected her. But the moment passed. She recovered her composure, lifting her chin to show off her new look. “Look at this,” she twirled, showing off a designer dress and a face full of makeup that was far too mature for her age. “Auntie Lacey bought me all of this. Isn’t it pretty?” “You never let me wear stuff like this,” she accused. “You said I was too young, that it was ‘tacky.’ You made me study until I cried. You hit my hands when I played the wrong notes. You treated me like a trophy, Mom. You never gave me any dignity!” I almost laughed. Dignity. Those were Lacey’s words, parroted by a child. I was afraid Bella would be eaten alive by this family if she wasn’t sharp, if she wasn’t impressive. So I taught her how to walk, how to talk, how to wield power. And in return, two gifts from Lacey were enough to erase eight years of maternal sacrifice. Did she have any idea what I had poured into her? Seeing my silence, Bella stomped her foot. “You don’t actually love me!” “Auntie Lacey is the one who loves me. She doesn’t wake me up at 6:00 AM for vocabulary drills. She buys me clothes, reads me stories, takes me to Six Flags! She’s a thousand times better than you!” She grabbed a vase from the console table and smashed it on the floor. “Daddy already said he’s going to marry Lacey! He’s going to divorce you soon!” She stormed out, leaving me alone in the shattering silence. Even though I had one foot out the door, her words left a bitter aftertaste. Is the Protagonist Halo really that blinding? Does it rewrite history? Does it make all my discipline look like abuse and all her negligence look like love? Or is it just because I’m the villainess? Is everything I do inherently wrong? When Grant first brought Lacey home, I didn’t care. Then the affair started. I realized that for eight years, I was just a placeholder. A shadow of the Golden Girl. The Hawthorne family, notoriously cold, melted for her. My children, exhausted by my high standards, flocked to her easy, sugar-coated parenting. Grant used to respect me. But the moment Lacey moved in, chaos followed. She got “food poisoning.” She “accidentally” fell into the pool. She had allergic reactions. Every single time, the evidence pointed to me. Grant tore my room apart, threatening divorce if I didn’t beg for her forgiveness. I snapped and called her a homewrecker. Grant slapped me. Hard. I fell into the shards of a broken vase. The glass sliced through my legs. Blood soaked the carpet. Even after bandaging it, the throbbing pain kept me awake all night. This morning, I had dragged myself out of bed just to arrange some flowers, seeking a moment of peace. Then Bella stormed in. Now, the pain in my legs was excruciating. The System was offline. The medical kit I bought from the System Store had been used up on Grant and the kids over the years. The housekeeper who raised me was fired by Grant last week. He had forbidden anyone from driving me to the hospital. The only person allowed in my room was Amber, Lacey’s personal maid. The “medicine” she brought looked suspicious, so I didn’t touch it. I felt like a ghost haunting my own house. It was past noon, and no one had brought me food. I dug through a drawer and found a cheap, tarnished ring. I sighed, turning it over in my fingers. Finally, lunch arrived. It was meager, but I wasn’t picky. I took one bite and immediately spat it out. Nutmeg. The entire staff knew I was deathly allergic to nutmeg. Lacey knew. As I was about to tell the maid to take it away, the door burst open. Grant stormed in, looking like a vengeful god in a bespoke suit. He kicked the side table over, sending the tray crashing. “You tried to kill Lacey,” he seethed, his jaw tight. “I told you to apologize, and instead, you sit here in your high tower, throwing away the food she asked the kitchen to make for you? Is there no end to your malice, Vivian?” I lay back on the pillows, looking at him with absolute exhaustion. Grant lunged, his hand closing around my throat. “Why is it so hard for you to just listen?” Eight years. I played my role perfectly. I was the devoted wife, the strict but loving mother. If they had accepted me, I could have stayed. I wanted to stay. Before the heroine arrived, I really tried. But now… I shook my head, a sad smile touching my lips. I looked at the man who used to hold me while I slept. “Grant,” I whispered. “I’ve told you. I didn’t hurt her. It’s a performance. She’s staging it all.” His grip loosened slightly, his eyes wavering. “You have cameras everywhere,” I rasped. “If you wanted the truth, you’d check the footage. But you don’t want the truth. You’re just bored of me.” “Since you’ve already decided I’m guilty, what difference does an apology make?” He stared at me, stunned. For a second, the anger vanished, replaced by something that looked like pain. He let go of my neck. Then, the narrative took hold again. He hardened. “I thought you loved me. I thought you were different. But you’re just jealous. You’re toxic.” “Lacey is an angel. How could you hurt her?” He stood up, straightening his cuffs. “From now on, no one gives Mrs. Hawthorne any medication. And she doesn’t leave this room until she crawls to Lacey and begs for forgiveness.” He waited for me to cry, to beg. I just stared at the ceiling. He left. The air in the room felt heavy. Amber, Lacey’s maid, started cleaning up the spilled porridge. “Oh, Madam, why did you spit it out? You need to eat to heal.” She smirked, her voice dripping with faux concern. “You probably don’t know, since you’re stuck in here… but yesterday, little Leo called Miss Lacey ‘Mommy’ in the garden.” “It’s a shame. You worked so hard, and now your kids hate you. You really failed as a mother, didn’t you?” She glanced at my bandaged knees. “I heard the bone might be infected. Without antibiotics… you might never walk again.” I laughed, a dry, rasping sound. “I am Mrs. Grant Hawthorne. I am the daughter of the Ross dynasty. Who are you? You’re just the help, Amber. Don’t speak above your station.” I ignored the hate in her eyes and adjusted my legs, wincing. Amber glared at me and stormed out. I lay there, wondering if I would survive until the System returned. If I died of sepsis or starvation before the transfer, would I still get to go home? A week passed. The food became sporadic—sometimes stale bread, sometimes nothing. I didn’t dare eat it. I managed to bribe a young maid, Sarah, whom I had helped years ago, to sneak me packaged crackers and bottled water. Days later, just as the System was initiating the countdown, Lacey burst in, interrupting the sequence. She had an entourage of staff. She looked down at me, her face glowing with triumph. “Vivian, darling. I wish I could help you, but my leg still hurts,” she pouted. Then she wrinkled her nose. “God, it smells in here. How are the maids cleaning this place? If Grant knew…” She giggled. “But then again, Grant won’t even let you go to the hospital. Why would he care if your room stinks? Right, Vivian?” Behind her, I saw Bella and Leo. They were clinging to Lacey’s dress, looking at me with a mixture of disgust and confusion. Bella stepped forward. “Mom, Auntie Lacey just wants a sincere apology. Why are you being so stubborn? Who are you performing for? You hurt her!” Leo, his face rounder than I remembered, scowled. “Yeah. You’re evil, Mom.” Evil. I almost laughed. Leo had impulse control issues. I spent a fortune on behavioral therapists to teach him boundaries. I watched his diet because of his health risks. Now? Lacey was stuffing him with cupcakes and letting him run wild. He looked like a balloon about to pop. “You came here to brag?” I asked, my voice weak but steady. “I didn’t expect you to be so heartless,” Lacey sighed. “Your own children reject you, and you don’t even cry.” I looked at my kids. “I gave you the best of everything from the moment you were born. But if you don’t want it, I won’t force it. You want Lacey to be your mother? Fine. I won’t fight for custody. She’s yours.” Bella and Leo froze. They stared at me, eyes wide. They never expected me to let go. Bella’s lip trembled. Lacey signaled the maid. “Don’t worry, kids,” the maid whispered loudly. “She’s just manipulating you. She’s playing mind games. She’ll be begging for your love in a few days. Do you want to go back to piano lessons and homework?” Leo snorted. “She’s faking it. Dad was right. You’re just pretending to be nice. I hope you never talk to us again!” He stuck his tongue out and dragged Bella away. “Happy now?” I asked Lacey. Lacey sat on the edge of my bed, leaning in close. “Happy?” she whispered. “This isn’t enough. I want you out on the street.” Before she finished the sentence, she screamed and threw herself backward, landing perfectly in the arms of Grant, who had just walked in. Oscar-worthy. Grant didn’t think. He raised his hand to strike me. I flinched, shielding my head. He froze, looking at my cowering form, then at his own hand. “She… she pushed me!” Lacey sobbed. Grant’s face hardened. “Lock her on the terrace. The unheated one. One day and one night. On her knees. No food. Anyone who helps her gets fired.” He paused, a flicker of hesitation crossing his eyes. “Vivian… if you apologize to Lacey, I might…” “I accept,” I cut him off. “I’ll go to the terrace.” The System would be back in 24 hours. I didn’t need to play the game anymore. “Don’t regret this,” Grant growled, his face pale. “I won’t.” He carried Lacey out. Amber laughed as she followed. “It’s freezing tonight, Madam. I hope you survive the wind.” I put on my down jacket, grabbed the tarnished ring from the nightstand, and walked to the terrace. It was colder than I imagined. The wind off the Atlantic cut through the glass. My knees were on fire, then they went numb. Hours later, I heard whispering at the service door. “Madam? Can you hear us?” It was Sarah and her sister, Lily. “Stop crying,” I managed to say, my teeth chattering. “I’m not dead yet. Go, before Lacey sees you.” “We brought bread and hot water,” Sarah sobbed, sliding it through the crack. I ate ravenously. “Don’t come back. Take the gold bracelets in my nightstand drawer. Split them between you.” “But Madam…” “I have a plan,” I lied. “I’m leaving Grant. I’ll be fine.” They left, weeping. I started to drift. The cold wasn’t painful anymore; it was like a heavy blanket. Finally, the voice in my head returned. “Payment secured! Host, click confirm to…” The System paused. “Holy sht. Host, you’re dying.”* “Took you long enough,” I thought, my consciousness fading. “Hold on! Extracting you from the narrative now. 5… 4… 3…” BAM. The terrace door was kicked open.

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3 AM. The pet camera in the living room suddenly spoke. “Mimi is having fun!” “Mimi is having fun!” This is the automated alert the camera sends when it detects the cat’s movement. But my blood ran cold. Because the kitten was in the corner of my bedroom, watching me quietly. The thing outside… wasn’t my cat. 1 The camera stubbornly continued its broadcast. “Mimi is having fun…” “Mimi is having fun…” … The gentle female voice sounded exceptionally terrifying in the silent night. Since 9 PM, the power in the apartment had been out. No notice from property management. The repairman hadn’t shown up. With my severe nearsightedness, darkness meant blindness. Stripped of any sense of security, I dared not move. Faced with this eerie scene, my first instinct was to play dead. I lay stiff on the bed. Eyes fixed on the closed bedroom door. Praying it was just a glitch. Sure enough. The voice in the living room paused for a few seconds, then fell silent. Like it was just a hallucination. My hands tingled with relief. By the moonlight. I reached out to the kitten in the corner, signaling it to come to me. But this time, the kitten didn’t move. It stayed frozen, staring at the closed bedroom door. And meowed. “Meow~” The next second. A knock on the bedroom door. Thud. Thud thud. My scalp went numb. Every nerve snapped tight. A raspy voice drifted through the crack. “What a cute kitty…” “I knew you were in there.” Someone broke in. The thought hit me, and I shivered violently. Terrified, I scrambled out of bed. The cat was too far; I couldn’t grab it. I reached for my phone to call 911. Only to find that because the cat chewed through the charger last night, I had 3% battery left. The moment the screen lit up. It dropped to 1%. The next second. “Shutting down in 30 seconds.” And just then. The phone froze on the camera feed interface. A face beyond recognition. Because he was pressed right up against the lens. I could see clearly. Countless burns and scratches crisscrossed that face. A pair of bloodshot eyes stared deathly at the screen. As if he knew I was watching him from the other side. He opened a bloody mouth and grinned menacingly at me. I shook uncontrollably. Hiding in the closet, I frantically swiped the back button. Trying to make that life-saving call. But I failed. The screen went black. As the last light in the closet died. The knocking stopped. The next second. A metallic scrape against the doorknob. Bang. A heavy thud blossomed on the door. One. Two. … 2 I shivered in the closet. I knew clearly. The bedroom door was just flimsy plywood. He’d break through in minutes. The kitten in the corner didn’t seem to understand the danger. Still meowing at the banging door. I screamed internally: Mimi, Mimi, stop meowing, stop meowing. If he finds you, you really won’t survive. Before I could react. Through the crack, I saw. A large hole chopped through the bedroom door. A withered, grotesque hand reached in. Easily unlocking the door. A dark figure stumbled toward the kitten in the corner. The kitten, sensing no danger, meowed softly at the shadow. I covered my mouth. Watching the impending horror, eyes splitting with rage. Tears fell uncontrollably. I prayed for a shred of humanity in this person. But I saw the bloodstained machete in his hand. Raised high against the moonlight. And brought down viciously. Squelch. The sound of flesh being mercilessly split in two. Through the closet crack. A drop of blood splashed onto my face. Running down with my tears. I never dreamed the kitten I adopted a month ago… Would be butchered like this. Back turned to me. The figure in black hacked tirelessly. Again and again, like chopping ribs. Venting on the kitten’s corpse. Seeing the maniac immersed in the thrill of slaughter. I knew this was my chance. I covered my mouth, forcing silence. Gently pushed the closet door open. In despair, only one thought remained. Run! Suppressing my pounding heart. I ran to the bedroom door. But couldn’t help glancing back. In the pile of gore. Mimi’s little head looked at me despairingly. When our eyes met, it hadn’t died yet. Gasping “huk huk” from its torn throat. It still wanted to call to me. 3 Tears rained down. Anger mixed with confusion. I’d never seen this person. Never had a grudge with such a lunatic. Why chase me into my home to kill me? Not even sparing an innocent cat! Thinking this, I tiptoed into the living room. My hand touched the front doorknob. The next second, I was yanked back by my hair and thrown to the ground. Sharp pain in my chest. A foot stomped hard on my ribs. I struggled to open my eyes. Blood covered my face from the impact, blurring my vision. I could only see a grotesque man looming over me. Face long and sharp. Scars crawling all over, twisted and mad. “Say goodbye to your slut cat!” A hollow-eyed kitten head appeared before me. The man wore a smile of ultimate excitement, like he’d done something great. He raised the cat head. And threw it in my face. Mimi was a two-month-old kitten I adopted last month. Her mom was a stray in the complex. Gentle personality. Often fed by residents. There were many neutered strays in the complex. But for some reason. Since last month. The strays vanished overnight. Gone without a trace. At first, we thought property management took them away. But no notice, no admission. Until one day. In the gazebo where Mimi’s mom often hung out. A neighbor found a mangled cat corpse. Then a second, a third. Every stray was found dead in its favorite spot. Cruelly butchered. Pregnant cats cut open alive. Unborn fetuses lined up. Spelling out words. “SLUT CAT”!!! And now, I felt my fate would be no different. The next second. The machete swung ruthlessly at my face. 4 Gasping in despair. I opened my eyes. The familiar sound rang out. The eerie electronic broadcast: “Mimi is having fun—” My pupils dilated. I was back to one minute before the break-in. The fear of death reoccupied my brain. Looking at Mimi in the corner. I scooped her up without hesitation. Last time, Mimi’s meow led the killer to my room. If she stays quiet this time. Maybe I can stall. My apartment has three rooms. The other two are locked for easier cleaning. If I lock the bedroom too. The killer can’t instantly tell which room I’m in from three identical doors. My spare charger is in the living room corner. Maybe I can gamble. Bet he doesn’t break my door first. Slip out while he’s busy, grab the charger, rush out with Mimi and a power bank to charge. And call the police. Thinking this, I tried to steady my breathing. Gently opened the closet, put the kitten inside. Ensuring the closet door muffles any sound. Keeping everything silent in this quiet home. In the farthest room, I accidentally left a Bluetooth speaker. Now it came in handy. Last 3% battery. I turned off the camera feed early. Quickly connected to the Bluetooth. Started playing Love Trading at max volume. “Love isn’t something you want to buy!!!” “Buy if you can buy!!!” “Let me open my eyes!!!” “Let me understand!!!” “Let go of your love~~~” … The deafening music filled the house. Mustering courage. I cracked the bedroom door open. Sure enough. The intense music drew the killer’s full attention. Covering his ears. He rushed to that room with his knife. Hacking at the door. Bang bang bang. Deep breath. Now! I opened the closet, grabbed the cat and the power bank, and sprinted to the living room corner. Luckily. The blackout hid my movements. Until I pulled the cable from the drawer. I felt my whole body relax. Behind me, the killer hacked tirelessly at the bedroom door (Note: The text says bedroom door here, but context implies the dummy room door. Assuming dummy room based on plan). Oblivious to me opening the front door. I pressed the handle, opened the door, and rushed out. The next second. A sharp knife slammed into my chest. Mimi in my arms was pierced through the belly. Blood sprayed. Splattering my face. “Stupid bitch, thought you were smart?” So. There was more than one killer. The man in front of me twisted the knife with a grin. Mimi’s body was skewered. He swung his arm, flinging her against the wall. She fell heavily, shattered. Tears streamed down my face. Too scared to even cry out loud. The killer shouted into the house. “Stop chopping, the slut cat ran out again!” The killer inside broke through the door. Turned off the speaker. In the pitch-black night, only my gasping breath remained. And the weak mewling of the dying kitten. “Why…” “Why do this to me…” Legs weak. I knelt, holding the kitten’s corpse, breaking down. Witnessing its death twice. Experiencing my own death twice. My nerves were snapping. I wailed like a madwoman. The killer wasted no words. Grabbed my hair, yanked my head back, exposing my neck. And stabbed viciously again.

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My twin sister and I were both “canaries” for Julian Gu for five years. She handled the bedroom, I handled the cash. A clear division of labor. After graduating college, my sister, unable to take her hands off a male model’s eight-pack abs at a bar, suddenly asked: “Sis, who’s going to the wedding? You or me?” I casually picked up the dice nearby: “High roll wins. Loser goes!” Before we could determine the winner, Julian’s voice rang out behind us: “Bro, how’s my canary?” “Just so-so.” Looking at two identical faces, my sister and I were stunned. In unison, we asked: “Wait, which one is your sugar daddy???” 1 We both squinted suspiciously at the VIP booth, whispering: “The one on the right?” “The one on the left?” I asked again, “Didn’t you sleep with Julian? You can’t tell them apart?” “I don’t look at his face when we sleep. Unless he takes his pants off.” My sister rubbed her chin, frowning. “Besides, they look exactly the same!” It was indeed a difficult puzzle. Before we could figure it out, we saw Julian smirk, his tone playful: “Bro, who’s going to the wedding? You or me?” His twin brother paused imperceptibly, then slowly picked up the dice on the table: “High roll wins. Winner goes!” “Deal.” Julian raised an eyebrow, also picking up a dice cup and shaking it. The booth erupted in jeers: “Second Young Master Gu, you better try hard. Roll a one and you’ll be the groom!” “Why don’t you both go? Real-life The Prince and the Pauper.” “Imagine Chloe’s face at the wedding if she knew she’s been passed between you two for the last two years…” The woman sitting in Julian’s lap covered her mouth and giggled, “That Chloe is so lucky. Having both Gu brothers fight over her, I’m almost envious.” This mocking remark instantly made everyone laugh. Julian took a sip of his drink, lifted her chin with a finger, and fed her the wine from his mouth, chuckling: “Why, want both of us to service you too?” The woman melted into a puddle in his arms, coquettishly saying: “No way, I only like Second Young Master Gu.” My sister and I exchanged a look. We both saw disgust in each other’s eyes. And a flash of loneliness in hers. 2 “Bro, you lost.” The dice cup opened. Julian rolled a six. He wasn’t mad. He looked at the woman in his arms and smiled: “The little girl wants to see the aurora borealis. I’ll take her.” “The wedding is in five days. You’ll have to work hard for a bit longer. I’ll definitely be back before the ceremony.” Adrian Gu nodded indifferently. A while later, a few guys clamored about going racing. Julian instinctively joked: “Losers better give me a big red envelope on the wedding day. Chloe loves counting money.” No one sensed anything wrong. They all laughed and agreed: “Don’t worry, we’re ready.” “Reliable. Let’s go. Bro, you coming?” Julian asked suddenly. Saying that, the group got up to leave. Only Adrian sat there dazing. Hearing Julian, he shook his head belatedly: “I’ll pass. Gotta go back and act.” Act what? Everyone knew. After Adrian left too, my sister and I poked our heads out, both sighing in relief. Looking at the dice cup on the table, we were debating who would go to the wedding. Now it seemed unnecessary. After comparing notes, we quickly distinguished who was who. The chatty playboy was the younger brother, Julian. The gentle, shy one was the older brother, Adrian. “Economy’s bad. This side gig is probably over,” my sister said. I pondered for a moment and proposed: “Runaway bride?” My sister nodded: “You run, I run.” 3 That night, we split up. She went for a health checkup; I went back to pack our loot. On the way back, I contacted a classmate back home to rent a detached villa and booked train tickets for five days later. The same day as the wedding. When I got home, I bumped right into Adrian. He had just showered, a towel around his waist, hair dripping, sitting on the bed playing with a small box. Seeing me, he curled his finger. I walked over. The next second, he pulled me into a tight embrace, resting his head on my chest. A cold ring slid onto my left ring finger. He then took my right hand, kissed the ring finger, and smiled: “Babe, we’re getting married in five days.” “I’ll put the world’s most beautiful pink diamond right here, okay?” I suppressed the heaviness in my heart, nodded randomly, and didn’t speak. He reached out, wanting to hug me. The phone on the nightstand suddenly rang. Seeing the name, his expression changed slightly. After answering and saying “okay,” he hung up. I asked: “Going out?” He stood up, kissed my forehead, voice gentle: “Something came up at the company. I need to handle it. You be good, sleep first, don’t wait for me.” Then he went back into the bathroom to dry his hair. The phone rang twice more. I picked it up and entered the password. For the act, both brothers used my birthday as their password. But they knew I wouldn’t snoop. This was the first time, and would be the last. Two messages from someone named “Little Wan”: “Brother Adrian, heard you’re marrying Chloe. How could I miss such a good show?” “I’m back. Come pick me up. Waiting for you~” Little Wan… I muttered the name. A name popped into my head. Sierra Wan. The Princess of Beijing. Julian’s childhood sweetheart, pampered by him since youth, obeyed in everything. Went abroad after high school. So that’s it. Adrian came out fully dressed. Seeing me in bed, he pressed down on me: “Babe, I’m leaving.” I forced a smile: “Mmh.” “Did you forget something?” He stared at my lips, smiling. I lifted my head, a peck like a dragonfly skimming water. Satisfied, he kissed me again and again, reluctantly, before pushing himself up: “Sleep well. I’ll be back when I’m done.” The roar of a car engine faded downstairs. I wiped my mouth, like wiping off dirt. Then I rolled out of bed. Sleep? Hell no. I haven’t packed the bags and jewelry in the closet yet. Opportunity knocks but once. Have to say, Julian and Adrian were generous. Limited edition bags, jade, diamond necklaces. Looking at the imperial green jade egg, I drooled. Take it. Take it all. 4 While packing, I found the red marriage contract again. Opened it. The handwriting inside was crooked. I spread it on the floor, expressionless, and crossed out my name with a pen. I needed to remind myself. Relationships are like this. Once cracked, no matter how you fix it, it can never return to the start. Packed up, I put the contract back in the safe. That’s where Adrian kept his most precious things. Suddenly, a box caught my eye. Possessed, I took it out. Letters. No address. Just four words on the envelope: For Sierra, Personally. “Sierra, is New York treating you well? Are you well?” “Heard you cried over your thesis. My Sierra, don’t cry. Your beautiful eyes should only shed happy tears.” “The pink diamond you like, I found it for you.” “You said you wanted a wedding dress full of stars. I designed it.” “When you wear that dress, I should be the first to hold your hand.” “Sierra, I miss you. I lied, I didn’t want to force you back.” Reading these, I suddenly felt that marriage contract was the ultimate irony. Just as I was putting the letters back. My sister sent three screenshots. In the photo, a girl holding roses. A man kneeling on one knee with a ring box. I stared at that kneeling back for a long time. When Adrian left. He was wearing that suit. Two more photos of diamond rings. Breathtakingly beautiful. Caption: “Sisters, pink or white diamond? I think white is ugly.” “No accidents, no new guys. Childhood sweetheart proposed with a pink diamond! Congratulate me!” Looking at the ring on my finger, I laughed until tears almost fell. Took it off, placed it on the marriage contract. I searched for that Weibo post, looked at it for a while, liked it, and commented: [Congrats.] Adrian’s message came right then: [Babe, too much work. Not coming back tonight. Love you.] The man who just proposed to someone else was now calling me babe and saying he loved me as if nothing happened. I suddenly wanted to ask him. Adrian, aren’t you tired of acting so deep? But I held back, deleted the text, and replied simply: [Okay.]

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I used a brand-new iPhone to reel in the legendary heir of the NYC elite. The day I bought the latest iPhone, a man so gorgeous it felt excessive walked straight up to me in the Apple Store and asked if he could borrow my phone to shoot a video. He took my phone, looked into the camera, and said with an embarrassingly self-conscious smirk, “OMG, thank you, babe, for the brand-new iPhone 15 Pro Max!” His voice was so over-the-top affected—so much vocal fry—I felt like I could excavate a castle with the cringe on the soles of my feet. The entire store went silent for a beat. Then, he cleared his throat and continued his performance for the front-facing camera. “It’s three PM, time for my totally low-key, humble brag.” “The new natural titanium finish? It’s whatever. A phone that costs a couple thousand? Totally average for me.” “That’s it for today. In a few days, I’ll show you the new car my darling bought me.” “Try not to be too jealous. Some of you trying to bag a sugar mama need to check your reflection before you try to play this game.” 1 The moment he finished, the silence in the store lasted exactly half a second. Then, the place erupted in laughter and chatter. “Seriously? That’s the bar for flexing now? Borrowing someone else’s phone?” “‘A couple thousand.’ That’s like, a week’s worth of his groceries, not a car.” “A sugar mama? Does he even know that girl he just borrowed the phone from?” My best friend, Willow, covered her face, mortified. “Sasha, I told you! He was clearly a weirdo. I said not to lend it to him, but you just had to be stubborn.” The ridiculously handsome guy finished the video, handed my phone back, and looked slightly sheepish. “Thank you. You really saved me.” The mocking laughter around us was sharp. I watched him try to maintain a façade of cool confidence, and I felt a strange mix of pity and amusement. On an impulse, the words just tumbled out. “How about I buy you a phone? That way, you won’t have to beg for a loan everywhere you go.” I added, “It looks like you really need it.” He froze, then a wide, bright smile spread across his face. “I don’t need one now. But can I get your number? Or, better yet, let’s exchange Instagram handles. I’ll treat you to dinner next time to thank you for lending it to me.” I was about to nod, but Willow tugged on my arm again, lowering her voice. “Don’t! Guys like that—thick-skinned, too good-looking—they’re the worst kind of players. Be careful he doesn’t latch onto you!” I just smiled and accepted his follow request. Willow didn’t know. That man was Rhys Beckett—the one and only heir to the Beckett Group, the legendary “Prince” of the NYC elite, the one who was never seen. And I had been watching him for a long time. In a private lounge at an exclusive Soho club, Rhys Beckett tossed his phone onto the table with a groan of disgust. “Whose idea was that dare? Making me go to the Apple Store to flex? And that script—I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life!” His pack of privileged friends doubled over with laughter. “Hey, you lost the bet, man! Preston had to hug an elevator pole in the mall and scream ‘Mommy’ for five minutes. You’re even.” “Come on, let us see the video!” They immediately swarmed around him. “Hahaha, Rhys, your face! It’s the perfect blend of arrogance and deep-seated shame! I want to punch you and hug you at the same time!” “Wait… who’s the girl who lent you the phone? She’s genuinely gorgeous. Great style.” Rhys’s ears quietly flushed red. He unconsciously rubbed his thumb over the rim of his glass. “Just some kind stranger passing by. There were so many people there, and she was the only one who actually helped.” “Ohhh—” The group immediately scented gossip. “Our man Rhys is… finally coming out of hibernation?” Rhys shot them a glare, pulling up the empty chat screen with me. He grumbled good-naturedly, “Get lost, all of you. Stop talking nonsense.” A week ago, I was Sasha Miller, the most prized protégé of Marcus Shaw, the East Coast’s foremost architectural and design master, and the internal successor to his prestigious studio. Now, I was a disgraced traitor, publicly cast out by my mentor, with my name blacklisted across the entire industry. All because he found his “true muse”—Delaney. Today was the final deadline for me to move out of the studio apartment. I silently packed my sketchbooks and tools, dragging my suitcase toward the door. Delaney blocked my way, arms crossed, a picture of haughty entitlement. “Stop right there. You are not taking anything that belongs to Master Shaw.” As she spoke, she brutally yanked open my suitcase, scattering years of accumulated design sketches, my framed award certificates, even the professional books I had bought myself, and my savings statements—everything I had. All that was left inside were a few changes of clothes. “The money in those accounts, I saved myself, penny by penny. Why can’t I take my own savings?” I demanded. “You only rose to prominence on the strength of Master Shaw’s name. You have no real talent on your own. You have no right to take anything associated with this place.” I looked toward the far sofa. My former mentor, Marcus Shaw, was sitting there, watching the scene with cold indifference, completely silent. Grant, the senior apprentice who had always looked out for me, was now solicitously handing Delaney a bottle of water, acting as if I were invisible. The humiliation was a suffocating tide. I knelt down, quietly repacking the clothes, tossing the savings statements aside, and then stood up, giving them one last look. Let them have the statements for now. It’s not like they could actually withdraw the funds. I moved into Willow’s guest room. Willow helped me make the bed, trying to reassure me. “It’s fine, Sash. Staying here is great. That crappy studio? Good riddance!” I knew this was only temporary. Willow always called me naïve, but she didn’t understand. Someone who has been violently dragged from the clouds into the mud can’t afford to be naïve anymore. I had a low, burning knot of fury in my stomach. I would make Marcus Shaw and Delaney pay. Running into Rhys Beckett at the Apple Store might be my only way forward. He had just returned from abroad and hadn’t been completely tainted by the muck of this circle yet. I had my looks and my years of social networking experience. That was all the capital I had left. Two days later, Rhys finally texted me. [I still owe you that dinner. Are you free tonight?] Watching the notification pop up, the corner of my mouth slowly curled into a wider smile. [The new Italian place on Madison Avenue. Seven PM. Don’t be late.] When I walked into the restaurant, I immediately sensed the strange atmosphere. Some people were pretending to study their menus, but their eyes kept flicking over to me. Others held up their phones, pretending to take selfies, but their cameras were clearly aimed in my direction. Rhys was already waiting at a window table. He saw me enter and gave an awkward little cough. His friends immediately snapped back to attention, pretending nothing had happened. And Rhys’s ears, once again, were crimson. I instantly realized that these were probably his gawking, gossipy friends. I calmly sat down across from him. Tonight, I had deliberately worn a simple black cocktail dress I designed myself. The cut was minimalist, but the details—a subtle drape here, a sharp angle there—showcased my skill, perfectly outlining my figure without being ostentatious. “I never got your name,” I started, breaking the silence. Rhys seemed a little nervous, clearing his throat. “It’s R. J. Beckett. R for Rhys, J for… well, just J.” I extended my hand, smiling warmly. “I’m Sasha Miller.” His fingertips were warm. The moment they touched mine, he pulled back as if he’d been shocked by an electric current. Rhys tried to maintain his ‘cool playboy’ posture, but his earlobes, red enough to bleed, completely betrayed him. Muffled snickers occasionally drifted from the surrounding tables. I watched his face deepen in color, the blush spreading down his neck. It looked like I had chosen the right person for dinner. He was far more innocent than I had anticipated. After dinner, we said goodbye. I stood outside the restaurant, waiting for a ride, and faintly heard Rhys’s low, furious roar from inside: “Who told you guys to follow me? Huh? All of you acting like spotlights, get out!” I waited a long time for a ride on the curb. Before, I always had a private car arranged by the studio. The jarring drop in my lifestyle was never more obvious than right now. I wondered if Delaney was enjoying the perks that should have been mine. Suddenly, the sky opened up, and the rain came down in sheets. I was quickly soaked to the bone. When I got back to Willow’s place, she rushed over with a dry towel. “What happened to you? It’s pouring, why didn’t you find shelter?” “Are you okay?” she asked, concern etched on her face. My nose stung, and I nearly burst into tears, but I held it in. I’d lived a privileged life for two decades, and in the end, the only things that truly belonged to me were my best friend, a bank account with a dwindling balance, and the resolve of a twenty-something on the brink. After that night, Rhys started texting me constantly. He shared all the mundane details of his life. [I got dragged to some boring gala. I’d rather be at a gallery with you. Can I see you again soon?] In the photo he sent, I saw Delaney. She was wearing a gown based on one of my archived sketches, beaming as Marcus Shaw introduced her to various industry bigwigs. She looked triumphant. The gala was excessively lavish. Rhys hadn’t intentionally focused the camera, just zoomed out a little. [My feet are killing me standing around here.] I understood his subtext and replied gently: [I thought you were really tall at the Apple Store. Over six-one, right?] [Six-three. I’m an actual six-three.] I could almost picture him, bored, legs casually crossed in a corner, pulling a smug smile when he saw my reply. Some people could have everything without lifting a finger. Like Delaney. She had little innate talent, excelling only at plagiarism and mimicry, yet her quick wit and flattery had won Marcus Shaw’s total devotion. I was different. Marcus Shaw had been notoriously strict with me. He used to say I was the most gifted designer he had ever seen. I pushed myself harder for that praise, striving for reputation, money, and every accolade that could benefit the studio. Just as he was about to formally announce me as his successor, Delaney arrived. She replaced me effortlessly. I only recently discovered that Marcus Shaw had known for a while that Delaney was stealing and mimicking my work, but he had chosen to ignore it. No wonder he hadn’t seemed that excited when I won the international grand prize. My once-devoted mentor and my supportive senior apprentice were now orbiting Delaney. I was the one who had been discarded. Except for Willow, who was still in my corner. So, what was mine, I had to reclaim myself. Rhys’s message popped up again. [I’m so glad you’re keeping me company. This kind of event genuinely drives me insane.] I pretended to be curious. [What gala is it? Sounds important. Can’t you just skip it?] [The Shaw Studio celebration. Celebrating their new designer, Delaney, for winning some big award. My grandfather and Marcus Shaw have history, so I have to be here.] Delaney won an award? A celebration gala? My hand shook, and my phone clattered to the floor. A decade of my life, countless all-nighters spent sketching and perfecting, had ultimately become a ladder for her ascent. Rhys: [What was that? Sounds like a big thump.] Me: [Just dropped my phone. Clumsy. Say, why do you guys have to attend? Seems like only the very top people would get an invite to something like that.] Rhys replied quickly, with a hint of playful bragging. [Heh, actually, I snuck out without telling my grandfather. Is there anything you want to eat? I could bring you something.] Me: [Wow, you’re an escape artist! Could you bring me a piece of Tiramisu? I’m suddenly craving it.] [No problem.] We agreed on a meeting spot. I looked at my phone’s cracked screen and felt a fresh stab of financial pain. I wouldn’t be able to upgrade to the latest model on a whim anymore. This life had to end, and fast. I decided I would make Rhys completely fall for me at this meeting. I stopped by a convenience store to pick up a few things for our impromptu “date.” But I never made it. Parked outside the convenience store was a Ferrari I knew all too well. My former senior apprentice, Grant, got out, opened the passenger door, and helped a princess-like Delaney out of the seat. “Grant, this place is so rundown. I don’t want to stay here for another second.” Delaney wrinkled her nose in distaste. Grant gently brushed the hair from her forehead, his voice dripping with affection. “We just need to warn Willow to stay out of your business with Sasha. Just a little longer, Delaney.” Willow was my best friend. My eyes instantly welled up. Warn her? Because she had taken me in? Grant, my former friend, how could you be so utterly ruthless? All for Delaney. The fate of a genius whose value had been squeezed dry was truly pathetic. I waited in the corner for a long time until the glaring red Ferrari finally sped away. Willow’s family was well-off, but her father’s company was dependent on the larger conglomerate associated with Marcus Shaw’s studio. When I got back, Willow’s father was sitting on the sofa, his face cold. Her mother looked at me with open distaste. Willow was stuck between us, her face a mask of distress. “Sasha, I…” I forced out a smile that was more like a grimace and picked up my suitcase. Before leaving, I bowed deeply to them. “Uncle, Auntie, I am so sorry for the trouble I caused. Thank you for taking me in. I won’t bother you anymore.” Now, I truly had nothing left. I crouched on the sidewalk, my suitcase at my feet. Tears splashed onto the clean pavement, making small, spreading circles. I picked up my phone. The screen showed 99+ unread messages. I braced myself, expecting insults from Grant or mockery from Delaney. To my surprise, they were all from Rhys Beckett. I had completely forgotten about him. [Sasha, I’m here. Got here thirty minutes early so you wouldn’t have to wait.] [OMG, I just saw a stray cat trying to get into a trash can. It’s seriously agile. Sending you a pic.] Two hours later. [Are you here yet?] [Girls take a little longer to get ready. I get it.] [I dressed up a bit, too. I look pretty handsome. Heh.] [Bought your Tiramisu. Waiting for you to come and eat it.] Another hour later. [Where are you?] [Did you… decide you didn’t want to talk to me?] [The Tiramisu is going to melt. I’m going to eat it for you.] [Sasha, next time, can I pick the restaurant?] There were also several missed calls. [Where are you? Did something happen? I’m still here waiting. Text me back when you see this. Just a ‘1’ will do.] I quickly wiped the rain and tears from my face. [Sorry, Rhys. An emergency came up at home. Can’t make it.] [Eat the cake for me.] [I’m sorry for making you wait so long.] I dragged my suitcase down the deserted street, walking aimlessly. If I opened my mouth right now and asked to crash at his place for the night, he probably wouldn’t refuse. But I couldn’t. A person who throws themselves at you always seems cheap. Being abandoned by my mentor and ruthlessly cut off by my senior had been humiliating enough. Willow’s call came through. I composed myself, trying to make my voice sound normal. “Hello? I’m fine. I just checked into a hotel. King bed, super comfy. We’ll figure out tomorrow later. There’s always a way out.” There was a moment of silence on the other end. “Sasha, stop pretending. I’m across the street from you.” “My parents are awful, but I’m not. Let me help you.” I turned around. Willow stood opposite me, holding an umbrella. She hurried over and thrust a key into my hand. “My dad’s compensation for being a spineless jerk. Sasha, stand up.” At twenty-four, I should have been full of life, but I felt like a piece of garbage tossed out by the world. And Willow stood before me, a knight charging through the thorns. “Thank you,” my voice caught in my throat. She snatched my suitcase. “Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t do ‘thank you.’” On the way to the apartment, I glanced out the car window and saw someone sitting on a roadside bench. A half-melted pastry box was resting on his long legs. He was looking down, motionless, staring at his phone screen. It was Rhys. Willow’s father’s backup apartment hadn’t been lived in for a long time and was covered in dust. I wanted to call a cleaning service, but after checking my meager bank balance, I silently gave up the idea. Rhys hadn’t texted again, but my phone hadn’t stopped vibrating from all the notifications. Once we finished cleaning, Willow had to leave. “I have to go. Can’t stay out all night. Call me immediately if you need anything.” “I will.” I sat on the bed, hugging a pillow.

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Five years after my family erased my name from their legacy, I ran into my uncle at a private club downtown. He was Marcus Blackwood, the guest of honor, a veritable godfather in this city’s underworld, here to celebrate his fiancée’s new venture in the Caribbean. And I was just one of the girls paid to pour the drinks. We didn’t make eye contact the entire night. Not once. Not until a drunk client, a fleshy man with a diamond pinky ring, slapped a hunting knife flat on the table and pointed it at me. “Hey, you,” he slurred, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “Crawl around the floor for us. Bark a little. How about a grand for your trouble?” I didn’t hesitate. My knees hit the cold marble floor. As whistles and jeers echoed in the smoky VIP lounge, I closed my eyes and barked. When I finished the circle, I used a nearby wall to pull myself to my feet. That’s when I heard my uncle’s voice, a low sneer that cut through the noise. “You’d rather be a dog in here than go back and apologize to Isabelle?” he said. “Lila Rhodes, you’ve got some goddamn nerve.” I managed a hollow smile and held out my palm. “One thousand dollars,” I said. “Cash or Venmo?” The years of bitterness, the ancient history between us, had long since faded into ash. But that thousand dollars—it was the exact amount I needed for the final payment on my urn. 1 The room fell silent for a beat. Every eye was on me, a dozen different kinds of judgment in their gaze. Then, someone snickered. On the leather couch across the room, my uncle’s knuckles whitened around his whiskey glass. His face was a mask of dark fury. He was ashamed. Embarrassed. In his world, a thousand dollars was pocket change, not even enough to tip one of his enforcers. And here I was, his niece, debasing myself for it. His fiancée, Isabelle Croft, toyed with a diamond earring, her voice dripping with amusement. “Marcus searched for you for five whole years, and this is where you end up? Learning to bark for strangers? You may not want the Blackwood name, darling, but he still does.” I lifted my gaze to meet hers. “There’s no shame in earning a living. At least I’m not on my back to do it.” A corner of her red-painted mouth twitched. “Are you that desperate for money? Tell you what. Do two more laps. If I’m entertained, I’ll add another two thousand.” The room erupted. The bet was on. “If Miss Croft is putting up two grand, so am I!” someone shouted. “I’ll throw in another thousand!” I didn’t hesitate. I was about to drop to my knees again when the door to the lounge was thrown open. The club manager scurried in, bowing and scraping. He grabbed my arm, shoving me against the wall before turning to Marcus with an apologetic smile. “Mr. Blackwood, sir. My apologies. This girl is new, she doesn’t know the rules. If she’s disturbed you…” “Are you going to crawl for her?” Marcus’s voice was ice. He crushed his cigar into an ashtray, his eyes as dark and cold as a winter lake. A bead of sweat trickled down the manager’s temple. He was terrified of me getting killed on his property, but he was more terrified of the man on the sofa. “It’s… it’s a demeaning game, sir. A grown man would have trouble with it, let alone a young woman…” “Then get the hell out!” Marcus roared, kicking the heavy coffee table over with a violent crash. He pulled a thick stack of cash from his jacket—ten grand, at least—and hurled it at the manager. “Lila crawls tonight! You try to stop it again, and I’ll burn this shithole to the ground.” The manager scrambled to scoop up the bills, his face splitting into a grotesque, greedy grin. He forgot I existed, muttered a thank you, and vanished. All eyes returned to me. Marcus’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want the money anymore?” My face was a blank mask. I sank to the floor and began to crawl toward the laughing crowd. The chill of the marble seeped through my thin dress, into my knees. The two shots of whiskey I’d choked down earlier churned in my stomach like acid. I saw Marcus’s knuckles turn bone-white. As I forced a third, trembling bark from my raw throat, he was suddenly there, his hand clamping around my wrist like a steel trap. “Lila, are you trying to fucking kill yourself?!” “I need the money,” I rasped, wrenching my arm free and continuing to crawl. But before I could make another sound, a boot slammed into my side, sending me skidding across the floor. Crack. My forehead connected with the sharp corner of a side table. Stars exploded behind my eyes, and a spray of blood and cold sweat hit the polished floor. Marcus hauled me up by the collar of my dress, his face inches from mine, his voice a furious roar. “You’d throw away your dignity for money? Is that all you care about?” He shoved me away from him. “You’ll never see a single cent from me!” Humiliation burned through me, a white-hot fire. The neon lights of the bar blurred into a broken kaleidoscope. And a voice, buried for five years, roared in my memory: “For money, you’d even sell the emerald signet ring your mother left you! Have I ever denied you anything? Why not just sell yourself while you’re at it! Get out! From now on, I don’t have a niece!” Five years ago, Isabelle had set me up. She’d stolen my mother’s heirloom ring from my uncle’s study and pawned it, making it look like I was the thief. Marcus had forced me to kneel in the pouring rain for three days and three nights, demanding to know where the ring was. But how could I know? I told him it was Isabelle. It was her plan to drive us apart, because she was jealous of the affection he’d always shown me. He didn’t believe me. Theft. Betrayal of family. Stubbornness. Three sins that shattered whatever warmth he’d once held for me. Egged on by Isabelle, he cleared out my bank accounts and threw me out onto the street. The first six months were bearable. I found a commission-based sales job, enough to get by. Then came the only call I received from Marcus in all those five years. His first words were: “Aren’t you ready to come home and admit you were wrong? Just tell me where the ring is, and I’ll forgive you.” I was still fueled by pride then, by a stubborn, self-destructive anger. “I told you, I didn’t sell it! Why don’t you ask your precious Isabelle! She’s the one who did it!” He hung up. The next day, I was fired. Blacklisted across the entire city. Marcus had put the word out to every corner of his empire, legal and illegal: anyone who hired me was an enemy of the Blackwood family. For years, I couldn’t find a legitimate job. I drifted into the city’s nightlife, a ghost in smoky bars and high-end clubs. It felt like he wanted me to see what I’d lost. He paraded Isabelle everywhere—to his backroom poker games, his casinos, his arms deals. He publicly declared that she would inherit everything that should have been mine. He showered her with gifts, dropping millions on a whim. The society pages were filled with pictures of them, smiling and powerful. And I was in the gutter, drinking myself to death just to survive, until my body finally gave out. Stomach cancer. The doctor’s appointments and prescriptions drained what little I had saved. Loan sharks came next, the interest compounding until the debt was an impossible mountain. Experimental drugs were a fantasy; chemotherapy, a distant dream. I’d tried calling him for help once. I’d barely gotten the words out before he cut me off. “Money, money, money! Is that the only thing you can see?” he’d spat. “You come back here, get on your knees, and admit what you did. Otherwise, you can die in the street before you get a penny from me.” That call extinguished the last flicker of hope I had left. I was just so tired. If he wanted me to die, then fine. I would die. At least then, the pain would stop. A month ago, I put a deposit down on an urn. I scraped together every dollar I could, but I was still a thousand short. The owner of the funeral home called almost daily. I thought tonight, finally, I could pay it off. But my uncle, who could toss ten thousand dollars to a club manager without a second thought, wouldn’t spare a single dollar for me. He left with his entourage, leaving me in the wreckage. I spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom, vomiting until my entire body ached. Only one thought remained. All that, for nothing. My shift supervisor leaned against the doorframe, smoking a cigarette. “How the hell did you piss off Marcus Blackwood? He looked like he was ready to kill someone. What’s the history between you two?” A fresh wave of pain seized my stomach. I gripped the edge of the sink to keep from collapsing. “No history,” I said. “Just a blood feud, I guess.” The next morning, my phone woke me. It was the man from the funeral home. “Miss Rhodes, when are you going to settle your balance? It’s a thousand dollars. Are you really going to drag this out for over a month?” His voice was rough with impatience. “If you don’t pay within three days, I’m selling it to someone else. And you’re not getting your deposit back.” “Please, just give me a little more time,” I begged, my voice hoarse. “I get paid in two weeks, I can—” “Can’t wait!” he snapped. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Haggling over an urn. If you don’t have the money, you shouldn’t have picked out such an expensive one.” I wanted to argue, but the line was already dead. My head throbbing, I called my manager to ask for an advance on my salary. His response was even more brutal. “Just so you know, you don’t need to come in today. Or ever again.” “And don’t expect a final paycheck. Mr. Blackwood gave the order. We can’t afford to cross him.” My voice trembled. “That’s illegal. You can’t just withhold my wages. I’ll go to the labor board.” The manager laughed, a short, ugly sound. “Go ahead! Sue us! Mr. Blackwood said he’d cover any and all consequences. His legal team is the best in the country. If you want to walk into that buzzsaw, be my guest.” The line went dead again. A knot of pressure built in my chest until I doubled over, a violent cough racking my body. I spat a mouthful of blood onto the white tile floor. I stared at the bright, shocking red for a long moment before the tears finally came. I collapsed, the sobs tearing through me. After a long while, I mechanically cleaned up the mess. I took out my painkillers and swallowed them dry. Then, completely spent, I slid to the floor, my back against the bed, and thought about the last five years. Every single door that had opened for me, Marcus had slammed it shut. Every path I’d tried to walk, he had personally destroyed. Now, even the dregs of the city wouldn’t have me. Paying for painkillers was a struggle; paying for an urn was impossible. Eating was becoming a problem. I just wanted a beautiful house to rest in when I died. What was so wrong with that? I cried until the afternoon sun faded to gray, until I had no tears left, only a hollowed-out exhaustion. Staring at my trembling hands, I made a decision. I would go back to the Blackwood estate and demand an answer. I had to know. Why? Why had he done this to me? When I arrived, Marcus and Isabelle were having dinner. He glanced up, his expression unreadable. “So, you decided to come back.” “Why did you have me fired?” I asked, my voice flat, ignoring his question completely. “Five years. Haven’t you humiliated me enough?” He set down his fork, one eyebrow raised in detached amusement. “A little hardship teaches you how warm the Blackwood roof is, Lila. Do you have any idea the kinds of things people say about you out there? If it wasn’t for me keeping a lid on it…” Isabelle swirled the red wine in her glass. “She doesn’t appreciate it, Marcus. Can’t you see? She’s blaming you.” “Shut up!” I lunged across the space between us, my hand raised to strike her. But an iron grip caught my wrist. Marcus’s eyes were dangerously dark. “Feeling brave, are we? It seems you still haven’t learned your place.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you have any idea how easy it would be for me to make you disappear?” My heart seized, as if his hand were squeezing it directly. Make me disappear? Isn’t that what he’d been doing for five years? Systematically destroying my jobs, my hopes, my will to live? I was worse off than a rat in the sewer, broken and sick, unable to even afford a final resting place. I was done. I was so done with his threats. “I did nothing wrong!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. “Fine, Marcus! If you won’t let me live, then I’ll die! Is that what you want? You can’t rule me from hell, can you?” A vein pulsed in his temple. He shoved me violently, and I stumbled back, the corner of the heavy dining table digging into my lower back. The pain was explosive, and a cold sweat broke out over my entire body. Marcus turned away, refusing to look at my pale, sweat-sheened face. “Even in death, you will always be in my debt,” he said, his voice cold and final. “Until that ring is found, you don’t even have the right to die.” With that, he walked out of the room. I was in too much pain to get up. Isabelle’s stiletto heel pressed down on my fingers. “You poor thing,” she cooed. “You look so pathetic. How about this? Kneel and bow your head to me three times, and I’ll tell you where the ring is.” I stared at her, a burning hatred in my eyes. I wanted to rip her apart. But I knew I didn’t even have the strength to slap her. Five years of humiliation, and now, even in my final days, I couldn’t have a shred of dignity. Marcus’s words echoed in my head. Until that ring is found, you don’t even have the right to die. Fine. If finding that ring would grant me peace, then I would find it. I wiped the tears from my face, a wave of despair washing over me. I got to my knees and bowed my head to the floor, three times, the impacts jarring my already aching body. “Please,” I whispered. “Tell me where it is.” In the past, whenever she’d schemed against me, I’d fought back with everything I had. This time, I didn’t even have the energy to argue. My submission seemed to bore her. She tossed a slip of paper onto the floor. “Here’s the address. But whether you can get it back, Lila, that’s on you.” Numbly, I picked it up. I found a city bike and rode to the address on the outskirts of town. It was a dusty, forgotten pawn shop. When I explained why I was there, the owner said nothing. He just looked at the note and retrieved the ring from a back room. Clearly, Isabelle had already called. I felt nothing. No anger, no relief. I just wanted to give the ring to Marcus so we could be done with each other. But as he was handing it to me, his hand suddenly went slack. The emerald signet ring, my mother’s ring, fell to the concrete floor and shattered. I froze, the blood draining from my face. “Hey, kid, what’s the big idea?” the owner exclaimed. “You gotta be more careful! This ain’t my fault.” “Lila!” Marcus’s furious roar exploded from behind me. I whipped around and saw Isabelle’s triumphant smile as she clung to his arm. “I told you she’d do it, Marcus!” she cried. “She hates you so much she’d even destroy her own mother’s memory! And to think you were actually going to forgive her!” Marcus didn’t seem to hear her. His eyes were fixed on the glittering green shards on the floor. He walked forward slowly, stiffly, and knelt. For a long moment, he just stared. Then, piece by piece, he began to gather the broken emerald and gold, his large hand clenching around the sharp fragments. “It wasn’t me! He dropped it! And I never sold it in the first place…” The words tumbled out of me, a frantic, desperate plea. Seeing him look so utterly defeated filled me with a panic I had never known. He rose to his feet, his face a storm of rage and pain, and slapped me so hard I was thrown to the ground. Slap! I landed in a heap, my cheek burning, my stomach twisting in agony. The tears that came were involuntary, a pure physical reaction to the pain. His chest heaved, his eyes bloodshot. “Five years! I gave you every chance! I told you, just come back and admit you were wrong, and I would forgive everything!” he bellowed. “But what did you do? What did you do!” “Lila, you’re not worthy of the name Rhodes! And you’re not worthy of calling me your uncle!” He was utterly disappointed in me, his voice raw with a pain so deep it was shocking. He had completely lost control. My heart plummeted. I could taste blood in my throat. I swallowed it down and whispered, my voice choked, “What if… what if I was really dying?” “Who are you trying to fool?” He glared at me with pure disgust, his fist so tight that blood began to seep between his fingers from the broken ring. “You could drop dead right here, and I wouldn’t even blink.” “Okay,” I said. I clenched my own fists and shakily pushed myself to my feet. And in that moment, something inside me settled. A strange clarity. I was going to die anyway. The debts, the resentments, the betrayals… none of it mattered anymore. If he truly believed I was the monster he’d created, then so be it. After I was gone, I would be nothing but a handful of dust. None of this would have any meaning. A bitter smile touched my lips. I turned and walked out of the shop. “Where do you think you’re going?” he roared behind me. “Are you determined to drive me to my grave?” I didn’t look back. My voice drifted back to him, carried on the dusty air. “You don’t have to die,” I said. “My death will be enough.” … For the next two days, Marcus didn’t contact me. He took the shattered ring to the best jewelers in the city, but they all told him the same thing: it could be pieced back together, but the cracks would always show. It would never be whole again. Looking at the flawed, ugly thing, he was consumed by a quiet, simmering rage. On the first day, he held a press conference and publicly disowned me. He stood before the cameras, his face cold and impassive. “Whether Lila Rhodes lives or dies is no longer the concern of the Blackwood family. I will not intervene if she sells her body or begs on the street. Anyone who mentions her name in my presence will be considered my enemy.” The city was stunned. On the second day, he took Isabelle to a formal family council. He named her his official heir. One of his older cousins pulled him aside. “Marcus, is this necessary? Lila is still your blood, your niece. Are you really going to push her to the absolute edge?” Marcus’s lips thinned. “The edge? What’s going to happen? She’s survived for five years, hasn’t she?” he said with a sneer. “She doesn’t have the guts to die. She’d be too ashamed to face her mother in the afterlife.” He was wrong again. Because by then, I was already a ghost, floating beside him. I had been dead for two days, my body at the bottom of the river near my apartment. The pain had just been too much. Death, for me, was a release. What I didn’t expect was that on the third day, Marcus received a phone call from the funeral home. The man on the other end was shouting. “Mr. Blackwood! You’re Lila Rhodes’s uncle, right? She listed you as her emergency contact, so don’t even try to deny it! She ordered an urn, and there’s still a thousand-dollar balance on it! Do you want it or not?”

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