Category: English

In the dead of night, high up in the Rockies, my flashlight beam swept over five lifeless bodies inside the SUV. My hands trembling, I dialed 911. My voice was hoarse, shaking as I spoke. “Hello? I’m on the mountain pass… Highway 550. Everyone in my car… they’re all dead.” The dispatcher responded immediately. “Sir, please state your exact location. Help is on the way.” My voice felt like a frozen stone hitting the pavement—hard, cold, emotionless. “I’m at the scenic turnout about five miles east of the summit. The license plate is CO-318X. Five people inside are dead.” “I am the only one left alive.” 1. It took over an hour for the piercing wail of sirens to shatter the silence of the desolate wilderness. I was huddled behind a boulder about fifty feet from the car, wrapped in a mud-stained windbreaker, clutching a dead power bank like a lifeline. The coroner, state troopers, and local detectives arrived almost simultaneously. There were six of us on this road trip through the mountains. Now, five corpses were frozen in twisted, unnatural positions, held in place by seatbelts and stiff limbs. Jessica, our team leader, had her head slumped against the steering wheel, forehead resting on the horn that made no sound. Chloe, in the passenger seat, had her mouth half-open as if screaming, eyes bulging in terror, staring into the dark. In the back, Ashley, Morgan, and our photographer, Hannah, were contorted—some curled up, some leaning back. Their expressions were frozen masks of agony or confusion. There were no obvious external wounds. It was as if life had been ripped out of them in a split second. I couldn’t look anymore. My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat. My face was ghost-white. A cop wrapped in a heavy duty jacket shone his flashlight in my face. “You’re saying you guys celebrated yesterday? Had a few drinks, planned to hit the city today? You fell asleep, and when you woke up, they were like this?” I shivered violently, nodding. “Yes.” “What time did you fall asleep?” I tried to dig through my frozen brain. “Around ten, maybe? Just after we crossed the pass. I was exhausted.” “What was the last thing you saw?” “Hannah was taking photos of the stars. Jess was driving. Morgan and Ashley were talking about the route. Chloe… Chloe looked like she had altitude sickness. She was just closing her eyes.” The officer’s gaze was sharp as a knife, pinning me down. “They’re all dead. Why are you fine?” I looked at him, blank and confused. Yeah. Why are they dead, and I’m alive? I stood on that 12,000-foot ridge with them. I drank the same whiskey. I was just as tired. But they were dead. And I was breathing. Seeing my silence, the officer’s voice softened, but the suspicion remained. “Anything else you can tell us?” I hesitated, whispering, “One thing… I don’t know if I was hallucinating. After I fell asleep, I thought I heard someone calling my name… saying it was cold. So cold.” “Did you wake up then?” I stared blankly and shook my head. Fear had wiped my memory. I didn’t remember waking up, seeing the bodies, or getting out of the car. When I came to, I was already on the phone with 911. Seeing how weak I was, they stopped questioning me and put me in the back of a warm cruiser. Dawn broke. Through the window, I watched the forensics team working. “Preliminary assessment: Cause of death is complex,” a medical examiner said, taking off his outer gloves. His voice was muffled by the wind. “Highly suspect acute altitude sickness triggering cardiac arrest or cerebral edema. Possible overlay of carbon monoxide poisoning or flash hypothermia.” “Because of individual differences, some might have passed out instantly, others might have suffered. Time of death is concentrated between 1 AM and 3 AM.” Listening to this, the lead detective—Detective Miller—turned his head. His eyes locked onto me. “You were in the car. Same altitude, same temperature.” I nodded, my throat tight. Miller stared at me, scrutinizing. But he didn’t press that point. He switched angles. “Are you sure you slept from 10 PM straight through? You didn’t wake up once? You noticed nothing?” I rubbed my pounding temples. “I don’t think so. The altitude hit me hard. I took some meds and was out cold.” Miller narrowed his eyes, thoughtful. “Detective,” the ME called out. “The car wasn’t airtight, windows were cracked. But the bodies… they’re mostly peaceful, or frozen in sudden pain. No signs of a struggle consistent with violent asphyxiation.” “Like they died in their sleep?” Miller lowered his voice. The ME nodded. “Here’s the weird part. The doors.” “All four doors and the trunk were locked from the inside. Central locking engaged. Keys in the ignition, engine off. Windows rolled up tight except for a sliver on the passenger side.” “So,” Miller looked around at the jagged cliffs, “when this happened, the car was a steel coffin locked from the inside.” “No forced entry. Nobody got out.” I hugged the wool blanket tighter, my knuckles turning white. The “steel coffin” metaphor made me feel like I was suffocating. Why did they lock the doors? Usually, when parked, you don’t lock up like that so people can hop out to use the bathroom. “We’ll check for mechanical failure,” the ME said. “Carbon monoxide leak from the heater is possible, but unlikely. We’re leaning towards environmental causes.” Miller closed his notebook and looked at me again. “Was anyone sick during the trip? Before you got in the car?” I paused. “Chloe had bad altitude sickness. She threw up at the summit and slept most of the time. Jess mentioned chest pains while driving, but she said it was an old issue.” A tech officer walked up. “Detective, the dashcam SD card is missing.” “Slot’s empty. We searched the car. It’s gone.” Miller’s sharp gaze snapped back to me. “You know about the dashcam? Where’s the card?” I shook my head, looking lost. “I was in the back seat, squeezed in the corner. I didn’t pay attention. I just slept.” “What about before the trip? Who checked the gear?” “Usually Jess or Hannah. Hannah’s the photographer, she handles the tech.” Miller stared at me. No malice, just crushing pressure. “It’s strange, Ethan. You wake up, everyone’s dead. You noticed nothing for hours. You don’t know where the SD card is.” “It seems the only thing you know is that you’re alive. Everything else is a blank.” I looked at him with fearful, innocent eyes. “Detective… the altitude meds knocked me out. I don’t drive. I really don’t know where the card is…” Miller stopped the questioning. The bodies were transported. There was a mountain of work to do. I was taken to a temporary holding room at the local ranger station. The heater was blasting, but I couldn’t feel the warmth. Hours later, Miller returned. He placed a DSLR camera on the table in front of me. It was Hannah’s baby—she never let it out of her sight. Now it was splattered with mud. “Listen to this.” He hit play, his eyes glued to my face, hunting for a micro-expression. The audio from the internal mic was fuzzy, full of static and wind noise, but the voices were clear enough to cut glass. First, violent coughing and dry heaving. Then, Jess’s hoarse screaming. “Shit… can’t breathe… open the window! Open the damn window!” The sound of fists pounding against the door panels. Then Ashley’s voice, high-pitched with terror: “I can’t! It’s jammed! Central lock isn’t responding! Jess! Jess, what’s wrong with you?!” Morgan screaming, crying: “She’s having a heart attack! She’s seizing! Hannah! Phone! No signal! Help us!” In the chaos, heavy breathing and the clicking of camera buttons. Hannah was trying to use the camera as a light source… or to record something. In the background, a faint moan from Chloe: “Cold… so cold…” And then, in the final ten seconds of the recording, amidst the dying gasps and despair, Hannah’s voice erupted. A final, hysterical scream using the last of her strength: “ETHAN! WAKE UP!!! WAKE THE FUCK UP!!! LOOK WHAT YOU DID!!!” 2. Click. The recording ended. Dead silence filled the room, save for the crackling of the wood stove. My mind went blank. Hannah’s final, cursed scream replayed in my head like a bomb blast. “I don’t know… I was asleep… I swear I didn’t hear anything!” “Hannah’s camera was on, sitting on her lap. That recording starts at 1:33 AM and ends at 1:46 AM.” Miller leaned forward, his presence looming over me like a mountain. “In the recording, in their final moments, they were screaming your name.” “Especially Hannah. She was convinced you knew what was happening. She believed this was your doing. Explain that.” “I don’t know!” I snapped my head up, my voice shrill with panic I didn’t realize I had. “I was asleep! I woke up and they were dead! I don’t know why she said that! I didn’t do anything! She was yelling at me to wake up too, right?” Miller saw my agitation and softened his tone, though his eyes remained cold. “Okay. Let’s try this. You said you heard someone calling your name in a dream. Tell me about that.” I slumped back in the chair, drained. “I felt… tugging. Shaking. Someone telling me to wake up… It was loud, chaotic. I felt sick. My consciousness was fading in and out. It felt like a nightmare.” Miller picked up the camera, his voice terrifyingly low. “Did it ever occur to you that it wasn’t a dream?” “That they were desperately begging you to wake up, and you… you just didn’t respond?” A chill crawled up my spine. The blurred images from my “dream” suddenly sharpened into high definition. I could see Jess’s twisted face pressed against the steering wheel. Chloe’s pale, bloodless skin. Hannah raising her camera in the dark, pointing it at me with rage and accusation… “Why didn’t you wake up?” Miller’s voice was an ice pick. “They drank the same booze. They had the same sickness. They all woke up. Only you slept like the dead.” “Even with altitude sickness, you weren’t in a coma—otherwise you’d be a corpse right now from hypoxia. So why, when they were screaming and shaking you, were you the only one oblivious to mass death?” Yeah. Why couldn’t I wake up? Why am I the only one breathing? What happened during those lost hours? Terror flooded my brain. My heart raced. “How was your relationship with them?” Miller pivoted again. I took a deep breath, trying to find calm. “We met online. A hiking group. It was fine. Jess was the leader, experienced. Hannah loved photos. Ashley and Morgan were social. Chloe was weak but nice.” “Any conflict? Even small ones?” I hesitated. “Yesterday at the checkpoint… my ID photo had an issue. We got held up for twenty minutes. Jess was annoyed. She called me ‘dead weight.’ It was awkward, but it blew over.” “And the others?” “Ashley smoothed it over. Morgan stayed quiet. Hannah played with her camera. Chloe was sick, sleeping.” “Did they exclude you?” He pressed harder. “Collective bullying?” I went silent. Memories I’d suppressed bubbled up. My suggestions on the route ignored. Getting food last. Standing on the far edge of every group photo. Yeah. I guess that’s exclusion. Miller saw my silence. He pulled out an evidence bag containing Hannah’s phone. He opened WeChat and pulled up a group chat named “Suicide Squad 318.” There was a message sent at 12:15 AM. Jess: Stay sharp. Once we cross the pass, we’re good. I’ll drive the second leg. Let that Twig sleep till he rots. Can’t count on a wimp like him for anything. Useless dead weight. Replies followed: Ashley: K. Morgan: Copy that. Hannah: Yep. Ten minutes later, they entered the death zone. Half an hour later, the recording started. I stared at the words “Twig,” “rot,” and “dead weight.” My blood ran cold. To the leader, I was just trash. My face darkened, lips pressed into a thin white line. Miller slid a tablet across the table. “Did you know there were two group chats?” I looked up, confused. “There’s the ‘All Hands’ group with you in it for splitting bills. And then there’s this one.” Miller tapped the screen. “This is where they roasted you. Planned around you. Are you telling me you felt none of that hostility?” The screen’s glow illuminated my stunned face. Of course I felt it. In Litang, when the hostel was full, Ashley typed: “Having a guy is annoying. Should we handle him like the last one? His watch looks expensive…” When I lagged behind due to the altitude, I heard Jess whisper to Hannah: “If he keeps slowing us down, we ditch him at the next stop…” I didn’t know exactly what they meant, but the malice in their eyes? That was real. “Ethan, were you angry at them?” Miller put the tablet away, watching me. “Yes,” I rasped. “Did you ever, for a split second, wish something bad would happen to them? Or that this trip would end? Even in an extreme way?” His question cut straight to the bone. I looked up, meeting his gaze. “I resented how they treated me, but I didn’t hurt them! Just because you can’t find the killer doesn’t mean you can frame me!” “But I have evidence that you’re lying,” Miller sneered. He slid a photo across the table. It was from Hannah’s camera—the picnic at Ranwu Lake. I was sitting on a rock at the far edge, wrapped in my jacket, looking spacey. No smile. The others were crowded around the mat. Jess with a bottle, Hannah throwing up a peace sign, Ashley and Morgan fighting over a cookie. Chloe was wrapped in a blanket, sleeping. They were a warm, tight circle. I was background noise. “You said you fell asleep at 10 PM. The timestamp on this photo is 11:15 PM. You were awake. You were with them.” “Ethan, you’ve been lying from the start. You are the killer.” 3. I stared at myself in the photo, my pupils dilating in disbelief. I looked up at Miller, trembling. “Detective, how can you suspect me? I’m a survivor, but I’m also a victim! Just because of a photo? That’s slander! Do you know how traumatizing this is?” “I said I probably slept around ten. I didn’t say exactly! My brain was foggy! And look at me—I’m skinny, I’m sick. How could I kill five fitness-obsessed women who all outweigh me?” Miller stared dead at me. “Yeah. It does seem unlikely.” Suddenly, the ME walked in and handed a freshly printed report to Miller. “Her time of death doesn’t match the others.” He circled Chloe’s name with a heavy red pen. I sat up straight as if pricked by a needle, eyeing the report. Miller caught my reaction. “Explain.” The ME opened the file, voice raspy. “Rectal temp, rigor mortis, corneal clouding… everything is different. She died significantly later than the other four.” “Given the environment, we estimate she survived nearly two hours longer than the rest.” Silence filled the room. “Also,” the ME continued, “She didn’t have altitude sickness. Blood oxygen, organs… normal. She wasn’t sick. She couldn’t have been comatose.” Every eye in the room turned to me. My blood froze. “Impossible! Chloe was sick the whole time! She was huddled in that blanket!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “The photo! Look at the photo! She looks terrible!” “True, she looks weak in the photo,” Miller admitted, glancing at it again. The ME was firm. “Physiology doesn’t lie. She was healthy. And she died of cyanide poisoning. It was murder.” Miller looked back at me. “Is it possible Chloe was acting?” A chill shot up my spine. Chloe was faking it? Why? “So… Chloe is the real killer?” I asked, voice trembling. “But why spare me?” Miller smiled, a cold, humorless thing. “Exactly. Why spare you? She didn’t even spare herself.” “Ethan, did you know these people before?” “No! Just internet strangers! I never thought this would happen…” My mind was a blender. “Did you know Chloe had a grudge against anyone?” I thought hard. “Jess stole Chloe’s boyfriend a while back. But Chloe said it was fine. She said, ‘It’s just a man, let Jess have him.’” A terrifying thought bloomed in my mind. “Are you saying… Chloe killed the other four for revenge, then committed suicide out of guilt?” Miller nodded slowly. “That’s a valid theory.” “But I found something interesting, Ethan. The bodies were twisted, yes. But their hands… they were all arranged in a specific gesture. A gesture of atonement. Who were they apologizing to?” “I… I don’t know! I swear!” My voice shattered. “I didn’t see any gestures! I was scared out of my mind! I ran! I hid!” I babbled, trying to use chaos to mask my panic. “Ethan!” Miller’s voice boomed like thunder. “Look at me! Answer the question! What does that gesture mean? Who did they wrong?!” His shout broke me. I shuddered violently. Under the crushing pressure, a desperate cry tore from my throat: “I don’t know! Maybe they found a conscience! Maybe right before they died, they realized they were wrong! Wrong about what they did to my brother…” I clamped my hand over my mouth. My eyes widened to the point of pain. FUCK. I screamed internally. I blew it. The silence in the interrogation room was heavier than gravity. It’s over. The thought drowned me like icy water. Three years of planning. The stalking. The calculation. The perfect escape. Ruined by one slip of the tongue? Miller didn’t pounce on the mention of my brother. Instead, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a clear evidence bag. My eyes, filled with dread, locked onto it. Inside lay a photo. Small, edges worn. A color print. A man standing on a hillside covered in wildflowers. White casual wear. Smiling. Pure. Like sunlight. Evan. My brother. My only blood. How is that here? I hid it… Terror spiked. I grabbed the muddy backpack I’d been clutching this whole time. The secret compartment. Sewn between the waterproofing and the lining at the very bottom. I put it there myself before we left! How did they find it? Why is it in a police bag? Miller spoke. “Ethan. You hid this photo very well. Waterproof material. Double stitched.” Slowly, deliberately, he flipped the bag over. The back of the photo was now facing me. No date. No name. Just four words written in red marker. Blood for Blood. BOOM. My mind exploded. The mask was gone. “We ran a check. Your brother joined a hiking group three years ago. Same route. Coincidentally… he was teamed up with these exact five women.” “He went missing. Never found. Ethan… don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence?” “AHHHH!!!” A scream, inhuman and raw, tore out of my chest. I launched myself out of the chair, diving for the table, clawing for the bag. My eyes were bleeding red. Tears, snot, saliva—I was a mess. “Give him back! Give him back to me!!” I roared, scrabbling at the plastic. Miller was ready. He swept the bag behind him and pinned me down by the shoulders. “Get off me! Give me my brother!” I struggled like a trapped animal. Miller barely held me. “You don’t get to touch him! You’re not worthy! He’s clean… he’s pure… he shouldn’t hear this!” “Don’t talk about this in front of him! Don’t dirty his ears!” “They deserved to die! They were animals! No, worse than animals!” “They destroyed him!!” 4. I sobbed hysterically, body convulsing with grief and rage. “Those monsters! My brother was nineteen! He just graduated high school! He was kind! At 15,000 feet, in Death Valley, he was starving, but he gave his last half of a compression biscuit to Hannah because she was crying about being hungry!” “He gave his only oxygen tank to Morgan because she faked dizziness! And he had a splitting headache! He gave his sleeping bag to Jess because she was cold! He slept in a thin jacket in the corner at below-zero temps! And what did he get?!” My voice cracked, filled with venom. “What did he get?! Those wolves in human skin! They saw he was weak! They saw he couldn’t fight back! They… they…” The pain choked me. I gasped for air. “They drugged him… They used him to keep warm… in that freezing car! My brother bled out… he died with his eyes open!” “He didn’t understand! He gave them everything! Why… why did they do that to him?!” I glared at Miller, hatred radiating off me. “And then? Once they were fed and warm? They took his valuables. They smashed his face in with a rock so he couldn’t be identified!” “They threw him… like garbage… off the deepest cliff in Death Valley!!” I curled into a ball, digging my nails into the table. “I looked for him. For three months! I climbed every rock under that cliff! I only found… I only found pieces of his backpack… and…” I choked. “And a piece of his skull.” I hammered my chest, wailing. “They didn’t even leave me a body to bury! They wouldn’t even let me hug him one last time!!” My screams dissolved into uncontrollable sobbing. I slumped in the chair, broken. A hollow shell filled with sorrow. The room was silent. Miller loosened his grip. His eyes held shock, and maybe a sliver of pity. Blood for Blood. The motive was clear. “So you killed them?” I looked up through blurry eyes. “I said they deserved to die. I didn’t kill them… I hadn’t made my move yet. They just died! It was karma!” “I have nothing to hide now. I planned to kill them… but I don’t know why they died early.” “Ethan.” Miller’s voice changed. The interrogation tone was gone. It was eerily calm. I looked at him. He pulled out another item. A phone. Screen shattered. Covered in mud and dried brown stains. Heavy-duty outdoor case. Chloe’s phone. My pupils shrank to pinpricks. Impossible! I got rid of it! I remembered prying it from her stiff dead fingers and chucking it into the abyss! How is it here?!

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A Christmas yacht party. Dean’s “Girl-Bro” had just lost a round of high-stakes truth-or-dare and was down to a string bikini. This was Skylar Wells, the girl who usually slammed tequila shots and swore like a sailor, now dramatically clutching her chest, tears streaming down her perfectly contoured cheeks. Dean wrapped Skylar in his own bespoke cashmere overcoat, then laughed, a casual, dismissive sound as he pushed me toward the circle of trust fund brats. “What’s the fun in watching the guys strip when you can watch the little ingénue type do it?” Huddled in Dean’s embrace, Skylar smirked, her voice syrupy sweet as she addressed the onlookers. “Guys, this is Will, the girl who works the front desk at my dad’s office. You know how those people are—flash enough cash, and they’ll play any game you want.” Dean leaned in, his breath hot against my ear, the intimacy sickeningly fake. “Skylar’s the CEO’s daughter, Will. Can’t risk her image. Think of this as… doing the company a favor. I’ll make sure you get a generous bonus.” He had no idea. I was the real heiress. The ‘receptionist’ gig was just a clause in my grandfather’s insane, iron-clad inheritance wager. As the most notorious ‘Black Sheep’ in The Circle—the one everyone secretly called the Vicious Princess—no one, and I mean no one, had dared to play games with me in years. 1 Jax Ryker, the ringleader, exhaled a plume of smoke directly into my face and slammed a heavy-duty revolver onto the mahogany table. “Front Desk Girl,” he sneered, his eyes hard. “Can you actually afford to play? Lose, and it’s not just about taking off clothes.” I raised an eyebrow. The last time I’d heard that tone from him was two years ago. Jax and his crew had cornered me on a winding Malibu canyon road, insisting on a street race. The memory of having ten of them dangling over a sheer drop—terrified, humiliated, and unable to climb the hill for a year—warmed me. At least he had some guts this time. But the lack of perception was insulting. I’d grown my hair out, traded smoky eyes for a minimal look, but still. None of them recognized Willow Lockwood. Seeing my silence, Skylar started whining, practically jumping up and down in Dean’s arms. “Dean! You gonna let her ruin your old man? She won’t play, which means I have to strip again!” Dean stepped in front of me, his voice low, measured, and utterly certain. “Will. You walk out now, and we’re done. We break up.” For a year, the mere threat of a breakup had been his ace card; I’d always folded instantly. He was convinced I was desperately in love, yet he didn’t know breaking up was one of the few things that could void my inheritance wager. I pushed back my sleeve and glanced at my watch. Three hours left. “Fine. What’s the game?” Jax crushed the cigarette butt against the table, his gaze dropping suggestively to my chest. “Debt first. Peel something off.” I looked at Dean. He averted his eyes, pulling Skylar tighter, unwilling to intervene. My grandfather had always said I had the ruthlessness but lacked the judgment to pick allies. I guess he wasn’t wrong. I tossed the cashmere wrap onto the deck, revealing the silky chemise beneath. Jax licked his lips. “Russian Roulette. Six chambers, one bullet. We take turns, pulling the trigger. Skip your turn, and you strip.” He then demonstrated, raising the gun to his own temple and pulling the trigger, which was met with a roar of cheers. He was waiting for me to cry, to beg, to be humiliated. Too bad. Jax was still playing in the dirt when I was pointing a gun at a cartel leader’s head. I snatched the gun, spun the cylinder, then slammed it shut. Without hesitation, I pointed it at my temple and pulled the trigger. Dean instinctively shielded Skylar with his coat, as if afraid my blood might stain her. Jax was genuinely stunned. “You’re the second woman who’s ever dared to play that.” A flicker of an old shadow crossed his eyes, then vanished. We went back and forth, turn after turn, until only one chamber was left, and it was my turn to pull the trigger. “Front Desk Girl, game over,” Jax growled, a hideous grin stretching across his face. From the moment I first held that gun, I knew Jax’s trick. A specialized revolver—the round was resting firmly in the sixth chamber. But, he was about to be disappointed. I hooked a smile and, amidst the drunken chants of, “Strip! Strip! Strip!” I pulled the trigger. Everyone gasped, eyes clenched shut. Even Jax looked panicked; he just wanted a show, not a homicide. The air remained still. I stood there, untouched, a cold, mocking smile playing on my lips. “Well, well. Jax Ryker, the big shot, using blanks to scare a girl? You’re a coward.” I’d palmed the real bullet and flicked it discreetly into the dark water. Jax’s face flushed scarlet as the eyes of his friends turned on him. He opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “Strip, Jax. I won’t hold it against you.” Knowing no one would believe his denial, and unwilling to look like a chicken in front of his crew, Jax ripped off his shirt. “Again!” he snarled. A large, iron cage was brought up, covered by a black tarp. When they pulled it off, my composure finally slipped. Jax was pushing his luck—he’d stolen Kaa, my pet Burmese Python. His easy access to the Lockwood estate confirmed my suspicion: he was working with Eliza, my stepmother. “Front Desk Girl, one python each. First one bitten loses.” Skylar, who’d just been muttering about my “beginner’s luck,” brightened up and grabbed the only vial of anti-venom. Jax was clearly comfortable with his snake; it settled placidly on his shoulders. He scoffed, certain of my refusal. The python in the cage hissed and showed its fangs toward me. “Oopsie!” Skylar chirped, the vial slipping from her hand and shattering on the deck. She watched me, a triumphant, venomous glint in her eyes. “I suggest you strip, Willow. Getting to please Jax is the best option you’ve got now.” Dean stepped in front of her. “Will, Skylar didn’t mean to. Just give in, alright? You don’t have to do this.” I gave a cold, sharp laugh and opened the cage myself. Kaa lunged straight for my neck. Everyone gasped, expecting the strike, but instead, the massive snake settled around my shoulders, circling me like a beloved scarf, and went still. Everyone, including Jax, was speechless. I whistled—a high, clear note. The python wrapped around Jax, which had been docile, suddenly writhed, coiling tighter and tighter, crushing the air from his lungs. Jax shrieked in genuine terror. The snake opened its mouth, ready to strike. “I forfeit!” Jax tore off his swim trunks, leaving him completely naked, his face a sickening green. “Are you really just the damn receptionist?” I noted the time—two hours left. I offered him a wide, innocent smile. “Of course. I grew up on the property’s edge—lots of snakes in the foothills.” My cover story was simple and believable enough to calm the crowd’s suspicions. “Jax,” I said sweetly. “Any more death-defying games you want to try?” Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. “Violence is boring. Let’s relax. Something else.” He gave a signal to one of his lackeys, who brought forward a small, dark green vial. “It’s a Pentothal derivative,” Jax explained. “Used for international interrogations. The third game is simple: drink it, answer truthfully. Refuse to answer, and you strip.” I took the vial and drank the whole thing. Skylar stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Jax is losing his edge. I’ve got this, godmother.” She glanced at the onlookers. “I’ll get her stripped for you.” Jax lit a cigarette and let her take over. “First question. Did you have an ulterior motive for being with Dean Abbott?” The serum was potent; the truth slipped out before I could even process it. “Yes.” Dean’s face crumpled. “I knew it! You’re just after my money, aren’t you? You never loved me.” Not your money, you idiot. The wager. Skylar pressed on. “What motive?” I can’t say that yet. Without hesitation, I stripped off my chemise, revealing the bikini top. Jax’s eyes widened, and he signaled for Skylar to continue. “Have you ever compromised yourself with older men for money?” “Yes.” “How many ‘older men’ have paid you?” “Eighteen.” A collective gasp went around the deck. “I can’t believe this girl is so trashy for money!” Dean was white with fury, his fists clenched. “You have the nerve to admit that!” What’s the big deal? They were family elders, sending money to the heir. But on this yacht, in this context, let them think what they want. Skylar changed course. “Have you ever harmed a child?” “Yes.” Five years old. Forced my stepmother to terminate the pregnancy she was using to usurp me. Skylar had clearly been coached by Eliza. My grandfather’s wager was known only by the inner circle: Be stable. Keep the boyfriend. Become Chairman. “Have you ever physically harmed an elderly person?” “Yes.” Ten years old. The old man my stepmother abandoned me with in the hills. He wanted to assault me. I broke his skull. Dean was livid. “I can’t believe I mistook you for a decent person! You didn’t even spare a child or an old man.” I didn’t spare my own friends either. Twelve years old: My best friend took a hundred grand from Eliza to push me off a mountain during a trip. I strangled her. Fifteen years old: My childhood friend tried to inject me with drugs for Eliza’s five percent company shares. I shipped him to the Golden Triangle. Skylar dabbed at non-existent tears, leaning into Dean. “Dean, she’s so cold, so unaffected by her own monstrosity. She doesn’t deserve you.” Jax, spurred on by the crowd, grabbed my bikini strap and crushed his cigarette butt, hard, right onto my shoulder. “Stop pretending to be the little damsel, Will. I wouldn’t even play poker with someone as dirty as you.” I smiled, brushing the ash away. Patience. I’ll get that serum into every one of them. We’ll see who’s ‘dirty’ then. The insults rained down, yet I kept answering Skylar’s questions. “Have you ever been unfaithful to Dean?” I nodded. “Yes.” Skylar delivered the final, calculated blow. “Do you have a child that does not belong to Dean Abbott?” I was genuinely shocked Skylar knew this. She’d been laying a trap. “Yes.” The word was barely out when Dean lunged, slapping me across the face with brutal force. “Bitch! We’re done! We are breaking up right now!” My watch flashed: One hour until the year is up. I spat out a mouthful of blood and forced the rage down. My voice was calm, almost conversational. “I do have a son. He’s not yours, Dean, but here’s the kicker: he’s five years older than me. I’ve never been unfaithful to you.” The deck was suddenly quiet. They knew the serum guaranteed truth. Dean and Skylar were utterly confused. Dean’s rage instantly dissolved into relief. I looked at him, forcing a few well-placed tears to my eyes. “Our anniversary is in one hour. Please, don’t end things now. I promised I’d tell you who he is at the one-year mark.”

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Savannah, who was eight years my senior, didn’t come home that night. That was already unusual. Then my friend’s message popped up—a photo of a mature man and my wife. The hand draped across her waist was a white-hot brand on my retina. I sat with my guitar cradled in my lap all night. It wasn’t until dawn that Savannah finally stumbled through the door, smelling of stale liquor, yet carrying herself with unnerving composure. “Business dinner, I forgot to tell you. Why are you still up?” I pulled up the photo and laid the phone on the coffee table between us. “Would it be impolite to call him ‘sir’?” 1 That hand in the photo. It was like a searing iron, pressed hard onto my vision. It wasn’t a casual touch; it was a possessive, almost territorial clasp. Clasped around my wife’s waist. The sender was my buddy, and the message was just a dry, bare statement: “Bro, Savannah was at The Bluebird last night.” I knew the bar. I’d played a residency there a few years back. My gut—that raw, male instinct—screamed that this wasn’t just a “business dinner.” “I had a last-minute dinner with a major client. Couldn’t bow out, drank too much, so I just got a hotel room near the office and crashed. I forgot to text you.” She was unsteady on her feet. She walked straight to the kitchen island, grabbed a glass, and downed a full one of cold water. Setting the cup down, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and finally turned to face me. She tilted her head slightly, as if looking at a child who was making a fuss over nothing. “The sun’s up, Rhys. Why are you sulking here? Go get some sleep.” Forgot to text me? My gaze moved to her face, a mask of calm that bordered on cold indifference. The acoustic guitar in my lap felt like a slab of frozen concrete. I flipped the phone screen, presenting the photo on the coffee table. “Oh, a business dinner.” My voice was a rough, dry rasp, like sandpaper rubbing against wood. “Then this gentleman in the photo… this ‘sir’,” The word was squeezed through my clenched teeth, sharp with mockery, “If I called him ‘sir,’ would it be… disrespectful?” She glanced at the image and immediately launched into a counter-attack, her voice ringing with indignation. “Did you hire someone to track me?” I shook my head, finding her chosen point of focus darkly amusing. Her first instinct wasn’t to explain, but to deflect and accuse. “My friend happened to be at The Bluebird last night, that’s all.” “And this is what you call a business dinner? Did you get a room with him?” Savannah bristled, her voice climbing to a sharp, aggressive pitch. “‘Happened to be there’? The photo is perfectly clear! How convenient!” “Dr. Hawthorne is our most crucial client. I was drunk last night, he just helped steady me. What is wrong with that?” “Do you even understand what client relations are? Do you understand what it takes to maintain them?” Her words shot out like a machine gun, attempting to build a defensive wall with cold, hard concepts: “work,” “projects,” “importance”—all just to hide the naked intimacy of that hand in the picture. “Maintain client relations?” I echoed her phrase, my eyes boring into her face, searching desperately for a ghost of the woman I used to know beneath the perfectly applied makeup. I found nothing. “Do you need to maintain relations until his arm is wrapped around your waist like you’re a piece of luggage? Maintain it until you stay out all night and can’t even be bothered to send your husband a single, tired text?” “You!” Savannah’s face went white, choked by my bluntness. Her chest heaved violently. She drew a deep breath, forcing down the rage, and looked at me with a mixture of exhaustion, annoyance, and utter disappointment. She looked at me as though I were a burden—an eternal child who only knew how to whine. “Rhys, enough!” Her voice suddenly dropped, carrying the icy chill of absolute refusal to engage. “Look at you! Huddled over that damn guitar, sitting here like a ghost all night just to catch me in some imagined ‘lie’? Aside from baseless suspicion and childish accusations, what exactly can you do?” She raised a hand and rubbed her temples hard, an action heavy with fatigue. A deathly silence fell over the living room. All I could hear was her sharp, ragged breathing, and the slow, heavy, almost-stopping beat of my own heart against my ribs. So this is it. I stared at her. The metallic, coppery taste of rust finally broke through in my throat. I bent over sharply, coughing—a wrenching, tearing sound, as if I were trying to cough up my own insides. She watched me double over, but there wasn’t a flicker of emotion on her face—just an indifferent coldness, perhaps even a hint of revulsion. She smoothed down her messy curls and turned toward the bedroom. “I’m tired. I need to rest. You… think about what you’ve done.” The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, a faint sound that sealed off two separate worlds. I was left alone in the living room. In the year we had been married, we’d had countless arguments, large and small. Every one of them ended with her walking away and me sinking into silence. I remembered what my friend had told me when we first started dating. The age gap is too big. It won’t last. But I couldn’t resist the way she looked at me. Her eyes were bright, like she was looking at some rare, precious treasure. I went against everyone’s advice to be with her. When we first got together, we had endless things to talk about. I promised her I’d only sing for her, and I promptly quit my successful band. I retreated into the background. The living room was terrifyingly silent, broken only by the tireless sweep of the second hand on the wall clock. The door Savannah had closed was a boundary, a chasm that separated us completely. “Think about what you’ve done.” The phrase looped in my mind like a curse. Was I… truly wrong? The thought, cold as a viper, slipped into my chaotic mind. Maybe… maybe it was just a business dinner? Maybe Dr. Hawthorne had just politely helped her up? Maybe I was too sensitive, too immature, jumping straight to the worst possible conclusion? A rush of intense guilt, mixed with a desperate urge to save the relationship, instantly drowned out my anger and heartbreak. I couldn’t let go this easily. At the very least, I couldn’t let my “immaturity” and “suspicion” destroy this. I needed to do something. To prove I still cared about her, that I cared about our home. My eyes fell instinctively on the guitar in my lap. Years ago, this guitar, my voice, my songs—they were what made her walk toward me, against all odds. I sat with the guitar, nervous and awkward as a kid at his first open mic, staring intently at the bedroom door. I was waiting for her to come out. I was going to sing her “Night Flight,” just like I did when we were first falling in love. Time crawled by. The light in the living room shifted from the pale gold of dawn to the harsh white of midday, then slowly, began to tint with the orange glow of dusk. There was no movement from the bedroom. She needs rest. She’s so tired… I told myself this, fighting down the rising tide of anxiety and unease. It wasn’t until late afternoon that I finally heard a stir. The door opened. Savannah stepped out. She had changed into a new outfit—a sharp, tailored business suit of high quality. Her face was perfectly made up, her hair impeccably styled. There was no sign of a hangover or our morning argument. She looked refreshed, even radiant. “You… woke up?” I managed to croak out, my voice raw from a sleepless night and full of cautious hope. “Are you hungry? I can… I can make you something?” I moved to set the guitar down and stand up. “Don’t bother.” She cut me off coolly, her voice devoid of warmth. Her gaze swept over the coffee table, lingering on my guitar, and her frown deepened. “Put that thing away. It’s in the way.” I watched her back, the words, “Let me sing you a song,” stuck in my throat, impossible to voice. She turned around, her arms crossed, and assessed me with a chilling, critical stare: “Rhys, this morning I told you to ‘think about what you’ve done.’ Have you figured it out?” I struggled to form the words, grasping at a straw of reconciliation. “I… I have. Maybe… maybe I was too impulsive. I shouldn’t have questioned you like that…” She immediately interrupted, her voice sharp with impatience. “It’s not about the questions! That’s not the point! The point is you’re completely stagnant! Rhys, I don’t need a man who only knows how to clutch a guitar, wallow in past fantasies, and be pathologically suspicious!” I looked down at the old companion she’d dismissed as “that damn guitar.” It had been my life, the symbol of everything I’d given up for her, and now, in her eyes, it was the main evidence against me. “I…” Put it away? Go find a nine-to-five job, something “legitimate” and non-musical? Would I even be Rhys anymore? My hesitation, my internal struggle, was, to her, nothing more than cowardice and an utter lack of salvation. “Hmph.” She let out a short, cold scoff, full of complete despair and… a perverse sense of relief. “So your big ‘think’ resulted in you clinging to your rock and roll dreams. Fine.” She didn’t look at me again. She turned and walked into the bedroom, starting to pack. Her movements were sharp, decisive, and entirely without remorse, as if she were simply boxing up a piece of luggage she no longer needed. “Where… where are you going?” My voice was edged with panic. “Business trip.” She didn’t turn around, her voice cold as ice. “Project requires me to be out of town for a few days. We both need to cool off.” “A business trip? With who?” The name was almost out before I could stop it. Her packing abruptly ceased. “Rhys! Stop it! Stop with your disgusting paranoia! My work and my whereabouts are none of your concern! You have no right, and frankly, no capacity, to interfere!” She zipped the suitcase shut with a harsh, grating sound, announcing an end. She dragged the suitcase toward the front door. “Savannah!” I jumped up, trying to block her, desperate to say something—even a pitiful plea. But she only paused, turning her head just enough to shoot me a cold, sidelong glance. Her eyes held no love, no hatred—just sheer fatigue and the chilling certainty of someone who has seen through a long-held deception. “Rhys,” her voice was frighteningly calm, yet every word was a stab to the heart, “What do we have left, besides that marriage license? Your guitar? Your ‘dreams’? Or that heart of yours that refuses to grow up?” She paused, her gaze sweeping over my frozen figure and the solitary guitar beside me, her lips curling into a deeply cynical smirk. “Don’t bother me again until you learn how to act like a man. And don’t send me any more of those idiotic messages.” With that, she wrenched open the front door, dragged the suitcase out, and walked away without looking back. Ding-dong. A notification chime interrupted my paralysis. Her phone, sitting forgotten on the entryway cabinet, lit up. She must have been in too much of a rush. I picked it up and input the passcode. It was still our anniversary. The pinned chat was with a contact simply labeled: “♥” It wasn’t me. A few more messages popped up: [Morning, Wild one. How’s the ‘red wine’ after effects from last night?] [You left your scarf in my car. I’ll bring it to you next time. Make sure you get some rest.] Attached to the text was a photo. The background was a hotel room, the messy sheets revealing exactly what had happened. A purple silk scarf lay on the rumpled bedding. It was Savannah’s. “Wild one…” The two words were like barbed hooks digging into my eyes. All my agony, my questions, her self-righteous “business dinner” monologue—all of it was shredded to pieces by this text and this photo. Leaving only the ugly, naked truth. So this was what she meant by “so tired.” This was where she needed to “get some rest.” And this was how the mature, responsible Dr. Hawthorne addressed her in private. I clenched her phone so tightly my knuckles turned white and bruised, convinced I was going to shatter the device. I bent over, dry coughing again, violently. Just then, the door was yanked open. Savannah had come back for the phone she’d forgotten. She frowned, her eyes instantly locking onto the phone tightly gripped in my hand. Her pupils constricted. “Rhys! What are you doing with my phone?!” Her voice was instantly sharp, laced with the panic of invasion, the last vestiges of sleep gone. She rushed forward and snatched the phone away from me. “You read my phone?! You actually spied on my phone?!” Her voice was so shrill it seemed to tear the air. “Do you have no respect?! No boundaries?! You are… you are impossible!” She gasped, her chest rising and falling furiously. “Yes! I am with Victor! So what?!” She completely tore off her last layer of composure, shouting with desperate abandon. “He’s more mature than you! More stable! He understands what responsibility is! Being with him, I realize how stupid I was! Waiting around for you, you piece of dead weight that will never climb off the floor!” “Look at you!” She lifted her hand, her forefinger stabbing violently against my chest, her touch ice cold. “What else do you do besides sit here like a whiny victim clutching that dusty guitar, or act like a thief spying on my privacy?! What have you ever given me? Security? A future? Or just your ridiculous, worthless rock and roll dreams?!” I couldn’t muster the strength for a single word of rebuttal. My throat was choked with cold despair and utter emotional death. My silence seemed to only further enrage her. SLAM! The front door was slammed shut again with all her force. The thought of the flirtatious messages, the explicit photo—it sent a wave of nausea through me. I bolted to the bathroom, leaning over the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl, dry heaving violently. Nothing came up but the burning bile and stomach acid, bringing wave after wave of tearing spasms to my throat. This was Rhys? The rock singer who used to burn up the stage and roar with life? I splashed cold water on my face. The icy sting brought a momentary, painful clarity. Every inch of this “home” was poisoned by betrayal. To stay one second longer was torture. I had to leave. Now. I didn’t have a destination, I just needed to escape this suffocating space. I walked to the corner and picked up the heavy gig bag. I pulled open the door Savannah had just slammed. I walked the silent, predawn streets, aimless, like a wandering ghost. Before I knew it, my feet stopped beneath a familiar, flickering neon sign: The Bluebird. This was it. The place the photo came from, the origin of the nightmare. Another message popped up from my friend: [Bro, still in the VIP booth at The Bluebird. Your wife… she’s here too.] A booth number followed. My heart felt like it was seized by an invisible hand and squeezed until it stopped beating. The booth number was burned into my vision. As if possessed, I pushed open The Bluebird’s heavy, soundproof door. The deafening music and psychedelic lights instantly swallowed me whole. The air was thick with the mixed scent of alcohol, perfume, smoke, and raw desire. I was an intruder, awkwardly carrying my gig bag, moving through the gyrating crowd toward that booth number. Fear, rage, despair, and a sliver of absurd hope. Hope that all of this was some terrible mistake. I finally stopped in front of the door. The heavy panel couldn’t completely block the noise inside. I could vaguely hear a woman’s soft laughter, a man’s low murmur, and… Savannah’s distinctive, slightly lazy, husky voice. She was speaking in a tone I had never heard before, almost a playful coo. I raised my hand, my fingers cold and trembling. Should I push it open, or turn and run? In that instant, the booth door was suddenly pulled open from the inside. A server stepped out, holding an empty tray. In the moment the door was ajar, the scene inside slammed into my eyes, fully exposed. Under the crystal chandelier, on the wide, curved sofa. Savannah wore a sequined, spaghetti-strap dress I’d never seen before, her makeup more provocative than when she’d left the house. She was practically draped across a man in a dark dress shirt—Dr. Gerard Hawthorne, the man from the photo. One of his hands was brazenly, tightly wrapped around Savannah’s slender waist. The other held a glass of liquor as he leaned down to whisper something in her ear. This made Savannah laugh, a throaty chuckle that caused her to lean even more relaxed into him. Her eyes were hazy, her cheeks flushed with an unnatural color. It was the look of a woman completely immersed in raw intimacy and lust. Time froze. Savannah’s laughter died in her throat. She must have sensed the anomaly at the door, and she turned her head languidly. As her eyes pierced the hazy light and fixed on me—the ghost-white figure with a guitar bag at the doorway—her smile instantly fractured. The haziness in her eyes was replaced in a millisecond by shock, panic, and the sheer embarrassment of being caught red-handed. She flinched, almost convulsively trying to pull away from the man’s embrace. “Rhys…?” Her voice was a shaky, incredulous whisper. Dr. Hawthorne also looked up, saw me, and his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. There was no panic in his eyes, only the annoyance of being interrupted and a cold, condescending appraisal. His hand, far from letting go, tightened demonstratively around Savannah’s waist, a clear act of provocation. This final gesture ignited every volcano that had been dormant inside me. I stood in the doorway. I didn’t roar or rage as she might have expected, nor did I beg weakly. The extremity of the pain and rage brought a bizarre, chilling calm. My gaze bypassed the other man and fixed solely on Savannah’s panic-stricken face. My voice was eerily flat, yet it cut through the din of the music in the booth with crystalline clarity: “Savannah.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it was an ice pick in the heart of the illicit air. Her body gave a sharp shudder. Her lips parted, as if to offer some frantic defense. I didn’t give her the chance. “I want a divorce.”

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During the break between classes, my desk mate nudged me gently. “Do you have… you know? Can I borrow one?” Seeing her awkward, squirming expression, I understood immediately. Just as I was about to reach for a pad, strange bullet comments—like a livestream chat—suddenly floated across my vision: [Lily, don’t lend it to her!] [The school bully is going to snatch it. Sarah won’t admit she asked for it; she’ll tell everyone the blood on the back of your pants is yours!] [Because of this one pad, in a month, you’ll go insane, and Sarah will die.] … Despite the frantic warnings floating in the air urging me to ignore Sarah, I calmly pulled out a sanitary pad and placed it squarely in front of her. “It’s the extra-long overnight kind. Don’t worry, it’s safe.” 1 Sarah Jenkins stared at the unwrapped pad sitting openly on the desk, completely frozen. I knew why she was shocked. Zach Stone, the school’s notorious bully, often led his pack of guys to make fun of girls on their periods. It had gotten so bad that girls in our class handled menstrual products like contraband—hiding them in sleeves, stuffing them in pockets, or passing them under desks in opaque black bags like secret agents. But today, I put it right there on the table in broad daylight… As if it were a pack of tissues, not a source of deep, teenage shame. “Don’t like the long ones? I have a regular flow one, too.” 2 As I reached for the second one, Zach acted exactly as the floating comments predicted. He snatched the pad off Sarah’s desk. He tore open the packaging with exaggerated excitement, shouting, “Sarah Jenkins! You need a mattress this big? Is it a crime scene down there? No wonder your chest looks bigger this week.” “Whoa, Zach, how do you know her chest got bigger?” one of his lackeys jeered. “Sarah is Zach’s childhood neighbor, how do you think he knows? Hahaha!” The boys in the class roared with laughter. Sarah clamped her legs together tight, burying her head low. “It… it’s not mine. It’s Lily’s. She’s on her period. If you don’t believe me, look at the back of her pants…” Just as the comments warned, Sarah stabbed me in the back. I felt a pang of sadness. We’d been desk mates since seventh grade. We promised to go to the same high school. I never thought she’d do this to me. “Sarah, every girl gets a period. It’s normal…” “Lily, leave me out of it! I don’t want to talk about that stuff publicly like you. It’s humiliating.” Sarah didn’t wait for me to finish. She scooted her desk an inch away, drawing a clear line between us. [I’m so mad! Sarah has no conscience. Lily tried to help her!] [Is the system glitching? Can Lily not see us? Why did she lend it to her?!] [Lily, you’ll regret this. Zach is about to give you a nickname. Everyone’s going to call you ‘Period Girl’!] Period Girl? That’s a terrible nickname. Zero creativity. I looked away from Sarah and lifted my eyelids. Zach was dangling the open pad in front of my face with two fingers, waving it back and forth. “Stand up, Period Girl. Let everyone see how dirty your monkey butt is.” 3 “Not as dirty as your mouth.” I stood up abruptly, snatched the pad from Zach’s hand, and SLAP—I stuck the adhesive side right over his mouth. “Zach Stone, since you’re so curious about feminine products, have a taste. If that doesn’t satisfy your curiosity, meet me at the girls’ bathroom after school. I’ll stuff a used one in your mouth.” A used one… The classroom went dead silent. Veins popped on Zach’s forehead. He ripped the pad off his face, threw it on the ground, and kicked my desk over. “Lily Harper! Are you crazy? I’ll beat you to death!” He towered half a head over me, eyes bloodshot with rage. The bruising on his cheekbones and the scabs on his knuckles were trophies from his street fights. In the past, if Zach looked at me like that, I would have apologized and ran. But today, I hooked my lips into a cold smile. Under the stunned gaze of the entire class, I unwrapped the second pad I was holding and smoothly slapped it onto his forehead. “Remember, I’m not Period Girl. I’m your Period Grandma!” [Did I see that right? Lily slapped him with a pad AGAIN?] [SATISFYING!!!] [Lily, you are actually unhinged. Next time a guy jokes about periods, I’m doing this!] [Period Grandma, I’m dying! Lily, you’re brave!] [Don’t celebrate too early. Zach isn’t someone to mess with. Don’t forget the ending for Lily and Sarah.] The chat cheered for a moment before turning dark again. They said that in a month, Sarah would die, I would go insane, and most of the students and teachers of 10th Grade Homeroom 3 would live in the shadow of this event forever. And it all started with this one sanitary pad. 4 Truth be told, I used to be just like Sarah. I hated my period. I hated how it embarrassed me. When I first got it in sixth grade, I thought I had a terminal illness. In middle school, the cramps made me shake. P.E. class was torture, but I was too ashamed to ask for a pass. In high school, the cramps were manageable, but the stress made my cycle irregular. Getting it during class, during exams, leaking onto the chair… I’d been through every nightmare scenario. Add to that Zach’s gang of boys. They loved bullying girls on their cycles. They’d pinch their noses and say we smelled weird, or shout “Monkey Butt” if someone leaked. My period became my monthly horror show. I had to be terrified, cautious, hiding it like I was smuggling drugs, just so Zach wouldn’t notice. Zach wasn’t like the other boys who were clueless about anatomy. He seemed to have studied menstruation. He could spot a girl with cramps. He judged who was due based on physical changes. If someone was late, he’d start rumors: “She missed a month? She’s definitely pregnant.” In reality, stress can make you miss two months easily. But Zach didn’t care. It was like he had a vendetta against every girl, nailing us to the cross of shame to satisfy his sick amusement. But is menstruation wrong? It’s a normal physiological function! Are we wrong? We’re just normal teenage girls! Everyone knew what Zach was doing was wrong. But 10th-grade girls are sensitive, and physically weaker. Most chose silence. Some told parents or teachers. But our homeroom teacher, Mr. Miller, was an old-school academic who only cared about grades. He’d talk to Zach, and nothing would change. Calling parents didn’t work either. Zach’s dad was even more unreasonable than Zach. I heard his dad once yelled at Mr. Miller, calling menstruation “filthy, unlucky, and disgusting.” He even scolded parents in the group chat for letting their daughters take sick leave for cramps: “There are men in this group! Just say she’s sick. Why do you have to force us to know about her cycle?”

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Chapter 1 My husband found himself a wealthy sugar mama and started secretly funneling money to me every few days. In six months, he transferred me a cool $850,000. I was seriously considering divorce. Then I thought about it. Screw that! Why even consider it? Every second I hesitate is an insult to cold, hard cash! A “family man” who brings home the bacon like this is harder to find than a parking spot in Manhattan. Why not let him hustle a little more? … Melanie slapped me across the face, hard. My cheek burned instantly. “Are you crazy?” I looked up at her, clutching my face, totally bewildered. “Chloe! You liar! Are you and your husband running a scam on me together?” Before I could process what was happening, my coworkers swarmed around us. “Who are you? Why did you just hit her?” She pointed a manicured finger at my nose and started screaming. “Your husband, Zack, used my credit card to transfer money to you. $850,000 in six months! Don’t act like you didn’t know!” I froze, then realized who she was. This was my husband’s side piece. The “Mistress.” She grabbed my collar, her eyes wild. “You two scumbags! $850,000! Do you think I’m an ATM? Using my money to clear your shopping cart?” With that one line, I became the center of attention. My coworkers immediately switched into gossip mode, phones out, recording everything. Melanie slapped me again, so hard I fell to the floor. She shouted to the crowd, “Look at this! This woman is a fraud! She and her husband are con artists!” She was screaming and trying to hit me again. My coworker, Lisa, stepped in. “That’s enough! We know Chloe. She wouldn’t do that! We’re calling the police!” “Call them! Go ahead!” Melanie laughed like a maniac. “I want to see how she explains this to the cops! Daring to spend my money… I’ll knock your teeth out or my name isn’t Melanie!” She was thrashing like an angry octopus, trying to claw at me. My coworkers held her back while she shrieked. I smoothed my messy hair and stood up from the floor. Calmly, coolly, I spoke. “Ma’am. You claim my husband and I are scamming you. But I don’t even know who you are. So please, tell me, how exactly did I scam you?” She glared at me, trembling with rage. “Don’t play dumb! You know exactly what my relationship is with your husband!” I gasped, covering my mouth in mock surprise. “What is your relationship?” Melanie blushed, looking around guiltily at the crowd. “It doesn’t matter what our relationship is! You stole my money, and today you’re going to pay me back!” I stared straight into her eyes. “Are you the mistress my husband has been keeping on the side?” Hearing that, she exploded and rushed at me. “Bullshit! He keeps me? He’s a broke driver! He has money to keep me? I’m the one keeping him!” The crowd gasped in unison. I didn’t panic. I just smiled faintly. “So, you admit you’re having an affair with my husband?” She choked for a second but doubled down. “So what if I am! Zack, that dog, spends my money, drives my car, and even uses my money to support his wife!” Satisfied, I pulled out my phone. “I’ve recorded everything. I’ve also called the police for assault. My coworkers are witnesses.” “See you at the station.” Hearing I was going to sue her, Melanie went berserk and raised her hand to hit me again. Chapter 2 The police arrived just in time, and we were all hauled into squad cars. At the station, before we even sat down, she started making a scene. She claimed she was swindled out of money and love. She pulled out chat logs and transfer records with my husband, Zack, trying to prove we were in cahoots. “Officer, look. I buy him houses, I buy him cars, and he gives all the money to this woman! How could he do this to me?” Tears streamed down her face. She was genuinely heartbroken over Zack’s betrayal. But the officers just stared at her blankly. They looked at her like she was an idiot. She claimed Zack and I scammed her. But the evidence she provided proved she was having an affair with Zack. And she knew he was married. A homewrecker knowingly wrecking a home, and then coming to harass the wife? Mistresses these days are bold. The officer deadpanned, “We don’t handle relationship disputes.” She jumped up, frantic. “His husband is using my money to support her! Isn’t that illegal?” Just as she was about to throw a tantrum, Zack arrived. The moment Melanie saw him, she lunged and started pummeling him. “Zack! You bastard! You lied to me!” She started sobbing hysterically. The station was in chaos. The police finally pulled them apart. Zack, face scratched up by Melanie’s nails, snapped at her. “Melanie, are you insane?” “You call me insane? Did a dog eat your conscience? I treated you so well, and you went behind my back and gave all my money to this woman!” Zack didn’t even blink. “Stop screaming! She’s my wife. If I don’t give the money to her, who should I give it to?” I watched from the side, jaw on the floor. That was a new one. He saw me standing there and immediately rushed over, fawning. “Babe, are you okay? Did you get hurt?” Seeing the mark on my face, his distress was palpable. He turned and roared at Melanie. “Melanie! Look what you did! I told you! Don’t bother my wife! And you still came here!” Melanie lost it. “Zack! How can you treat me like this? Are you even a man?” “Yesterday you were holding me, telling me you loved me, that you wanted to marry me. If I hadn’t found out you were transferring my money to your wife… you bastard, were you planning to empty my bank account?” “You believed me when I said I loved you?” Melanie wept, heartbroken. “You said you had no feelings for your wife! You said she was a nag, not understanding like me!” “You said she was boring in bed! Just lying there like a dead fish! Not like me… passionate, skilled…” “Shut up!” Zack turned beet red and shouted. “Have some shame!” “I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t love you at all! I was with you to get some cash!” “You were the stupid one throwing yourself at me!” “I only love my wife. Stop making a scene!” He grabbed my hand and tried to drag me out, leaving Melanie standing there in shock. Chapter 3 The moment we got home, before even taking off his shoes, Zack dropped to his knees on the living room tiles. Thud. “Honey, I was wrong. Truly.” I stood in the kitchen pouring water, ignoring him. “I’m scum. I shouldn’t have let you suffer like this. I was confused, blinded by her money. I didn’t want her body or her face. She chased me! She tempted me with money…” He was crying now, begging. I didn’t know how to react. He cheated on me. But he also funneled every cent of the mistress’s money back to me. “So, should I give you a ‘Best Husband’ award?” His face went pale. “It was an impulse. A mistake any man could make…” The bedroom door opened. My in-laws rushed out. “You idiot!” My mother-in-law smacked the back of his head. “You have a good home, and you go out and mess around?” They didn’t know the details, but seeing Zack kneeling meant he screwed up big time. Zack’s career had been stagnant for years. I carried this family. They didn’t dare cross me. After a lecture from his parents, Zack spilled the beans. A year ago, Zack got a job driving for a rich guy. In the last six months, he transferred me a total of $180,000 (part of the larger sum Melanie claimed). I asked where it came from. He said his boss liked him and gave him stock tips. Turns out, he was being a sugar baby. Melanie was a sugar baby for a rich old man, and she turned around and became a sugar mama for Zack. My in-laws were furious. My mother-in-law cried, “You useless thing! Earning dirty money like that!” Zack hung his head, face red. “I know I messed up. But I was just greedy. I never thought about divorce. I don’t have feelings for that woman!” “No feelings, but you slept with her? Couldn’t control your zipper?” My mother-in-law raised her hand to hit him again. Zack covered his head, making excuses. “She forced it… she said I was good in bed… she said her old sugar daddies were useless, keeping her like a bird in a cage! She was lonely! She threatened suicide if I didn’t stay…” I laughed coldly. “Wow, you’re popular.” He crawled over and grabbed my pant leg. “Chloe, I swear. I never wanted to leave you. I saw she had money. I’m useless, I can’t earn much. You work so hard to support us. I just wanted to help you…” Right. So I really should give him an award. Selling his body to feed his wife. Kissing me by day, servicing a sugar mama by night. A martyr of capitalism. “Okay,” I looked down at him. “So tell me. She’s suing us for fraud. She wants the money back. What do we do?” Zack stiffened his neck. “Who cares! She gave it willingly! I earned that money! Why give it back?” I told him to get up, but he hugged my leg tighter. “Honey, if you don’t forgive me, I won’t get up. What do I have to do?” I lowered my voice. “I can forgive you. Unless…” Chapter 4 I knew something was up six months ago when Zack sent the first transfer. He said his boss gave him a stock tip that made $15,000. I believe in bird sh*t falling from the sky, not free money. I thought he was doing something illegal. I was anxious for days. Then I checked his phone while he slept. I found the texts with Melanie. I have to admit, Zack provides excellent emotional value. That’s why I married him. He’s attentive. With Melanie, he was a master. He had her hooked in three sentences, sending him money and kissy emojis. The funny part was, Zack immediately transferred the money to me. My first instinct was divorce. My best friend, Sarah, called me an idiot. I argued, but she rolled her eyes and asked: “That necklace you’re wearing. How much?” I paused. “$4,000.” “The bracelet?” “$800.” “The bag?” My mouth twitched. I couldn’t help but smile. She grinned back. “Get it now?” My gloom vanished. “Look at you. Decked out in designer gear in just a few months.” I drank my juice, praising Sarah’s wisdom. “You’re not doing bad either!” Sarah stared at me. “Think of it as putting Zack’s ‘idle asset’ to work. Creating revenue for the household. It’s brilliant!” I nodded. “Makes sense.” She laughed wickedly. “If it were me, I’d serve that mistress so well she’d be begging to send more money.” I raised my glass. “To you. For waking me up.” “What else do you need?” She asked, eyes gleaming. I pretended to think. “I need a car. An Audi A6.” … A month later, money for an Audi A6 hit my account. I pretended not to know the source, happily accepting it and moving it to a separate account. I made Zack soup, rewarding him for his “hard work.” Zack drank the soup, moved to tears. He was used to chasing me. When I was nice, he melted. “Honey, you’re so good to me,” he sniffled. I smiled. Not as hard as you work, taking the night shift. When I told him my plan—fake divorce so he could go back for one last score—Zack cried. He hugged me, sobbing. “Honey, you still haven’t forgiven me! I was wrong… I won’t do it again…” I pushed him away, fighting the nausea. “I don’t blame you. Really!” He swallowed hard. “Are you serious?” “Of course.” I handed him a slice of apple. “We get a fake divorce. You go coax her, make up, and keep the money flowing.” He stared for a few seconds. “You… aren’t afraid I’ll actually run off?” I laughed. “Would you?” He shook his head violently. “Never. I’ll never leave you.” I leaned back on the sofa. “Melanie is a gold mine. A walking wallet. We need to think about the future. Do you think $850,000 is enough? Is it enough to raise a kid for ten years? No.” He was silent, eyes red. “Zack, I’m planning for us. For our family. The opportunity is right there. It’s up to you.”

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The new A-list actor, Asher Flynn, publicly called me out, slamming me for being shameless and chasing clout. The trending topics exploded for three days straight. My DMs were flooded with mock funeral wreaths sent by his fans. I was being cyberbullied to the point of wanting to delete all my accounts and quit the industry. I was just about to find my online boyfriend to cry to. But before I could even type, he sent me a screenshot, followed by a whiny, self-pitying voice note. “Babe, some D-list actress is trying to score points with me! I’m furious!” My hands trembled as I clicked on the screenshot. There, in stark white text, was Asher Flynn’s comment tearing me down: “@Rowan—stay in your lane. You’re sickening to look at.” Wait. No. The gentle, attentive online boyfriend who tucked me in every night… Was actually the A-list actor, Asher Flynn? This relationship just hit a dead end. 1 Asher’s messages kept flooding in. “Babe, why aren’t you answering me?” “Did you see that trending topic, too? Don’t believe it for a second. I have absolutely nothing to do with that Rowan girl.” “Her profile picture is clearly a rip-off of yours, a cheap knock-off. Ugly people always try too hard.” “If my manager hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve sent two more tweets to knock some sense into her.” My fingertips went numb looking at the relentless stream of messages. Ten minutes ago, I was sobbing hysterically because of Asher’s tweet. He said I was desperate for attention, that I was calculating, and that just seeing me made his stomach turn. The entire internet was laughing at me; his fans had cursed my ancestors. I had even drafted my retirement statement, planning to move back home and sell artisan coffee from a food truck. And now, the man who caused all this mess was using a pink-and-blue teddy bear couple’s avatar and texting me, begging for affection. “Babe?” He sent another voice note, his voice deep, gravelly, and laced with a pathetic neediness. “Don’t be mad, I only slammed her to prove my loyalty to you.” Proving his loyalty by tearing me to shreds? I took a deep breath, my fingers shaking as I typed: I’m not angry. Asher replied instantly: “Thank God! You scared me. I thought you misunderstood that I had something going on with that flop. That kind of woman? I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.” “…” I looked at my reflection in the mirror—eyes red, hair a mess. “Babe, I have to film a reality show tomorrow. It’s going to be busy, so I won’t be able to reply right away.” “And that Rowan girl is apparently going to be there, too. Seriously bad luck. Don’t worry, babe, I promise to stay miles away from her tomorrow. She won’t get a single drop of my limelight!” Asher sent another heads-up. But tomorrow? Wasn’t that the day we were both scheduled to be on The Ultimate Challenge? I had held onto a sliver of hope, thinking I might use the show as a chance to explain things to him, or maybe just apologize for the ‘clout-chasing’ accusation. Now, it looked like I was walking into a firing squad. If he ever found out that the ‘Babe’ he cooed to every night… was Rowan, the actress he publicly despised. The image was too awful to contemplate. He would likely feel betrayed, and his disgust for me would only intensify. Okay, you do your thing. I hit send, then flipped my phone face down on the table. My manager, Brenda, pushed the door open, her face etched with worry. “Rowan, are you still going to the set tomorrow? Asher Flynn’s team is putting out feelers—he doesn’t want any interaction with you. And the network will definitely play this up for ratings.” I gave a bitter laugh. “The contract breach fee is three hundred grand. Can I afford that?” Brenda sighed. “Right. Just keep a low profile tomorrow. Try to avoid him. Don’t give him any more ammunition.” I doubted I could avoid him. “Brenda,” I suddenly asked, “if… and I mean if… I wanted to quit, could I pay the termination fee in installments?” Brenda’s eyes widened. “Are you crazy? Because of this? Hey, being a villain is still being famous!” I didn’t answer. This wasn’t about being famous, even if it was infamous. This was about total, public humiliation. If my identity was revealed tomorrow, my career in Hollywood was over. Worse, Asher’s fans might actually tear me to shreds. I picked up my phone again and tapped on Asher’s profile. That pink-and-blue teddy bear avatar suddenly felt like a punch to the gut. I had to end it. But before the breakup, I needed to survive tomorrow’s show. I could not let him recognize me. As long as I denied everything, he would never know his ‘Babe’ was me. With a resolved mind, I locked down all my social media accounts and changed my profile picture to a solid black square. Asher sent a stream of question marks: “Babe, why the new picture?” I replied: I’m in a bad mood. I’ve gone dark. He sent a ‘big hug’ GIF: “Who upset you? Tell me, I’ll go rip them a new one!” I stared at the screen and forced a smile. It was you who upset me. Weren’t you cruel enough already? 2 On the set of the reality show. I huddled in a corner, trying to shrink into invisibility. Asher Flynn walked in, the center of attention. He looked impossibly handsome in a black outdoor jacket, the kind of man you couldn’t tear your eyes from. But the air pressure around him was freezing. His face clearly screamed, “Do not approach.” He walked right past me without stopping, not even sparing me a side-glance. Sierra, the current “It Girl” and another female guest—and, in Asher’s fans’ minds, the only acceptable girlfriend—smiled sweetly at the sight of him. “Asher, long time no see,” Sierra greeted him with a sugary voice, naturally shifting closer to him. Asher gave a noncommittal grunt. His attitude wasn’t exactly warm, but he didn’t push her away either. Sierra then turned to me, her face plastered with an impenetrable fake smile. “Oh, look, isn’t this Rowan? After yesterday’s blow-up, I honestly thought you’d be too embarrassed to show up today.” Her voice was just loud enough for everyone around to hear. All eyes instantly pivoted to me. I clenched the hem of my jacket. “I signed a contract. Of course, I’m here.” “Right. Well, this might be your last time on a high-profile show like this,” Sierra said, covering her mouth with a delicate laugh. “You have to seize the chance to get as much screen time as possible.” I didn’t take the bait. The less I said, the better. Asher suddenly spoke up. “What’s with the small talk? Can we be professional?” Sierra instantly nodded submissively. “Asher’s right. Let’s run through the notes.” She shot me a smug, victorious look. I looked down, pretending to read the script. But I couldn’t process a single word. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I sneakily pulled it out. A text from Asher. “Babe, I’m here. That Rowan girl is here too, of course. Annoying.” “She tried to talk to me just now, but I totally ignored her.” “You can’t give people like that an inch. They just take advantage.” I was speechless. Wait! When did I try to talk to him? He was the one who walked past me! Did this man have two separate personalities? High-and-mighty movie star in real life, petty, gossipy boyfriend in our texts? I took a deep, steadying breath and replied: Mhm, you did the right thing. Asher shot back instantly: “I know, right? I have to keep my virtue safe. Besides you, I don’t want anything to do with anyone else.” Reading that, my heart ached with a complicated mix of emotions. If you ignored the reality, he was truly the perfect boyfriend. But reality was staring me right in the face. The director yelled into a megaphone: “Places, everyone! We’re going live! The first segment is drawing lots for teams!” My heart dropped. Please, please, not with Asher Flynn. Please, no. But Murphy’s Law never fails. When I pulled a red ball from the box, Asher was holding a red ball, too. A dead silence fell over the stage. The live comments were probably in a frenzy. Sierra’s smile froze, quickly replaced by a pitying look directed at Asher. “Asher, looks like you got the short straw.” Asher stared at the red ball in his hand, his brows tightly knitted. He didn’t even look at me. He just raised his hand and asked the director, “Can we redraw?” The director awkwardly wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Mr. Flynn, we’re live… those are the rules.” Asher let out a cold laugh and tossed the red ball onto the table. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” I stood there, so mortified I didn’t know where to put my hands. Sierra sidled up to me and lowered her voice. “Rowan, if you had an ounce of self-respect, you’d ask to drop out. Don’t drag Asher down.” I looked up at her, my eyes filled with false hope. “Drop out? Will you cover the breach fee?” Sierra choked on her words, then glared at me fiercely. “Clingy.” The light in my eyes dimmed. Sigh. The teams were set; there was no changing it. Asher walked up to me, looking down. It was the first time he had truly looked me in the eye today. Those beautiful eyes were devoid of warmth, filled instead with pure aversion. “Rowan, right?” “Don’t even think about pulling any stunts in this team. I won’t fall for it.” “And, stay away from me.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me with only his cold back. I stood rooted, watching him go, the image of my “perfect boyfriend” shattering piece by piece. The phone in my pocket vibrated again. “Babe, I’m so angry! I’m teamed up with that disaster!” “I definitely didn’t check my horoscope today!” “I swear I’m not helping her in the game. I’m going to let her look like a fool on her own!” Reading those two texts, I suddenly felt too drained to reply. Asher Flynn. You’re truly something else. Since you hate me this much, I don’t need to hold onto any more fantasies about you. As soon as this show is over, we’re done. 3 The game was a “three-legged race” through an obstacle course. The game required extreme coordination and physical contact. The producers were clearly doing this on purpose. A staff member came over with a strap to tie one of my legs to one of Asher’s. Asher took a step back, a look of complete revulsion on his face. “Can’t we do something else?” “Mr. Flynn, these are the rules…” the staff member stammered. Asher frustratingly ran a hand through his hair but finally extended his leg. “Don’t tie it too tight,” he said sharply. The staff member’s hands were shaking, and he tied the strap loosely. I moved my leg close. Before I could even brush his pant leg, he flinched back as if he’d been electrocuted. “Don’t crowd me.” I stared at him. Dude, it’s a three-legged race. How are we supposed to run if we’re not close? The live chat was probably having a field day. LOL, the A-lister’s entire body is screaming NO. Can Rowan please back up? Don’t touch our king! Asher Flynn: Back the F* Off!** The race started. The other teams were calling out rhythms and charging forward smoothly. Sierra’s team was perfectly coordinated and already far ahead. Only our team was a total mess. Asher would step with his left foot, and I would step with my right. He walked too fast, and I couldn’t keep up. Before we’d gone two steps, I stumbled and nearly fell. I instinctively reached for his arm to catch my balance. The instant my hand touched his sleeve, he ruthlessly shrugged me off. “Don’t touch me.” With that jerk, I lost my center of gravity and went crashing to the ground. My knee smacked hard against the concrete. The pain shot through me. Due to the strap, Asher was pulled off balance momentarily, but he quickly steadied himself. He looked down at me. He didn’t offer a hand. Instead, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “Can you manage this or not? Don’t force it if you can’t.” His voice was dripping with contempt. I lay on the ground, my knee throbbing, tears stinging my eyes. The humiliation was overwhelming. The man who texted me, “Babe, if you scrape a tiny bit of skin I’d be heartbroken,” was standing right there, watching me fall, and his only concern was that I would slow him down. Sierra crossed the finish line, looked back, and dramatically shouted, “Oh my God, Rowan, why did you fall? Were you trying to get Asher to carry you?” A chorus of chuckles erupted around us. I gritted my teeth, pushed myself up, and stood without his help. The skin on my knee was broken. Asher glanced at the wound. His frown deepened, but he still didn’t move. “Can you still walk?” he asked. “Yes,” I snapped back. “Then hurry up. Don’t waste any more time.” The rest of the course was pure torture. He completely ignored my pace, only focusing on his own forward momentum. I was dragged, stumbling and nearly falling with every step. I felt like I was walking on broken glass. We finally crawled to the finish line. Unsurprisingly, we came in dead last. The moment the strap came off, Asher leaped two feet away from me. Then, in front of everyone, he pulled out an antiseptic wipe and meticulously, carefully, scrubbed the sleeve of his jacket where I had touched it. He then tossed the wipe into a nearby trash can. The gesture wasn’t physically harmful, but the insult was maximum. I stood there, staring at the trash can, my heart completely hollow. Sierra came over and handed Asher a water bottle. “Asher, that must have been rough. It’s hard carrying dead weight.” Asher took a long drink, said nothing, but his silence was confirmation enough. Sierra turned to me, her smile triumphant. “Rowan, don’t feel too bad. The gap in skill is obvious. It’s totally normal that Asher couldn’t carry you.” I ignored her and turned to find a staff member for a bandage. My phone vibrated again. I hid in the corner to check it. “Babe, we lost.” “That Rowan girl is as clumsy as a wild boar. She can’t walk straight, and she kept trying to pull on me.” “She almost made me fall. She’s a total jinx.” “But don’t worry, I didn’t touch her once the whole time. My loyalty is absolute!” Reading those words, a wave of nausea hit me. Sickening. It was truly sickening. I shoved the phone back into my pocket. I didn’t want to look at it again. The host walked onto the stage with a note card. “Alright, the results are in! The last-place team must now face the forfeit!” The crowd cheered. Everyone was waiting to see how Asher would humiliate me next. The host’s eyes bounced between Asher and me, finally landing on Asher. “Mr. Flynn, according to the rules, the losing team must play ‘Truth or Dare’.” Asher casually adjusted his cuff. “I’ll take the Dare.” The host grinned widely. “Wonderful! The Dare is…” “You must call the person you’ve contacted most recently in your phone book—of the opposite sex—on speaker, and say, ‘I love you!’”

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At 3 PM, my newly hired colleague, Liam (who went by “Lia” at the office), suddenly tagged me in the company-wide Slack channel with hundreds of people: @SarahVance: You btch in cubicle 203, can you stop banging on your keyboard? The vibration is giving me cramps!* @SarahVance: My baby is sleeping in my belly right now. If your noise gives him a concussion, I will make your whole family pay! I hurriedly explained that I was rushing a proposal due EOD and that I was using a silent mechanical keyboard. But he refused to believe me. I patiently explained multiple times. To avoid conflict, I even applied to work from a desk in the hallway. Unexpectedly, a week later, he barged into the breakroom with a freshly boiled kettle of water and poured it over my head. I collapsed in a pool of scalding water, skin peeling. He still疯了一样 (like a madman) smashed my head with his high heel, screaming hysterically: “It’s all your fault! I miscarried! Your keyboard noise killed my son!!” My vision blurred, and I lost consciousness—dying without understanding how a silent keyboard could kill anyone. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day he cursed me out in the group chat. Facing his familiar abuse, I didn’t back down. I directly questioned him in the group: “What kind of pregnant woman are you pretending to be? If you pulled it out, your d*ck would be bigger than mine!” 1 After I sent the message to the group, the chat, which had been buzzing with hundreds of people discussing projects, went dead silent. A few seconds later, Lia’s messages flooded the screen like a broken dam: @SarahVance: What kind of bullst are you spouting, you dirty whre? I’m three months pregnant! I have the ultrasound right here. How dare you slander me?! @everyone: Come look at this! Sarah in 203 is jealous because she can’t lay an egg herself, so she can’t stand seeing others have babies! @HR @CEO_Zhang: There’s a person like this in the company! I’m calling the police! This is defamation! This is a personal attack! Lia threw a tantrum, crying and screaming. Immediately, colleagues stepped up, pointing their spears at me. Karen from Design: Sarah, that’s too much. How can you talk to a pregnant woman like that? Your mouth is poisonous! Another colleague tried to mediate: Lia, calm down. Don’t get angry for the baby’s sake. Sarah was probably just joking. Lia wasn’t having it: Joking? Is this something you joke about? What do I have to say to her? She’s just jealous I married well and have my husband’s seed in my belly! My pregnancy is high-risk! The doctor specifically ordered bed rest and quiet! But this slt keeps typing like she’s operating a jackhammer! If anything happens to my baby, I’ll skin her alive!* Other colleagues on the floor started chiming in: Exactly. Lia said she’s not feeling well. Can’t you be quieter? It’s already afternoon. Can’t you submit that proposal tomorrow? Why antagonize a pregnant woman? Reading these black-and-white distortions, I laughed out of pure rage. In my past life, this was how they pushed me into a corner step by step. I explained over and over that I used a silent keyboard. To avoid disturbing her, I even took my laptop to work in the stairwell. But what I got in return was her scalding me from head to toe with boiling water. Before I died, with my skin boiled off and my skull crushed by a high heel, Lia’s crazed face was the last thing I saw in this world. I closed my eyes. The searing pain of boiling water seemed to brand my soul. Anger and hatred crashed against my chest. Lia was still frantically tagging me in the group: Cat got your tongue? Why aren’t you talking, you btch? Guilty?* Did you do it on purpose? You don’t want me to have a good life, right? I finally got pregnant, and you just have to kill my son, don’t you? If anything happens to him, can you afford to pay? Will you pay with your life? “Pay with my life?” “Pay for the turd you’re going to birth?” I stared at those words, unable to suppress my fire any longer. I sent a voice message directly to the group, my tone icy: “Fine. Come over here right now. As long as you dare to drop your pants in front of the whole company, I, Sarah Vance, will jump out this window right now to pay for your son with my life!” 2 My voice message made the entire company explode. The group chat was silent for a full minute. Then, a commotion erupted from the direction of my cubicle. I looked up and saw Lia clutching her belly, supported by several female colleagues, marching towards me with red-rimmed eyes. “Sarah!” Her voice was shrill, laced with tears, as if she had suffered the world’s greatest injustice. “How can you be so vicious? How did I ever offend you for you to humiliate me like this?” “I’m carrying a boy! He’s the only heir for generations in our family. Can’t you just tolerate him?” The female colleagues beside her immediately jumped to her defense: “Sarah, you’re inhuman. Lia just joined the company, why are you bullying her like this?” “Exactly! Won’t you have children yourself one day? Can you bear to see your own child cursed like this?” “Messing with an unborn baby? Aren’t you afraid of karma?” Lia was still dry heaving, acting her heart out. Tears came on command as she leaned weakly on a colleague: “I’m going to kill you… You ruined my innocence… I’m going to kill you…” His crying was piercing, stimulating my eardrums and my memories of the past life. Thinking of how I was tortured to death by this gender-confused maniac, my body couldn’t stop shaking. Hearing him say he wanted to kill me, I couldn’t hold back anymore. I stood up abruptly, shoved the female colleague aside, and grabbed him by the collar. “Kill me? You already killed me once in my last life!” “Act! Keep acting! Where’s your belly? Where’s the ultrasound? Show me!” He was frightened by my aura. After freezing for a few seconds, he suddenly clawed at my face. I dodged sideways and tripped him precisely. Thud. He fell face-forward onto the floor. Recalling the agony of boiling water pouring over me in my past life, rage consumed my heart. I stepped on his back, grabbed his silky wig, and smashed his face into the floor. “Keep pretending! Keep acting! Let’s see what kind of thing you really are today!” Lia was pinned down by me, screaming like a slaughtered pig: “Ah! Help! Sarah’s crazy! She’s killing people! My belly… my baby…” His shrill screams attracted more colleagues. Everyone rushed up, pulling us apart. Two male colleagues held me back. I was still panting. Calculating the time, I had only been reborn for half an hour. That means, half an hour ago, I was murdered by this monster in front of me! How could I be calm?! But after pulling me away, the crowd pointed fingers at me: “Sarah, are you insane! It started with your foul mouth, and now you dare to hit a pregnant woman?” “How did we not notice before that our company had such a vicious woman like you!” “I’ve called security! If you dare move again, we’ll call the police directly and let them handle you!” 3 Freed from my suppression, Lia became arrogant again. He was helped up, clutching his belly, crying and pointing at me: “Everyone saw it! She’s jealous of me! She wants to kill my child!” He stumbled towards me, raising his hand to slap me. I wanted to fight back, but I was firmly held by the male colleagues. “Still want to fight?! Can’t you behave?” Seeing I couldn’t move, a smug grin appeared on Lia’s face, and his insults became nastier: “You rotten goods who can’t lay an egg! You should just rot in the ground!” Other colleagues also criticized me for lacking empathy. Karen, who spoke up earlier, comforted Lia while glaring at me hatefully: “You’re an adult, have you no shame? Making a pregnant woman this upset over a proposal, what is your heart made of?” “It’s hard enough for Lia to work while pregnant. If something happens to her because of your tantrum, can you take responsibility?” I struggled, trying to break free, and shouted back: “I’ve explained a dozen times, I use a silent keyboard! How did I disturb him? Telepathy?” “Besides, he says he’s pregnant. Has anyone seen his prenatal checkup reports? Has anyone seen his husband pick him up?” My words made a few people pause, doubt creeping into their eyes. Lia immediately pulled a crumpled paper from his bag: “This is my ultrasound! It clearly says 12 weeks pregnant!” I sneered: “Just now you said my keyboard sounded like a jackhammer and gave you cramps. Now you’re jumping and screaming here, and your precious son is suddenly fine?” Everyone froze. Karen muttered to herself: “Yeah, when I was pregnant, let alone fighting, even a loud noise made my heart race… Is Lia’s fetus made of steel?” Security arrived just then, seeing the tense situation, they quickly interjected: “Everyone calm down! Talk it out!” Lia, who was arrogant just a moment ago, suddenly covered his mouth and started dry heaving. After a while, she said weakly: “I can’t… my stomach hurts so much… She must have hurt the baby when she pushed me!” “I need to go to the hospital! If I lose my baby, Sarah, I won’t let you go even as a ghost!” I wasn’t going to let him off that easily. “Great, let’s go to the hospital! I’ll go with you! I’ll also help you book a urologist to check your prostate!” Lia went berserk, screaming and pointing at my nose: “You… you crazy woman! You’re slandering me! I’ll sue you for defamation!” I immediately addressed the crowd: “Did everyone hear that? Just one check at the hospital and we’ll know. If he really is a pregnant woman, I’ll kowtow and apologize to him in front of everyone, and pay all medical bills!” Then, I turned to Lia: “Do you dare to go?” Saying that, I grabbed him and dragged him toward the exit. “Let’s go, right now! Let the whole company see if you’re carrying a child or just a bag of bad water!” My colleagues and I stared at him, waiting for an answer. Lia’s face went from red to white. He never dreamed that the soft persimmon he crushed in his past life would turn into a prickly maniac in this one. He gripped the desk tightly, refusing to move a step. Then, as if struck by an idea, he suddenly collapsed straight to the floor with a thud. A pool of “blood” quickly spread beneath him. He reached out, pointing a trembling finger at me, eyes full of venom: “My baby… Sarah… you killed my baby!” 4 Lia was quickly taken away by an ambulance, and the company was in chaos. Karen pointed at me, shaking with rage: “Sarah! Are you happy now? You killed someone’s child!” Another colleague had already dialed 911: “Hello, police? Someone here intentionally assaulted a pregnant woman, causing a miscarriage!” I stood by the pool of “blood,” watching coldly. That wasn’t blood at all; it was just red ink. This scammer was certainly well-prepared. Soon, the police arrived at the office. Lia had been sent to the hospital for “emergency treatment,” and I was taken back to the station as the prime suspect. The office surveillance clearly recorded the whole process. From my message in the group chat, to Lia bringing people to confront me, to me pushing him, and finally his “miscarriage.” All evidence was extremely unfavorable to me. In the interrogation room, the officer’s expression was grim: “Sarah, why did you use such heavy hands on a pregnant woman? Just because she asked you to be quiet?” “Do you know your actions constitute intentional assault?” I looked at the officer and said calmly: “Officer, I didn’t. First, I didn’t intentionally hurt him. Second, he isn’t a pregnant woman.” “He is a man.” The officer frowned: “We’ve verified with the hospital. The victim, Lia, female, was indeed 12 weeks pregnant, but has miscarried due to severe impact.” “What else do you want to fabricate?” I laughed: “Hospital? Which doctor did the check? Dare you let him come confront me face to face?” “I said, Lia is a man. What’s in his belly isn’t a fetus, but a silicone pad and a bag of red ink.” My words stunned the police. They probably had never seen such a “stubborn” suspect. A male officer slammed the table: “Sarah! You still show no remorse! Surveillance video, witness testimony, hospital diagnosis, all evidence points to you!” “Do you think spouting nonsense will get you off the hook?” I met his gaze fearlessly: “I haven’t committed a crime, why would I need to get off the hook?” “I demand to see Lia. I want to prove he is a man in front of you.” “If I can’t prove it, I’ll plead guilty and accept the punishment, no questions asked.” My attitude was so firm that the police began to doubt. After deliberating for a few minutes, they decided to take me to the hospital for a confrontation. Arriving at the hospital, Lia was lying in a hospital bed, face pale, hooked up to an IV, looking incredibly weak. Karen and a few colleagues were guarding the bedside. Seeing me, they rushed up like hens protecting their chicks. “You dare to come here! You murderer!” Karen’s spit almost sprayed on my face. I ignored her and walked straight to the bedside, looking at Lia acting his heart out. “Stop acting. You’re overdoing it.” Seeing me, Lia shuddered violently and shrank back in terror: “Don’t come over… you demon… what else do you want? You’ve already killed my child…” He cried hoarsely, attracting the attention of the entire ward.

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My best friend, Chloe, had begged me for the eight-hundredth time to break up with him. I sniffled, hesitating. “But he treats me pretty well.” Chloe told me I might as well be dead. It wasn’t until I found another package of lingerie sent to Liam by one of his flings that I finally listened to her. Even when he knelt and begged, I didn’t look back. Just as I was about to call Chloe with the good news, I saw her announcement on Instagram: “Dust can never understand the brilliance of the moon. She doesn’t get you, but I do.” The photo showed Liam with red, teary eyes, and Chloe planting a comforting kiss on his cheek. Someone commented, calling her a homewrecker. She didn’t care at all. “If she was fooled by a few pieces of lingerie I mailed, how can she say she truly loved him? Besides, she’s so plain. She doesn’t deserve Liam like I do.” I frantically turned the car around. But I didn’t check the traffic. I died instantly in a crash. After being reborn, I immediately cut ties with Chloe and got into my car to leave. But a woman covered in blood slammed her hands against my window, crying: “Bestie! Help me! That’s not me!” 1 I froze just as I was about to start the engine. Outside the car, the blood-soaked woman was frantically pounding on the glass. Although her features were obscured by gore, I knew her. Thirteen years of friendship told me it was Chloe. But hadn’t I just argued with her upstairs? She was currently sulking in her apartment. I had just gotten into the car. How could she be banging on my window, covered in blood? “Maya! Open the door! Hurry!” She yanked at the handle while looking behind her in panic. As if something terrifying was chasing her. Remembering Chloe’s betrayal in my past life, goosebumps erupted all over my skin. Could it be… that Chloe had really been replaced? The Chloe I knew wasn’t the type to fight over men. Looking at the desperate, bloodied Chloe outside, I decided to trust her. “Hurry! Get in!” I snapped my eyes open. I found myself still sitting in the driver’s seat. I turned my head. The window was down. The wind blew against my face, waking me completely. There was no one banging on the window. Did I… just fall asleep? “Maya, get back here!” Chloe stormed down from upstairs, furious. Her face was clean, without a trace of blood. “What do you mean he treats you well? You don’t want to break up?!” Her exasperated look was exactly the same as in my past life. “This is the third package of lingerie some fling sent him! This time it’s used! The mistress is dancing in your face, and you’re still nostalgic about the good times?!” The exact same speech. In my past life, whenever I received those packages, I would cry to her. Every time, she didn’t hesitate: “Dump him!” But I always felt I should listen to Liam’s explanation. Every time he explained, I would text her: “It was all a misunderstanding. We made up!” It would drive Chloe crazy. But now, looking at her angry face, I clearly remembered the post she made after taking Liam in my past life: “It wasn’t in vain that I advised them to break up for so long. Every time, I was terrified she would figure out I sent the packages. I tried so hard to confuse her. Finally, she’s not ‘love-brained’ anymore. I succeeded.” I opened the car door. I looked down at her. “Chloe, we’re done. Friendship over.” Her pupils shrank. “You’re cutting me off because of a scumbag?” “Did I stutter?” “Maya, we’ve known each other for thirteen years! You’ve only known him for three!” Exactly. So why did you stab me in the back?! I stared at her. “Yes. We’re done.” “Fine.” She pointed at me. “Don’t come crying to me when he ruins you!” She turned and marched upstairs without looking back. I had a moment of trance— She seemed so much like the Chloe I knew. The Chloe I knew wouldn’t react any differently to what I just said. I shook my head. The truth of the past life had been revealed. I had to accept it, even if I didn’t want to. Although the bloodied Chloe was just a dream. The Chloe who plotted against me was no different from a stranger wearing her face. This friendship had ended in such an ugly way. I rolled up the window. Just as I was about to leave, my gaze locked onto the glass. There were dense, bloody handprints. Right where the Chloe in my dream had pressed her hands! I looked up. Behind the window of Chloe’s bedroom, a pair of eyes seemed to be staring straight at me. 2 I wiped the window clean. How could a figure from a dream leave traces in reality? There were a lot of mischievous kids in Chloe’s complex. I leaned towards it being a prank. When I got home, another package was at the door. I opened it. Purple lace stockings and lingerie. It smelled of women’s perfume. In my past life, my first reaction would have been to scream at Liam. Then cry to Chloe. But now, I knew better than anyone who sent it. The image of Chloe’s bloodied face from my dream flashed in my mind. My grip on the stockings tightened. If Chloe wasn’t Chloe, then the real Chloe was most likely at… I thought I should go to Chloe’s apartment again. To avoid suspicion, I decided to make an apology cake. When I appeared at Chloe’s door with a fruit cake, her first reaction was to close the door. I quickly jammed my foot in the gap, pleading: “Chloe, that woman sent him lingerie again to provoke me! This time I really know I was wrong. He’s scum! Total scum!” Chloe sized me up with dissatisfaction. I put on a pitiful expression. “Please, Chloe. Without you, who’s going to help me fight the scumbag?” Only then did she sneer. “Fine. I’ll forgive you this once.” The door opened. I carefully observed her every move. And any sign of a third person in the apartment. “What’s with you?” She turned around, holding a cake knife. “Looking around like a thief. What, you think I’m hiding a man?” She was right. But it was strange. Apart from traces of her and me, there was no sign of anyone else. In the dream, Chloe bled so much. If she was here, there would definitely be traces… I watched Chloe cut the cake. Could I have… Really been mistaken? “Did that son of a bitch make you stupid?” Chloe forked a piece and chewed. “Not gonna lie, the cream is good this time.” I stared at her mouth. My heart stopped— Chloe was allergic to mangoes. I deliberately put mango in the cake to test her. This person, eating mango without a care in the world. Who is she? 3 “What’s wrong?” She looked at me, chewing on mango chunks. My face was pale. My steps were unsteady. “Nothing…” “If nothing’s wrong, eat!” She smiled and handed me a fork with cake on it. I hesitated taking the fork. My hand under my sleeve had already dialed 911. Then, trembling slightly, I reached out to take a bite. Slap! Her face suddenly changed. She smacked my hand away. “What are you doing?” “Chloe?” I looked at Chloe’s suddenly darkened face in shock. My heart skipped a beat. “Why are you eating mango?” She glared at me. My breathing became erratic— Did she… discover my purpose? “You forgot you’re allergic to mangoes?!” “What?” I pointed at myself. Me? Allergic to mangoes? Since I was a kid, my favorite fruit has been mango. The one allergic to mangoes was Chloe, right? “Did that scumbag make you crazy? You forgot your own allergy?” Chloe glared at me. I looked at her. I put the mango on the fork into my mouth. Staring dead at her: “Chloe, watch closely. The one allergic to mangoes was never me. It’s you.” Her face went pale. “Maya…” “So, who the hell are you!” She looked at me in shock. “Speak!” I got up to grab her collar. Suddenly, my throat tightened. I fell to my knees, clutching my neck. I saw a rash erupting on my arm. “I told you you were allergic, why didn’t you listen! Hello? 911? My friend is having a severe allergic reaction! Come quick!” Allergic to mangoes… Me? How is that possible! The person allergic to mangoes, since childhood… Has always been Chloe! Thud! I collapsed to the floor. The last thing I heard was Chloe’s panicked screaming. 4 When I woke up in the hospital, I still couldn’t believe I was allergic to mangoes. Until the diagnostic report came out. The doctor frowned. “You were sent to our ER as a child for acute anaphylaxis. Didn’t I warn you then? Never touch mangoes, not even the juice, for the rest of your life?” Looking at the words “Mango Allergy” on the report. I cast an incredulous look at Liam. He sighed. “When we first started dating, you told me you were allergic. I’ve been careful all these years. Did you forget?” My mind was no longer on whether he cheated. I crumpled the report in my hand. A terrifying guess appeared in my mind— Could it be that the sick one… is really me? Not just the allergy, but also… That afternoon, I appeared in the psychiatric ward.

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My cooking video went viral for the first time. All because I let my wife, Eva—a certified kitchen disaster—make a plate of sweet and sour ribs that came out looking like a twisted, blackened nightmare. The comments section exploded: 【OMG! How did she mess up every single step?】 【My dog could cook better than that!】 I sighed. At least it was getting views. Then, a few comments scrolled by that stopped my heart. 【Wait a second! Isn’t that Eva Burke? The culinary goddess who disappeared years ago?!】 【Back in the day, she and her partner, Ross Grey, were legends in the food world!】 Suddenly, the screen was flooded with a new narrative. 【Case closed! The goddess hasn’t forgotten how to cook. She just reserves her skills for Ross Grey!】 【Who is this husband guy? What gives him the right to make a legend like her break her sacred vow?】 I sat there, bathed in the cold light of my phone, and looked at the woman who had been a quiet, unassuming presence in my life for years. And for the first time, she felt like a complete stranger. 1 My fingers scrolled down mechanically, unearthing more and more comments that pieced together a dazzling, brilliant version of my wife I never knew existed. Eva Burke. She was once a rising star in the culinary scene, a food blogger with breathtaking skill and a perfect partner named Ross Grey. “Eva & Ross’s Table.” I whispered the unfamiliar name, my finger trembling as I typed it into the search bar. The account had been dormant for years, but the old videos were still there. In the thumbnail, a younger Eva, her eyes sparkling with life, wore a crisp chef’s coat. Her arm was casually draped around a handsome, smiling man. She looked so different from the Eva I married, who was always composed, always serene, always distant. This was a version of her I had never seen—brimming with confidence and passion. I clicked on the video with the most views. In it, Eva was expertly filleting a fish. Her hands were as steady as a surgeon’s, the knife gliding effortlessly, creating slices as thin as dragonfly wings. She turned to Ross, her smile soft and genuine. “Jules, can you pass me the spiced honey? You always did like things a little sweeter, right?” Ross’s warm, laughing voice came from off-screen. “You know it. You’re the only one who remembers.” The intimacy in his tone was a physical sting. My mind reeled back to just last week. I was in the kitchen, buried under a mountain of invoices for the bistro, so stressed that my lip was chapped and bleeding. Eva came home from work, glanced at the stove, and frowned. “Still not done? Just whip something up we can eat.” I had hoped she might offer to help, even just to wash some vegetables. “I’m swamped, Eva,” I pleaded. “Could you maybe…” She cut me off, her voice flat. “I don’t cook, Leo. You know that. Let’s just order takeout.” She said it so matter-of-factly. Just like she always did. Every time I was drowning in the stress of keeping the bistro afloat; every time I stayed up until the early hours of the morning perfecting a new recipe; every time she saw my hands shaking from sheer exhaustion—she just stood by, offering a simple, dismissive, “I don’t cook.” It turns out, it wasn’t that she couldn’t. She just wouldn’t. Not for me. In the video, she saw a tiny drop of hot oil splash near Ross and immediately grabbed his hand, inspecting it with frantic concern. “We have to protect Jules,” she said to the camera, “not a single scratch.” But I remembered last month when I threw out my back hauling sacks of flour. I was sweating through my shirt from the pain, and she just watched me, finally saying, “If you can’t handle it, then don’t do it. Why push yourself?” The brutal contrast was a freezing tide washing over my heart, a dull, suffocating ache. This bistro was my father’s life’s work. On his deathbed, he had gripped my hand and made me promise to keep it going. I had poured every cent of my savings, every ounce of my soul into it. I barely ate, barely slept. I was stretched as taut as a violin string. Eva saw all of it. She had the skill to save this place. A single demonstration of her talent could have been the lifeline we needed. But she chose to hide it. She chose to watch my father’s legacy, my entire world, slide slowly into bankruptcy. She even played along with my stupid video, acting the part of the kitchen disaster, leaving me to struggle alone in my despair. I switched off the video and took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm the storm raging in my chest. No, I can’t think like that. Maybe… maybe she had her reasons. Everyone has a past. And besides the cooking, she was a good wife. She contributed her salary to the household, remembered my birthday and our son’s, and brought me a glass of water when I was sick. She wasn’t overly affectionate with our son, Toby, but she held him, she took care of him. She did her duty as a mother. I had to believe there was more to the story. I decided to give myself, and our family, one more chance. I called her, forcing my voice to sound calm and sincere. “Eva, you know what this bistro means to me. It’s the last piece of my dad I have left.” My voice trembled, betraying me. “It’s about to go under. I’m asking you, just this once, to please… please cook something for real. Do it for me. Can you do that?” There was a pause on the other end, and then her voice came back, laced with that familiar impatience. “Leo, I don’t cook. You’ve always known that.” In that instant, my heart sank to the bottom of a cold, dark ocean. My voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of all my broken hope. “Then what about ‘Eva & Ross’s Table’?” 2 The line went silent for a moment. When Eva spoke again, her voice was as calm and placid as ever. “Since you know, I might as well be clear.” There was no hesitation, no attempt to hide. Each word was a sharp, deliberate cut into my heart. “I promised Jules my cooking was for him and him alone. That’s a promise I made to him, and I won’t break it for anyone.” A promise? For a promise to another man, she would stand by and watch my entire world crumble? A wave of fury, mixed with a bitter taste of despair, crashed over me. “So that’s it?” I demanded, my voice shaking. “You’d just watch the bistro die? Watch me drown in anxiety every single day? Eva, with your reputation, you wouldn’t even have to cook! You could just show up, say a few words, or—or even just let me use your name! That alone could have saved us!” My voice rose to a sharp, unfamiliar pitch. Eva just listened quietly. When I was done shouting, she delivered her final, cruel blow. “That bistro was always going to fail, Leo. Stop fighting a losing battle.” Her words severed my last thread of hope. “You’re disgusting, Eva.” I spat the words out with what little defiance I had left and hung up, feeling like all the strength had been drained from my body. Just then, a notification popped up on my screen. 【Eva & Ross’s Table is LIVE! Ross’s back in the country for a surprise reunion with Eva!】 My thumb moved on its own, clicking the link. There was Ross, as charming as ever. And next to him, wearing an apron and expertly tossing a wok, was my wife. The woman who, in my kitchen, couldn’t tell salt from sugar was now a whirlwind of graceful precision, her control over the heat and ingredients absolute. She would occasionally turn to speak with Ross, her eyes filled with a focus and warmth I had never, ever seen directed at me. “Be careful, Jules. It’s hot.” She took a plate from his hands, her movements gentle and natural. Then, a little boy, maybe five or six years old, appeared on camera. Ross introduced him as his son, who was fascinated by cooking. Eva knelt, her patience seemingly infinite, and guided the boy’s hands as he tried to chop a vegetable. Her voice was softer than I’d ever heard it. “That’s right, sweetheart, keep your wrist steady. You’re so smart.” She called him sweetheart. She smiled at him with such genuine tenderness. My son, Toby… she would hold him sometimes, but she had never once shown him that kind of patient affection. When Toby would bring her a picture book, begging for a story, she’d always say, “Mommy’s tired.” When he proudly showed her a gold star he’d earned at preschool, she’d offer a lukewarm, “Hmm, that’s nice.” … These images were razor blades, shredding the last of my delusions. I closed the livestream, my chest heaving, but my eyes remained stubbornly dry. Just then, the front door opened. It was Toby, home from school. He didn’t even take off his little backpack before he threw himself into my arms and burst into tears. “Daddy… sniff… the other kids said… they said Mommy doesn’t want us anymore… They said she has a new baby now, and she doesn’t want Toby…” He sobbed hysterically, his little face turning red. “I want Mommy! I can’t live without Mommy…” Seeing my son’s raw fear and pain extinguished the fire of my own rage. My resolve to burn everything to the ground vanished. He was right. Toby needed his mother. What would happen to him if Eva and I were at war? I held my son tight, forcing myself to breathe, to calm down. I decided to give her one last chance. I sent her a text. “Toby’s birthday is tomorrow. Be home early.” It took a long time for her to reply. “Got it.” 3 The clock struck ten. On the dining table, the birthday dinner I’d made for Toby had been reheated for the third time. Toby had gone from bouncing with excitement, to anxiously peering out the window, to now, curled up in the corner of the sofa, his little head nodding with sleep. He was still clutching the drawing he had made for his mom. “Daddy, did Mommy forget?” he mumbled, rubbing his sleepy eyes, his voice thick with disappointment. “Mommy’s probably just busy with work…” I said, the excuse tasting like ash in my mouth. I didn’t even believe it myself. The hands on the clock ticked mercilessly past midnight. His birthday was over. My heart sank into the darkness with the night. I stared at the plate of sweet and sour ribs, now misshapen and dull from being reheated so many times. I remembered when we were first married; even though she wouldn’t cook, she would at least look at this dish when I served it and say, “It’s delicious.” When did even that small, feigned warmth disappear? This marriage was just like this dish—spoiled, sticky, and giving off a sickening stench. I called her one last time. It rang for a long time before she picked up. The background was a chaotic symphony of voices and clattering cookware, a stark contrast to the dead silence of my home. “Hello?” Her voice was sharp with the impatience of being busy. “Eva, where are you? It was Toby’s birthday. You promised…” “Something came up. I can’t make it back.” She cut me off without a hint of apology, as if she were canceling a casual coffee date. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone. “What could possibly be more important than your son’s birthday?” “Jules needs help calibrating the equipment for the livestream. I can’t leave,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Then her tone shifted, becoming demanding. “By the way, that batch of black truffles you got—they’re still at the bistro, right? Bring them over now. Ross needs them for his next dish.” I was stunned into silence, then let out a cold, bitter laugh. That batch of top-grade black truffles… I had pulled so many strings, gone through hell and back, and used nearly the last of my cash flow to get them. I was banking on them for a new signature dish, a final, desperate attempt to save my restaurant. “Those truffles are for—” I started, trying to explain how important they were to me. “I know you got them,” she interrupted again, her voice dripping with undisguised contempt. “But that kind of ingredient is wasted on you. Its true potential can only be realized in the hands of a real chef, like Ross. Stop wasting time and bring them over. We need them now.” Wasted on me? In her eyes, all my effort, all my passion, was just a waste? And whatever Ross needed was simply her command? The dam of resentment, anger, and humiliation that had been building not just all night, but for years, finally burst. My voice trembled, but the words came out with chilling clarity. “Evelyn! Have you no shame?!” I slammed the phone down. The tears finally came, hot and furious, but I bit my lip, refusing to make a sound. A small, warm hand gently touched my cheek. Toby was awake, standing in front of me. His own face was streaked with tears, but he looked at me with a solemnity far beyond his years. “Daddy, don’t cry,” he said. “Mommy’s bad. She made Daddy sad. I don’t want her anymore either.” My son’s words were like a splash of ice water, instantly dousing the flames of my rage and replacing them with a cold, hard clarity. The family I had fought so desperately to hold together was, in Eva’s eyes, something she could cast aside at a moment’s notice. Could my son ever truly be happy in a home like this? I took a deep breath, wiped my tears, and pulled Toby into a hug. In that moment, my decision was made. I stood up, walked to the bookshelf, and took down a dusty folder. Inside were our marriage certificate and our family’s official documents. I placed them on the table, my gaze calm. Since she was so busy being a mother to someone else’s child, my son and I didn’t need her anymore. 4 Meanwhile, at Ross’s studio, preparations for the live broadcast were in full swing. Eva stared at her phone, frowning. Her calls to me were going straight to voicemail. “What’s wrong? Hasn’t Leo brought the truffles yet?” Ross asked, handing her a glass of water. His voice was gentle, but a flicker of calculation crossed his eyes. He sighed dramatically. “I bet he’s still mad at me… It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. I know he’s in a tough spot right now, so it’s only natural he’d take it out on you… It’s just a shame it might affect tonight’s broadcast…” Eva rubbed her temples, annoyed. Leo had never been this defiant before. “It’s fine,” she said coolly, turning to an assistant. “Go to The Hearthstone Bistro. Go to the back kitchen and get that batch of black truffles.” The assistant nodded and left. With the addition of the premium ingredient, Ross’s livestream was a massive success. The reunion of the legendary pair ignited a wave of nostalgia across the internet, and the video went viral overnight. The next day, the media descended on them like vultures. Ross smiled at the cameras, the picture of refined charm. “I really have to thank Eva for last night’s success. Without her, none of this would have been possible. The chemistry between us… it’s never changed.” The implication in his words sent a ripple of excitement through the reporters. One journalist pushed a microphone towards Eva. “It seems your connection with Mr. Grey is truly special! Will you two be officially teaming up again to bring back the glory of ‘Eva & Ross’s Table’?” Eva faced the flashing cameras, her expression as calm as ever. “No,” she said after a moment’s thought. “I have a family to consider. I have to respect my husband’s feelings. It wouldn’t be appropriate.” As she finished, a strange, awkward silence fell over the crowd. The smile on Ross’s face froze. Just then, a reporter in the back raised his phone high in the air. “Ms. Burke, are you referring to your husband, Leo?” he shouted. “Because this morning, your husband posted a new video on his social media.” “It was a divorce announcement.” 5 The reporter’s words were a thunderclap in Eva’s ears. A divorce announcement? She instinctively pulled out her phone. On my social media page, the embarrassing “kitchen disaster” video was gone. In its place was a new, pinned video with a simple black-and-white thumbnail. 【Moving On. A Statement on My Divorce.】 The caption underneath was even more cutting: “Your talent belongs to someone else. My future belongs to me.” The comment section was a war zone. Some accused me of riding her coattails for fame, others sympathized with my situation, and many tagged her directly, asking if she had cheated. The more Eva read, the tighter her frown became, and a sense of dread washed over her. “Eva, don’t worry,” Ross whispered, his voice laced with the perfect amount of concern. “Leo is probably just being impulsive… He probably saw how well we work together and got jealous. This is just his way of getting your attention…” On any other day, Eva might have found his words comforting. But now, her mind was a chaotic mess. She turned and walked away from the press conference without another word. Ross, stunned for a second, hurried after her. Eva dialed my number again and again, only to be met with the cold tone of a busy signal. She sped home. The house was eerily quiet. Most of my and Toby’s belongings were gone, making the living room feel vast and empty. On the coffee table sat a crisp, new set of divorce papers. A flame of anger ignited in her chest. Her first thought was the bistro—the only thing she knew I still cared about. She stormed into The Hearthstone Bistro to find me at the stove, my back to her, calmly sautéing vegetables. Ross immediately stepped forward, putting on his best puppy-dog face. “Leo, please don’t misunderstand Eva. It’s all my fault. I’m the one who begged her to help… We’re just colleagues, really. She’s always telling me how wonderful you are, how much you’ve sacrificed for your family…” Wonderful? I almost laughed out loud. Eva seized on his words as if they were proof. “Did you hear that? Ross is defending you. He’s not like you, throwing tantrums, giving the silent treatment, and threatening divorce!” I turned off the stove, plated the food, and finally turned to face them. My eyes were cold, devoid of any warmth. “Did you read the papers? Sign them. Toby and I will be moved out in a few days.” Seeing my unyielding resolve, a flash of panic crossed Ross’s eyes. He stepped closer, his voice cracking with manufactured pain. “Leo, how could you? Can’t we talk about this? Why would you use divorce, use your own child, to blackmail Eva? Toby is so young! What’s he going to do?” Eva’s eyes lit up with understanding. She composed herself, looking down at me with a condescending air. “Don’t think you can control me with Toby and this divorce stunt, Leo. Take down the announcement right now, and we can talk.” I finally met their gaze, and the raw disgust and ice in my eyes made Eva flinch.

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I got drunk at a company dinner and called my boss “Hubby.” My coworkers laughed. “She’s so desperate to date the boss she’s losing it.” My old boss, Luke, glared at me coldly. “Can’t control your mouth? Then why drink?” In the brief silence, the notoriously difficult client sitting across from us scoffed. “She was talking to me.” “Why are you getting so excited?” Chapter 1 I chased Luke Anderson from college all the way to his company, becoming his assistant. Everyone knew I liked him. Once, while delivering files, I heard people gossiping inside his office. “Ava is such a rich girl. She lowered herself to be your assistant. Can you really bear to see that?” Luke clicked his tongue. “She wanted to come. What could I do?” The others laughed. “True. She always loved sticking to you.” “It’s been years and she hasn’t changed.” “But Luke, are you really not going to date Ava?” “She’s dreaming of being with you.” “Last time her family set her up on a blind date, you called us out to drink late at night. I thought you cared about her.” After that sentence, Luke suddenly sounded angry, his voice turning cold. “Just a clingy nuisance. Why would I care?” Outside the door, my hand, poised to knock, slowly dropped. I grabbed the handle and pushed the door open. The people inside froze for a second because of my intrusion. But only for a second. Soon, someone smiled like nothing happened. “Assistant Ava, bringing breakfast for Luke again?” My daily, rain-or-shine breakfast delivery. Luke didn’t even look up, as if he already knew what I was doing. He just casually nodded towards the desk. “Put it there.” But I shook my head. I placed the files in my hand and a resignation letter on the table. “Not breakfast.” “It’s my resignation letter.” “Mr. Anderson, please review it.” Chapter 2 Everyone was stunned. They swarmed forward, and after reading the words on the letter clearly, they asked in disbelief: “Wait, Ava, are you serious?” Luke finally frowned and looked up. He looked at me. “What’s this about?” I pushed the resignation letter toward him. “I’m resigning.” “I sent the digital copy to your email too. Remember to check.” Luke glanced at the letter on the table and asked impatiently: “Just because I made you work overtime yesterday?” I shook my head: “No.” “I just don’t want to do this anymore.” Luke’s face finally darkened bit by bit. As I turned to leave, he called my name. “Ava.” “If you leave now, there’s no chance of coming back to my side.” It sounded like a threat, and a warning. I didn’t look back. “Music to my ears.” The atmosphere in the room instantly dropped to freezing point. As I pushed the door open to leave, I heard tentative voices behind me. “Luke, she’s just throwing a tantrum, don’t take it to heart…” “Yeah, you know how much she likes you.” “Maybe she’ll regret it this afternoon and beg to come back…” Luke stared at the closed door and sneered. “Who cares about her.” Chapter 3 I threw away all the useless stuff from the company. In the end, nothing was left. Looking at the empty desk, I felt like laughing. My mind replayed the anonymous video I received last night while working overtime. In the dimly lit karaoke bar, Luke had his arm around a stunning woman, listening indifferently to the chatter around him. “Is Ava really obediently doing grunt work at the office right now?” “Of course. Luke has his ways. That rich girl hasn’t joined our parties in ages.” Indeed. I chased Luke for so many years. A wealthy heiress, acting like his servant. As long as he asked, I willingly worked overtime and socialized for him, ruining my health. In the end, all I got was a joke from his bros. “Looking at it this way, Ava really is like the most obedient dog around Luke.” And he stood by, swirling his drink, not denying it. He even chuckled. “What are you saying?” “She’s the only one around me who acts like a dog. Where’s the competition?” The room erupted in laughter. In that moment, it felt like a bucket of ice water was poured over me. It was cold. But I also felt instantly awake. Thinking about it, I silently took out my phone and found the contact of the blind date my family introduced a while ago. I heard he was a top-tier guy. I was just so focused on Luke before that I kept delaying the meeting, wanting to ruin the setup. Now… Although it seemed a bit unethical. But everyone knows the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else—or at least start something new. I tapped the screen. [Want to meet tomorrow?] To my surprise, he replied almost instantly. [Okay.] Chapter 4 The blind date was a gentleman. He offered to let me pick the time, and he’d arrange the place. But previously, when my parents mentioned blind dates, I tuned out completely. So now I knew nothing about this guy. Arriving early at the venue, I hesitated at the door. What if I didn’t recognize him? That would be awkward. While pacing, I accidentally bumped into someone. I looked up. I saw a perfectly tailored suit. And above that, a face so exquisitely handsome it was unfair to humanity. And the owner of this face was looking at me gently. “Why aren’t you going in?” His thin lips, which looked very kissable, moved as he spoke… I subconsciously swallowed. Then I realized my loss of composure. Because I knew this man. Ethan Sterling. A famous tycoon in the industry. I’d seen him countless times on the list of target partners for Luke’s company. But rumor had it he was ruthless, cold, and extremely unapproachable. Not a single collaboration attempt had succeeded. I backed away repeatedly to let him pass. “Sorry, sorry, I’m waiting for someone, got a bit distracted. So sorry, please go ahead…” But the man in front of me chuckled lightly. “Miss Sullivan.” I looked up in surprise. How did he know my last name? His eyes crinkled with a smile. “Is there a possibility that the person you’re waiting for is me?” Chapter 5 I was shook. My family just said they introduced a really great guy. But I never dared to dream it would be someone on Ethan Sterling’s level. Until I was sitting face-to-face with Ethan in the private room he arranged. I kept a smile on my face. Under the table, my hand was frantically texting my mom. [The guy you set me up with is Ethan Sterling?] [Since when is our family powerful enough to marry into his?] [Did you guys secretly become billionaires without telling me?] My mom replied instantly with a question mark. [?] [What are you talking about, honey? Daydreaming?] [It’s a distant nephew of Ethan Sterling.] [Didn’t your aunt tell you clearly?] I glanced at the man opposite me, who was watching me with a smile. Could there be a second face this handsome in the world? Our eyes met. I couldn’t pretend to be busy anymore. I could only stammer. “Um…” “You are… Mr. Ethan Sterling, right?” He nodded, then gave an apologetic smile. “Yes.” “My bad, I haven’t introduced myself yet.” “Hello, Miss Sullivan. I’m Ethan Sterling, your blind date. It’s an honor to meet you.” A concise introduction. It just completely contradicted the info my mom gave me. I was confused. “But, the date my family arranged… wasn’t…” Ethan raised an eyebrow. He took a sip of tea from the cup on the table. “That kid isn’t good enough for you.” “So I came.” He looked up at me. “What’s wrong?” “Does Miss Sullivan prefer him?” I froze. The way he spoke… Why did it seem like he knew me well? My heart drummed in my chest. Ethan remained composed, his calm, deep eyes staring unblinkingly at me, clearly expecting an answer. I had to brace myself and speak. “Of course not… I don’t even know him.” He chuckled. “Then it doesn’t matter if I take his place, right?” I gulped. “No…” Of course it didn’t matter to me. Either way, he was the one getting the short end of the stick, right? But Ethan seemed happy with my answer. He produced a thick book from somewhere, stood up, leaned over, and placed it in front of me. “That’s good.” “This is my resume. It contains my basic info, hobbies, career, salary, and personal assets. Please take a look, Miss Sullivan.” “To be honest, Miss Sullivan, I came to this blind date with the intention of marriage.” “My social circle has no other women. I can guarantee absolute loyalty to the marriage. After marriage, I will fulfill all pre-marital promises and transfer all personal assets to you unconditionally.” “I won’t put any pressure on my partner. Short of divorce, she will enjoy absolute freedom.” “If Miss Sullivan is satisfied with my conditions, I hope my wish…” He paused after the long speech. Those beautiful eyes started sending electricity my way again. “Can be considered.” Ethan’s voice was already warm and magnetic, and that handsome face was staring right at me. I was getting dizzy. Floating. Was this a hallucination because Luke drove me crazy? I pinched my thigh hard under the table. Ouch. It hurt! Not a dream. Maybe my expression was getting too blank. It wasn’t until Ethan’s eyes filled with laughter that I realized I had lost my composure again. I quickly grabbed my cup for a tactical sip of water. Then I pretended to be calm. “Mr. Sterling.” “Do you mean… you want to marry me?” He looked at me. Nodded very seriously. “Yes.” “Miss Sullivan, I hope to have the honor of becoming your husband.”

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