Category: English

My father liked silence. He said noise was a sign of the lower classes, so he installed a decibel meter in our house. Speaking above 40 decibels was a one-dollar fine. Laughing over 60 decibels cost five. Crying was a capital offense: ten dollars a second. When I was four, I broke my arm. I didn’t make a sound. I bit through two of my own teeth and saved my father a few hundred dollars in “noise fees.” My father praised me for being sensible. He called me a “cost-effective” child. I treasured that compliment, carefully maintaining the dead silence of our home. Until that stormy night, when a burglar broke in. The man had a knife. He crept toward my sleeping mother. I was hiding in the closet, watching through a crack in the door. I saw everything. I wanted to scream, to shout, to wake my father. But then I glanced at the decibel meter on the wall, and my hand went to my empty pocket. I didn’t have enough allowance. A single scream would cost hundreds. I couldn’t afford it. … The walls of our house were white. The numbers on the decibel meter were red—the brightest thing in the house. I sat at the dining table, staring at the number: 28. Safe. My father sat at the head of the table, holding a newspaper. The sound of him turning a page was whisper-soft. My mother was in the kitchen, the sound of her knife on the cutting board as delicate as embroidery. I didn’t dare breathe too deeply. Taking too loud a breath also came with a fee. My father had explained it once. The air outside was free, but the air inside our house was contained by the walls he had paid for. Using a resource required payment. A bowl of plain noodles sat in front of me. No meat. Meat cost extra, and my account was in the red. Last week, I had accidentally broken a glass. The glass was fifty cents, the cleanup fee was a dollar, the “startle fee” was two dollars, and the fine for the decibel meter spiking to 80 was twenty dollars. My allowance was now deep in the negative. This week, it was only plain noodles for me. “Arthur, the child is still growing,” my mother said, carrying a dish out from the kitchen. Her voice was a low murmur. The meter twitched: 35. Still in the safe zone. My father lowered his newspaper and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Grace, rules are rules.” “She broke a glass and made a noise. She has to face the consequences. It’s called accountability.” My mother bit her lip, not daring to say more. She placed a dish of stir-fried pork in the center of the table. The aroma drifted over, and I swallowed hard. My stomach betrayed me with a loud gurgle. Grrrrmble— It was a little too loud. I looked up at the wall in terror. 41. I was done for. My father’s chopsticks froze mid-air. He pulled out his phone and opened the black accounting app. “Stomach noise. 1 decibel over the limit.” “One-dollar fine.” “It’s on your tab. You now owe me twenty-four dollars and fifty cents.” I lowered my head, tears welling in my eyes. Don’t cry. Crying costs money. Ten dollars a second. I couldn’t afford to cry. I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood, forcing the tears back. “Eat,” my father said, picking up a piece of pork and putting it in his mouth. “Remember, there’s no such thing as a free lunch. And there’s no such thing as free noise.” The doorbell suddenly rang, a series of sharp, urgent presses. The decibel meter instantly shot to 70. My father’s brow furrowed, his face darkening. “Who could be so ill-mannered?” My mother rushed to open the door. The moment it opened, my aunt Lynn burst in. She was carrying a large cake box and a giant LEGO set. “Anna! Happy birthday!” My aunt’s voice was loud and full of life. The decibel meter danced wildly. 75, 80, 85… My father’s face was as black as soot. “That’s enough! Five-dollar entry fee, thirty-dollar noise fee.” “Card or cash?” My aunt stood there, stunned. She looked from the decibel meter on the wall to me, huddled in my chair. “Arthur, are you insane?” “It’s Anna’s fifth birthday! And you’re charging me a noise fee?” My father stood up, blocking her path. “This is my house. In my territory, you follow my rules. And this cake and toy… did you get my approval?” “There is no spare room in this house for such garbage.” My aunt’s hands were trembling with rage. She slammed the cake down on the table. BANG! The meter redlined. “I’m leaving it right here! Anna, come on, Auntie will cut you a slice!” She took my hand. Her hand was so warm. But I didn’t dare move. I looked at my father. “Anna, it’s your choice,” he said. “Eat the cake, and this week’s debt doubles. Don’t eat it, and I’ll deduct one dollar from your debt.” I pulled my hand back. If my debt doubled, I would owe almost fifty dollars. I wouldn’t even get noodles next week. I’d be drinking plain water. “I… I don’t want any,” I whispered. My voice was barely audible. My aunt stared at me in disbelief. “Anna? What are you afraid of?” “Auntie is here. He won’t dare do anything to you!” I shook my head. She didn’t understand. After she left, my father would add everything to my tab. With interest. I couldn’t afford it. “Did you hear her?” My father sat back down, a cold smirk on his lips. “The child is more sensible than you are. She understands cost-effectiveness.” My aunt took a deep breath and knelt, looking me in the eye. “Anna, tell me the truth.” “Do you want to eat the cake?” “Forget the money. Forget your father. Just tell me, do you want it?” I looked at the cake. It had a beautiful little rabbit on it. The frosting had to be so sweet. I wanted it. I dreamed of things like this. But… I glanced at the number on the wall. “No,” I lied. My aunt’s eyes turned red. She shot to her feet, pointing a finger at my father’s nose. “Arthur, this is abuse! What do you think your child is?” My father slowly wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I am teaching her how to survive. Your kind of spoiling is what will ruin her.” “Now, please leave. You have exceeded the noise limit for far too long. I will send you the bill.” My aunt was shaking with fury. She looked like she was about to smash something, but then she saw the terror in my eyes, and she restrained herself. “Fine, Arthur. Just fine. You’ll get what’s coming to you.” Aunt Lynn left. The moment the door closed, the house returned to its dead silence. 28 decibels. My father nodded in satisfaction. The noodles were cold and congealed. They were disgusting, but I shoveled them into my mouth, not daring to make a sound. I had earned this meal by refusing the cake. It was the cheapest resource for survival in this house. That night, I lay in my small bed, clutching a coin in my hand. My aunt had secretly slipped it into my pocket before she left. “Anna,” she had whispered, “take this. If there’s ever an emergency, use it to buy yourself a chance.” I didn’t know what “buying a chance” meant. But I knew this one-dollar coin was the only money I truly owned. It was my last defense in a world where everything had a price. I woke up in the middle of the night, burning with fever. My throat felt like I had swallowed hot coals, and my head was heavy as lead. I groggily touched my forehead. It was scalding. I was sick. My first thought wasn’t pain, but fear. Being sick meant spending money. Doctor’s fees, medicine, tests. My father said that illness was a failure of self-management. It was negligence. All costs were to be borne by the patient. I curled up under the covers, shivering. I wanted water. But the kitchen was past my father’s bedroom. Walking would make noise. Opening the door would make noise. Pouring water would make noise. If I woke him, there would be a massive fine. I endured it. My throat was parched. I opened my mouth, trying to breathe in some cool air, but even the air felt hot. “Mommy…” I mouthed the word silently, tears running into my ears. I didn’t dare make a sound. If no one found out, I wasn’t really sick. If I didn’t take medicine, it wouldn’t cost anything. With these thoughts, I drifted back into a feverish sleep. Nightmares came one after another. I dreamed the decibel meter was a monster, its mouth wide open to devour me. I dreamed that bills fell like snowflakes, burying me alive. When I woke again, it was morning. My father was shaking me. “What time is it? Get up.” His voice was stern. I tried to sit up, but I had no strength. The world went black, and I fell back onto the pillow with a soft thud. The bedframe creaked. I glanced at the meter. I was still under the limit. My father frowned and touched my forehead. He quickly pulled his hand back. “You’re burning up.” He looked at his watch. “103.1.” “We need to go to the hospital.” He took out his phone and opened the calculator. “Round trip taxi fare, sixty dollars.” “Registration fee, fifty dollars.” “Blood test, eighty dollars.” “Medicine, probably two hundred.” “Lost wages, I’ll have to take a half-day off, that’s five hundred.” “Total, eight hundred and ninety dollars.” He shoved the phone screen in my face. “Your account is in the negative. How do you propose to handle this?” I was delirious with fever, the numbers a blurry mess. “Daddy… I feel sick…” I said weakly. “Feeling sick is not an excuse to default on your debt,” he said coldly. “Sign this IOU. Interest will be triple the bank rate. You can pay me back, with interest, when you grow up.” He took a paper from his briefcase. It was covered in fine print, clearly prepared in advance. “Sign.” He pushed the pen into my hand. My hand was shaking so badly I couldn’t hold it. It fell to the floor with a clatter. He picked it up and forced it back into my hand. My mother rushed in. She had heard the commotion. When she saw my flushed face, she screamed. “Anna!” The decibel meter flashed red. My father glared at her. “What are you shouting for? Fifty-dollar fine.” She ignored him and threw her arms around me. Her tears were cool on my hot skin. “Arthur, have you lost your mind?” “The child is burning up, and you’re making her sign an IOU? Take her to the hospital!” It was the first time I had ever heard my mother speak so loudly. My father sneered. “Are you paying for it?” “I manage your salary. Every penny of your money is budgeted.” “This is an unbudgeted expense. Someone has to cover it.” “Either she signs, or you do.” “Sign it, and I’ll start the car.” My mother held me, her body trembling. She looked at me, limp and feverish in her arms, then at my father’s cold face. “I’ll sign.” In the car, I leaned against my mother. The air conditioning was blasting. My father didn’t speak. He was listening to a financial news station. When a stock went up, the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. When one went down, his brow furrowed. His daughter, delirious in the back seat, was not his concern. As long as I didn’t die, I was a recoverable asset. At the hospital, when the nurse gave me the injection, I didn’t cry. “You’re a brave little girl,” she said. “Not even a peep.” She didn’t know I didn’t dare make a peep. If I cried, it would cost another ten dollars. That was several days’ worth of my mother’s grocery money. I watched the fluid in the IV tube. Drip. Drip. That was money. Flowing into my veins. I felt myself becoming more and more expensive. And less and less worthy of being alive. I was a liability. My father was right. If I hadn’t gotten sick, that eight hundred and ninety dollars could have bought so many shares, earned so much interest. It was all my fault. We got home late that night. My fever had gone down a little, but I was still dizzy. My father posted the bill on the fridge, in the most prominent spot. “Grace, remember to pay this back. I’ll deduct it from next month’s household budget.” I lay on the sofa, staring at the decibel meter. 25. The house was as quiet as a tomb, the only sound the tap-tap-tapping of my father’s keyboard. He was updating his ledger. Every expense was meticulously recorded, including the five-dollar parking fee from today. That, too, went on my tab. I felt my pocket. The coin was still there. Aunt Lynn’s coin. It wasn’t on my father’s ledger. It was my only secret. My only hope. I wondered, if one day I could save up many, many coins, could I buy my freedom from my father? Could I buy the right to cry out loud, to laugh out loud? But for now, I only had one dollar. Not even enough to buy a single scream. The rain was coming down hard, thunder rattling the windows. The numbers on the decibel meter kept jumping. 40, 50, 60… But this was natural noise. My father couldn’t fine God. He could only put in his earplugs and shut his bedroom door. My mother was already asleep. She was exhausted from taking care of me and being berated by my father. I couldn’t sleep. My arm still ached where the IV had been. I wanted water, but I didn’t dare move. The thunder outside drowned out everything—including the sound of a window being pried open. Click. It was a tiny sound. You would have missed it if you weren’t listening. But I heard it. In this house, I was more sensitive to sound than a cat. I opened my eyes. A dark figure was climbing in through the window. A man in a black raincoat, holding a knife. The blade gleamed a ghastly white in the flashes of lightning. My heart seized. A burglar! There was a burglar in the house! I wanted to scream. The word “Help!” was on the tip of my tongue. But then I saw the decibel meter. The living room was dark, but the red number glowed with perfect clarity: 35. If I screamed, it would definitely go over 100. That was a capital offense. A huge fine… My mind raced, calculating. A single scream was ten dollars, minimum. Continued screaming would be charged by the second. If I woke my father, there would be an additional fee for emotional distress. My account was negative. My mother’s budget for next month was already gone. We couldn’t afford it. The burglar crept toward the bedroom. My parents’ room. Was he going to kill them? Or just steal things? If my father’s hidden cash was stolen, he would go insane. He would take his fury out on me and my mother. No. I couldn’t let him go in there. I had to do something. But I couldn’t make a sound. Noise cost money. I was sweating, my body trembling with panic. My hand found the coin in my pocket. The cool, hard metal. My entire fortune. One dollar. What could it buy? Not a piece of candy. Not a sheet of paper. But. It could make a small sound. A sound that wouldn’t go over the limit. The burglar’s hand was on the bedroom doorknob. His knife was raised. There was no time. I took a deep breath, and with a flick of my wrist, I sent the coin rolling across the floor. Ting— The coin spun across the wood, hitting the leg of a table with a clear, crisp sound. It wasn’t loud enough to be jarring over the thunder. The decibel meter jumped to 38. No violation. No fine. The burglar froze. He whipped his head around, his eyes locking on the closet in the corner of the living room. I was hiding in that closet. Through the crack in the door, our eyes met. His eyes were vicious. He abandoned the bedroom and turned toward me. One step. Two steps. His leather shoes made dull thuds on the floor. I clamped my hand over my mouth, my nails digging into my skin. Don’t scream. Whatever you do, don’t scream. He reached the closet. He yanked the door open. I was exposed, a small body curled into a tight ball. The burglar sneered. He hadn’t expected to find a child awake. He raised the knife and lunged. I closed my eyes. I didn’t move. Dodging would mean bumping into the closet walls. That would make noise. That would be a fine. Shhhk. The knife slid into my stomach. A cold shock, then a searing, fiery pain. A hundred times worse than my broken arm. I wanted to scream. A primal urge to release the agony. But I opened my eyes and saw the decibel meter: 32. Good. I hadn’t made a sound. I had held it in. Blood poured out, staining my pajamas, pooling on the floor. The burglar paused. He had probably never seen a child take a knife to the gut without a sound. He must have thought I was mute, or paralyzed with fear. He pulled the knife out. Another wave of excruciating pain. My body convulsed. My teeth bit through my lip, and the taste of blood filled my mouth. But still, I made no sound. The burglar grunted. He wiped the blood from his knife on my pajamas, then turned to ransack the cabinet behind me. That was where my father hid his emergency cash. I watched as he pulled out a small iron box. It was my father’s prized possession, filled with cash and gold bars. The burglar dumped the contents into his bag, zipped it up, and left. He climbed back out the window and vanished into the rainy night. The house was quiet again. Only the sound of the thunder, and the sound of my blood dripping onto the floor.

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Ten days stranded on a deserted island after a company retreat gone wrong. Finally, a ship appeared on the horizon. Everyone was ecstatic, screaming and waving. But my husband, Mark, the CEO, stopped us. He handed the only flare gun to the intern, Chloe, with a look of pure adoration. “Let Chloe be the hero who saves the team,” he said. Chloe fumbled with the gun, whining about how heavy it was, wasting precious time. Seeing the ship about to turn away, I snatched the flare gun from her hands and pulled the trigger. We were saved. Back in the city, Mark promoted me to General Manager, skipping several levels. But at my first performance review, he handed me over to our biggest rival company as a “gift”—a plaything. I cried, begging him for an explanation. His eyes were full of hate. “If you hadn’t stolen Chloe’s moment, she wouldn’t be depressed right now!” “Since you love the spotlight so much, I’ll make sure you get plenty of attention!” I was used, abused, and eventually sold into trafficking rings across the globe. I died alone, humiliated, in a foreign land. When I opened my eyes, I was back on the island. Back to the moment Chloe held the flare gun. This time, I smiled as I watched her fire the only flare we had—straight into a tree. Chapter 1 When Mark insisted on shoving the flare gun into Chloe’s hands, everyone looked annoyed. Everyone except Chloe, who looked like she’d just been crowned Prom Queen. “Markie, thank you for letting me be the hero,” she cooed. She lifted the gun with trembling, delicate hands, aiming it at the sky, then lowered it again with a whimper. “Markie, I don’t know how to pull the trigger. Teach me?” The ship we had waited ten days for was getting smaller. Panic set in among the team. “Can she do it or not? If not, let me!” “Stop wasting time! We’re all going to die here!” Instead of hurrying, Chloe turned her big, tear-filled doe eyes to Mark. “Markie, they’re being mean to me…” “Am I too stupid? I’m sorry, I can’t be the hero…” Mark’s face darkened instantly. He glared at the employees like a wolf protecting its cub. “Say one more word and you’re fired the second we get back!” Everyone shut up. Silence fell over the beach. Mark was the boss. In this economy, losing a job was a death sentence. Most of us were fresh grads with student loans or parents with mortgages. We couldn’t afford to cross him. Mark gently wrapped his arms around Chloe, patiently explaining the mechanics of a flare gun like he was teaching a toddler. Chloe praised him with every breath, looking at him with worship in her eyes. Mark ate it up, rambling on about his “military knowledge” from video games. Only when the ship was a speck on the horizon did Mark stop talking. Chloe posed again, lifting the gun. In my last life, I couldn’t stand it. I grabbed the gun and saved us. I saved everyone’s life, and Mark hated me for stealing Chloe’s thunder. He destroyed me for it. This time, I stood at the back of the crowd, arms crossed, watching the show. Just as the ship was about to vanish, Chloe finally squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the trigger. Bang. The red flare shot out—and slammed directly into the trunk of a palm tree ten feet away. Chapter 2 Our only chance of rescue fizzled out in the branches. With death staring us in the face, nobody cared about their jobs anymore. “Chloe, are you brain-dead? There’s one tree in that direction! A blind person could have missed it!” “You want to play the clumsy cute girl, fine, but don’t gamble with our lives!” Chloe’s eyes welled up. She looked at Mark helplessly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” “It’s my hand… ever since I pulled my brother out from under that car three years ago, I damaged the tendons…” “It spasms uncontrollably. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to feel guilty, but I can’t hide it anymore…” Mark was moved to tears. He hugged her tight. “Chloe, it’s not your fault. It’s mine…” “Don’t worry, I will get you out of here!” An impatient girl from accounting rolled her eyes. “The flare is gone. How exactly are we getting out?” Mark smirked, pulling a GPS locator out of his pocket like it was the Holy Grail. “Relax. Before the trip, I set up a failsafe with security. If we don’t check in for two weeks, they send a chopper.” A collective sigh of relief washed over the group. People started counting their remaining protein bars, calculating how to survive four more days. But then, Chloe’s face went pale. “I… I took the SIM card out and threw it away…” Dead silence. Even Mark looked shocked. Chloe stammered, “I just wanted the retreat to be more exciting! More authentic! I didn’t think we’d actually get stuck!” “Markie, punish me. It’s all my fault.” She looked like she was about to fall to her knees and beg for forgiveness. Mark softened immediately. He pulled her up. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I know you love adventure. You just wanted everyone to experience real survival. Your heart was in the right place.” Chloe smiled through her tears, the guilt vanishing instantly. “Then… will you come explore that cave with me? I’m not done having fun!” Mark nodded, completely enchanted. They walked hand-in-hand toward the dark cave entrance. I couldn’t help myself. I called out, “Careful! That cave is full of snakes.” Mark froze. He was terrified of snakes. Even a picture on a screen made him sweat. But Chloe didn’t notice. She tugged on his arm. “It’s just a few little snakes. Markie will protect me, right?” Mark puffed out his chest, glancing at me with disdain. “Chloe is braver than you’ll ever be. You think everyone is a coward like you? Always scared of everything.” With that, they disappeared into the cave. I nearly passed out from anger. We’d been married three years. I helped Mark build his company from nothing. Every decision he made, I analyzed the risks. At first, he respected me. He called me his partner. But as the company grew, he started seeing my caution as weakness. He gave decision-making power to Chloe, the new intern. Chloe was reckless. She made messes, and I cleaned them up. Mark took the credit, Chloe took the praise, and I took the blame. My fault for being a doormat in my last life. I touched the single vial of antivenom in my backpack. They were definitely going to get bit. And there was only enough serum for one. Let’s see if the “brave” couple is still so fearless when death comes knocking. Chapter 3 While they played explorer, I led the team in weaving nets to catch fish. Our food was almost gone. After two hours, we caught a pot full of small fish. We boiled them whole, guts and all, to maximize the calories. It tasted awful, but everyone ate like it was a Michelin meal. Suddenly, Mark burst out of the cave carrying Chloe. “Help! Snake bite!” We rushed over. Both had two bloody puncture wounds on their fingers, oozing dark blood. Mark was sweating buckets, screaming at me. “Sarah! Do something!” Now he remembers me. I put on a panicked face. “That looks like a highly venomous viper! We need to amputate the fingers immediately. It might save your lives.” Chloe wailed. “No! No! If I lose a finger, how will I wear my wedding ring?” She buried her face in Mark’s chest. Mark stomped his foot, turning his rage on me. “You knew we were coming to an island! Why didn’t you bring medicine?” “I’m not asking you to—” He choked on his words. Because Chloe wanted “adventure,” Mark picked this remote island. I tried to stop him, but he threatened divorce. Before we left, I packed first-aid kits for everyone. But Mark said I was overreacting. “Why carry this junk? It’s heavy.” Chloe chimed in, “Is Sarah trying to curse us to get hurt?” So Mark ordered everyone to dump the kits to make room for Chloe’s skincare products. Only I kept mine. Mark and Chloe’s arms were turning black. They collapsed on the sand, breathing hard. Just as they were about to pass out, I slowly pulled the antivenom from my bag. “Oh, right. I forgot I had this.” “But… there’s only one dose.” “You two decide who lives.” Death by poison was too easy for them. In this life, I wanted them alive to suffer. Mark cursed me for not bringing more, but Chloe was faster. She snatched the vial. “Markie, you’re a man. You’re strong.” “Let me have it. Or I’ll die.” Mark wasn’t backing down. “If you hadn’t insisted on exploring that cave, we wouldn’t be in this mess! Don’t drag me down with you!” He tried to grab the needle. Chloe played her trump card. “Markie… you said you’d love me forever. You said you’d do anything for me.” Mark scoffed, about to argue, when Chloe clutched her stomach. “Baby… Mommy is sorry. I couldn’t find you a good daddy.” Mark froze. “Chloe… you’re pregnant? From that one time?” Chloe smiled sadly. “What does it matter? We’re both going to die anyway…” Mark didn’t hesitate. He plunged the needle into Chloe’s arm. But he stopped before it was empty, saving a third for himself. Having temporarily cheated death, Mark looked at me coldl.y “Don’t worry. When the baby is born, you can be the godmother.” “Childbirth is hard. Chloe is doing it for you. You should be grateful to her!” In the past, I would have screamed. Now, I didn’t bother. Chloe whined that she needed nutrients. She grabbed the pot of fish soup and chugged it. A second later, she gagged and vomited everything onto the sand. “Gross! It smells so fishy!” She kicked the pot over, spilling the rest into the ocean. Chapter 4 That was the food we spent hours catching. The team looked ready to murder her. But Mark stood in front of her, shielding her. Emboldened, Chloe pointed at me. “You! Go catch me some sea cucumber!” The team finally snapped. “Are you blind? Look at Sarah’s injuries!” “Sea cucumber? Why don’t you eat sand!” Night fell. The cold wind stung my wounds. On the first night, while building a shelter, Chloe “accidentally” tripped me. I fell down a rocky slope. I was covered in cuts and bruises. When I tried to use my first-aid kit, Mark took it away. “Why were you standing in her way? If Chloe gets a scar on her face, I’ll never forgive you!” He used all the antiseptic and bandages on a tiny scratch on Chloe’s cheek. Ten days later, my wounds were infected. Mark looked at my leg, almost softening, but then glanced at Chloe’s stomach. “Chloe is pregnant. She needs good food.” “You’re just hurt. Is your pain more important than my child?” I laughed coldly and refused. Mark grabbed my collar and dragged me toward the water. The salt water burned my open wounds. I screamed. The more I screamed, the more excited Mark seemed. I realized with horror—the snake venom. It made him aggressive. He grabbed my hair and dunked my head underwater. Suddenly, a sharp pain in my lower abdomen. Warmth spread between my legs. I reached down— In the moonlight, I saw blood. A shapeless mass floated in the water. My miscarriage. Mark stared at the blood, stunned. Then, insanely, he scooped up the tissue and ran to Chloe. “Chloe! Look! Nutrients! Eat this for the baby!” I vomited bile. Just then, someone shouted. “A boat! There’s a boat!” We waved torches. Without Chloe sabotage, the fishing boat docked. Mark picked up Chloe and rushed the gangway. The captain blocked them. “Only one of you can board.”

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1 It was adoption day at the orphanage. I shoved Leo, the boy I’d grown up with, into the fountain and stepped forward to present myself to the couple instead. Just like that, I became the daughter of a wealthy family, and Leo Holt remained an orphan. Eight years later, I was thrown out of the Hawthorne household for my wild and unruly behavior. Leo, on the other hand, had clawed his way up to become the formidable CEO of Holt Industries. We met again at his adoptive father’s funeral. Only this time, my role was that of a posthumous bride, a symbolic wife for the deceased. Leo’s eyes locked onto me, his gaze lingering for a long, heavy moment. Then, he did something I never expected. He knelt beside me, grabbed the back of my neck, and forced my head to the ground. His voice, as cold and distant as it was all those years ago, cut through the silence. “Stella… have you ever regretted it?” What regrets could a dying woman have? All I wanted was a gravestone to call my own. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Pay me enough, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear.” … In my dreams, I’d imagined our reunion a thousand times. But never, not once, did I picture this. The moment I stepped into the memorial hall, I saw him standing in the distance, his eyes fixed on me. Eight years. Leo had grown tall and lean, a man who carried himself with a quiet, solid confidence that clung to him like an expensive suit. Our gazes met across the crowded room for a fleeting second before I broke away, my own eyes darting elsewhere. I, who had always prided myself on my thick skin, could feel a hot blush creeping up my neck. Leo acted as if he didn’t even know me, turning his attention to the funeral director to discuss the arrangements. “Is that the woman they hired for old Mr. Holt? She’s so young.” “These days, there’s nothing a woman won’t do for money. Fifty grand to play bride to a corpse? Of course, she’d jump at the chance.” “She doesn’t even think it’s bad luck? She looks even younger than Mr. Holt himself.” Standing before the casket, I picked at my fingernails, their whispers buzzing around me like flies. Bad luck? My days among the living were already a nightmare. I didn’t have the energy to worry about the afterlife. Two weeks ago, my doctor told me I didn’t have much time left and urged me to check into a hospital. I glanced at my bank account balance and refused. A proper burial plot costs fifty thousand dollars. I’d been a stray for too long; I refused to be a wandering ghost after death. I had no choice. I had to take the odd job Mrs. Gable had found for me: becoming the symbolic bride for an old man who had never married. The number of guests who came to pay their respects told me Leo had done well for himself. After I stole his chance at adoption, I’d kept tabs on him. He’d aged out of the system on his eighteenth birthday and was thrown into the world to fend for himself. He fought hard. He had to, or he never would have met the man whose funeral this was. The late Mr. Holt, a multimillionaire, had remained a bachelor his entire life, heartbroken after the love of his life married another. He had no children of his own. Eventually, I stopped seeking news of Leo. All I knew was that Mr. Holt had adopted him as his son and heir, leaving him his entire fortune. The funeral director’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, instructing me to kneel by the coffin for the ceremony. I was just about to bow my head when Leo’s sharp voice cut in. “I’m not satisfied with this woman.” “My father loved one person his entire life. This woman is not worthy of him.” I knew he might try to sabotage this. But to wait until all the guests were assembled, until the ceremony was seconds from beginning… he was doing this purely to humiliate me. But I was out of time. I clutched at the hem of his tailored suit jacket. “You aren’t your father. How do you know he wouldn’t have liked someone like me? I’m already here. You have to pay me for today!” His eyes shot down to my hand on his clothes, and he flinched back as if burned, shoving me away. He seized my chin, his fingers digging into my skin. His lips trembled with rage. “You’re just as disgusting as you’ve always been. Is money really that important to you?” His voice was a low growl. “In all these eight years, was there ever a single moment you regretted leaving me?” The past might not matter to him, but the money mattered to me. Right now. “Pay me enough, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear.” A crack appeared in his stoic facade. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees in front of me, grabbed the back of my head, and slammed it toward the polished floor. He used all his strength. The heat that had been confined to my face now felt like it was engulfing my entire body. As my forehead hit the ground with a sickening thud, my vision swam with black spots, a high-pitched ringing screaming in my ears. The fever was back. I struggled instinctively, but he held me fast, pulling me up only to force my head down again, completing the three traditional bows. When it was over, he tossed me aside like a ragdoll. The illness washed over me in a dizzying wave, leaving me too weak to stand. The letter I had tucked inside my jacket slipped out and fell to the floor. He couldn’t see that. Not yet. But it was too late. Leo picked up the envelope. I didn’t have much of an education, so I’d simply copied the melodramatic TV shows I’d watched, scrawling “LAST WORDS” across the front in big, clumsy letters. “Stella, are you trying to tell me you have some terminal illness? Some noble reason for leaving me?” he sneered, his voice dripping with scorn. “What kind of fatal disease waits eight years before you finally get around to writing a will?” He tossed the letter, and it fluttered down, landing on my face. My eyes fixed on the words I had written, and a hysterical laugh bubbled in my chest. It was as pathetic as my entire life. Fighting through the pain, I forced myself to speak. “Yeah, that was the idea. Thought I could guilt you into feeling sorry for me. A bigger payout is always nice.” I took a shaky breath. “For old times’ sake, add another ten thousand.” Ten thousand. That should be enough to hire a professional mourning team. Someone to kneel at my vigil and cry for me. Someone to hold my portrait so I wouldn’t feel so alone in the end. Leo’s eyes widened, shocked by my brazenness. A vein throbbed in his temple. “Stella! Do you really think I could still be hung up on you after what you did?” I felt a sudden warmth on the back of my hand. A drop of blood from my nose, then another. The world tilted, and as I fell, the last thing I saw was the panic flooding Leo’s face. He hadn’t forgotten me after all. Of course he hadn’t. He never even changed his name. The first time I met him, I was eight. He was eight, too. That night, I heard him crying softly in a bathroom stall at the orphanage. As the self-proclaimed leader of the orphan kids, I felt it was my duty to comfort him. That was when I learned his parents had died in a car crash on the way to celebrate his birthday. He was the only survivor. I wiped his tears away. “They’ve turned into stars,” I told him. “They’re watching you, so don’t be scared.” “Did your mommy and daddy turn into stars too?” he asked, his small hand gripping mine, his face still streaked with tears. But my mother was a sex worker who didn’t even know who my father was. When I was five, she couldn’t afford me anymore. She pressed a lollipop into my hand and left me on the steps of the orphanage. No one loved me. I wanted so badly for one of the stars in the sky to love me, but I knew it was an empty wish. That’s why I named myself Stella. Leo didn’t fully understand, but he squeezed my hand tighter. “Then I’ll be Leo,” he whispered. “That way, you won’t be a lonely star anymore.” From that day on, he was my shadow. We were older, and the chances of anyone wanting to adopt us were slim to none. When we were fifteen, a family finally came looking for a boy. They were taken with Leo’s handsome features. But in front of the prospective parents, he took my hand. “If you adopt me, please take Stella with me. We promised we’d never be separated.” The result was predictable. Neither of us went. He spent a whole week apologizing and trying to cheer me up. When we were seventeen, the Hawthornes came to the orphanage. We stood in the courtyard, lined up like merchandise on a shelf. I swallowed nervously, my palms slick with cold sweat. Leo secretly squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “We made a promise. Whichever one of us gets picked, we won’t forget the other.” Mr. Hawthorne pointed at Leo. Just as he was about to speak, I shoved him with all my might. He stumbled backward, falling into the decorative stone fountain. His head hit the edge, and blood started to trickle from a cut on his forehead. The Hawthornes had one non-negotiable condition: the child had to be perfectly healthy, without a single scratch. In that instant, I became their only choice. As I was driven away in their sleek black car, I saw Leo staring after me, his eyes filled with a pain and confusion that stabbed at my heart. I wanted to look back, to give him one last glance, but I couldn’t. “Stella, I know you’re awake. Stop playing dead.” I slowly opened my eyes. I was in the back of his car. “Just low blood sugar,” I mumbled. “After all these jobs, you’d think I’d learn to expect that some clients don’t serve food.” His grip on my wrist tightened, his eyes blazing with a fury that seemed ready to spill over. “So this is just routine for you, isn’t it! You were a Hawthorne, for God’s sake. Have you no shame, no decency left?” I met his fiery gaze with a cool, steady one of my own. “If you pay me,” I said calmly, “I’ll even spend the night with you. I don’t care.” A bitter, humorless laugh escaped him. He yanked me closer by the chin, his hand shaking with rage. “Is that right? You’ll do anything for money?” His face was inches from mine. I closed my eyes, bracing myself. I expected a kiss. Instead, he shoved me away violently. “A woman like you… God knows how many men that mouth has been on. You make me sick.” He turned and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. I watched his retreating back, a profound sadness settling in my chest. That mouth had only ever kissed him. It was the last New Year’s Eve we spent together. Leo and I bought a small bundle of sparklers, pooling together the twenty dollars we’d managed to scrounge up. He knew how much I loved the cheesy scenes from romance movies. In the snow-covered yard, he arranged the lit sparklers in a circle around us. We sat on the frozen ground, watching our breath fog in the air as we looked up at the stars. “I turn eighteen next year,” he said softly. “Let’s leave this place together. Let’s never be apart. Okay?” He was never good with words, not like the leading men in the dramas I watched. But his simple promise brought tears to my eyes. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his. My nose started bleeding again. I fumbled frantically for the bottle of pills in my pocket, shaking a few into my palm and swallowing them dry. I rushed to the restroom, splashing cold water on my face, trying to wash away the crimson stains. “Need a tissue? Here.” I turned. A woman in a long black dress was holding one out to me. “Thanks.” She smiled, but before she could say anything, Leo’s voice called from outside. “Chloe, are you ready? I brought you something to eat.” She linked her arm through his. “Just helping a lady with a nosebleed,” she said sweetly. My eyes fell to their entwined arms, and my fingers tightened around the flimsy tissue in my hand. Leo followed her gaze to me, and his brow furrowed in annoyance. “What is wrong with you? That’s the second time in a few hours. The procession is starting soon. You’d better not cause any trouble.” Chloe studied me for a moment. “She’s the one they hired for your father? Why is she so young?” “For money,” Leo said, his voice flat. “She’d do anything.” Hearing that, the kindness in Chloe’s eyes vanished, replaced by a cool disdain. “As long as your money comes through, there won’t be any trouble from me,” I said, smoothing down my dress before walking out. The rest of the ceremony was a blur. I stood beside Leo as he held the memorial tablet, bowing three times in unison. I somehow managed to hold myself together until it was over. Just as I was about to slip away, he grabbed my wrist. “Stay for the farewell dinner.” I almost laughed. Did he really think I was that desperate for a free meal? But when I looked up and saw the raw red in his eyes, I heard myself agreeing. Just a little longer. Let me be greedy and stay with him just a little longer. At the dinner, I sat in a corner, watching Leo as he was swarmed by guests and colleagues. It was for the best. He didn’t need me anymore. I tried to leave quietly, but my limbs felt heavy, my legs weak. A strange, unnatural heat flushed my face. This wasn’t my illness. I’d been drugged. A man’s arms wrapped around me from behind, his greasy voice slithering into my ear like a snake. “I hear you’re for hire. Spend the night with me. I’ll pay you well.” Thankfully, I was used to this. I grabbed a nearby wine glass and smashed it over his head, then stumbled into the hallway, running. My vision was blurring, the walls seeming to melt around me. I shoved open the first door I could find and locked myself inside. Through the haze, I saw a figure appear in the doorway. A bitter smile touched my lips. So he found me after all. The figure swept me into a fierce embrace, holding me so tightly I felt like my bones would fuse with his. “Get off… you can’t…” “You’ll do it for anyone, so why not for me!” Leo’s mouth crashed down on mine. His kiss wasn’t the tender caress of our youth. It was the savage bite of a wild animal, intent on tearing me apart and devouring me whole. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t because of his kiss. It was the blood, thick and hot, surging up my windpipe. I shoved Leo away with all my strength, my hand striking his cheek with a sharp crack. I scrambled out of the room, hailed a cab, and gasped the name of the hospital. Blood was now pouring from my mouth and nose. I collapsed the moment I stumbled through the hospital entrance. Dr. Evans saw me and immediately scooped me into his arms, rushing me toward the emergency room. The bright white lights overhead seared my eyes. I’m dying, aren’t I? My life flashed before my eyes. The day before the Hawthornes came to the orphanage, I overheard the director on the phone with them. “There are only two older children with the right blood type.” “I understand your sister needs a long-term blood supply. I’d recommend the boy, Leo. He’s healthier.” Perhaps that was the moment I made my decision. I would go in his place. The director was already tired of us, two older kids no one wanted. He was determined to make this adoption happen. My only option was to push Leo into the fountain, to make myself the sole candidate. The look of betrayal in Leo’s eyes had cut me deeper than any knife. It’s okay, I had told myself. In the movies, the heroine always leaves with a misunderstanding, but when she returns, she and the hero clear things up and live happily ever after. Leo was smart; he would make something of himself. He’d become a CEO, just like in the stories, and then he would understand, and we would finally have our happy ending. And he did become a CEO. But I forgot one crucial detail. I wasn’t the heroine. From the day I stepped into the Hawthorne house, my life was a living hell. Clara, the true Hawthorne daughter, was critically ill. And I, her secret donor, slowly transitioned from a living blood bank to a spare parts depot. A kidney. Half my liver. To the world, I was the pampered, adopted daughter. In private, I was a permanent resident of the hospital’s surgical wing. Until there was nothing left of me to take. Then, the Hawthornes manufactured a reason and threw me out. They weren’t worried I’d expose them. They knew I wouldn’t live long enough. But I wouldn’t go down that easily. I would show them that even a trampled ant could bite back. The blockage in my throat grew worse until I coughed up a great gush of blood. “Dr. Evans,” I choked out, “I’m out of time… My funeral… someone will handle it… I’ve already paid…”

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Leila Elkin, FNB’s new director, had ousted news queen Diana Croft, causing a city-wide scandal. Now she stood in my consignment shop, here to sell jewelry. “My darling had these custom-made,” she said, waving a hand. “He spoils me with so many gifts.” A diamond choker with a ruby the size of my thumb—worth at least ten million—lay beside other treasures. I smiled professionally. “Your husband must love you deeply.” But as I checked the certificates, the signature made me freeze. Leila sipped her tea, eyes glinting. “Oh, I’m not his wife. We’re just… first loves.” She leaned in, smiling. “He said he missed fifteen years of my life, so he bought fifteen gifts to make up for it. Romantic, isn’t it?” It was. But that same elegant signature had graced my report cards for years. It was my father’s, a man I’d believed for thirty years was too unromantic to ever give my mother a single surprise. 1 Noticing my stunned silence, Leila’s eyes narrowed with a hint of amusement. “Goes to show, you really do have to raise a girl with money. Otherwise, even when you’re surrounded by luxury all day, seeing the real thing still leaves you speechless.” I ignored the barb in her voice and composed myself, offering a cool smile. “Ms. Elkin, I can offer eight million for the ruby. You’ve just taken over as director at FNB; why the sudden need to sell your collection?” “Oh, I’m selling these to buy my love a birthday present,” she explained, a dreamy look in her eyes. “He gave me this massive rock the other day. Do you have any watches in a similar price range?” A desperate, sliver of hope flickered within me. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. The same name, the same handwriting… it could happen. “Could I perhaps see a photo of him?” I asked, my voice steady. “It would help me recommend a suitable style.” The moment she showed me the screen, that hope died. There was my father, his arm wrapped tightly around Leila, a genuine, unbridled joy in his eyes that I had never seen before. At home, his face was a constant mask of stern solemnity. Here, he was alive. “Ms. Lin, you’ve been staring at my man for quite a while,” Leila said, snatching the phone back. Her tone was sharp with displeasure, and the massive diamond on her finger flashed, searing my eyes. My parents had been married for thirty years. Our family of three was crammed into a tiny one-bedroom apartment in the Barrens, the grimiest part of Cresthaven. The living room doubled as my bedroom, a space so small that the three of us couldn’t walk around at the same time without bumping into each other. And yet this was the man who could afford to shower Leila Elkin with custom haute couture jewelry. Meanwhile, the only thing on my mother’s hand was a thin, misshapen silver band. “I was just struck by his devotion,” I said, my voice carefully neutral. “To have stayed so faithful to you for all these years.” Leila let out a scornful laugh. “Oh, I know he got married after I left. I don’t care. Love and obligation are two very different things.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Besides, back when I was leaving the country, I teased him. I said he had no masculine charm, just the smell of money. Do you know what the silly fool did?” I didn’t need to guess. Because of Leila’s casual joke, he had pretended to be poor for thirty years, never once using his wealth to ease our family’s burden. And because of one sweet murmur from her, he had instantly shed that disguise, ready to give her the world. Her sprawling penthouse apartment, her powerful job at the network—it was all from him. After settling on a watch for her, I stumbled home in a daze. I pushed open the door to our cramped apartment. My mother, her back slightly stooped, was navigating the tiny space, bumping into furniture. Her arms and waist were dappled with the faded purple of old bruises. We were poor. My father’s “salary” of two thousand a month was never enough. So, my mother worked as a cleaner for the wealthy. She was a beautiful woman, and she often came home in tears, having spent her day fending off the wandering hands of the men she worked for. She would cry, and then she would go back the next day. My father never defended her. He would just say, “Life isn’t a fairy tale, is it?” So she learned to keep her head down, to make herself small, to become the hunched figure she was today. Leila Elkin, on the other hand, always stood ramrod straight. Because my father was the ground beneath her feet. In my line of work, I dealt with the city’s elite. I had connections. It didn’t take much digging to uncover the truth. My father wasn’t just rich. He was powerful. He was the secret owner of FNB. I remembered when I was five and fell deathly ill. I watched my mother swallow every last shred of her dignity, getting on her knees to beg her employers for an advance on her wages. The money wasn’t enough. The surgery wasn’t entirely successful. To this day, my heart still seizes in my chest if I walk too fast. Seeing me, my mother’s tired face broke into a smile. “Sophie, I found a new client! She’s paying so well. We’ll be able to afford a new place for you soon!” She had no idea. My father had already bought someone else a new place—a penthouse in the heart of downtown. I looked at her, a lump forming in my throat. “Mom,” I said, my voice thick. “I have something very important to tell you.” 2 My mother sat on the sofa—my bed—wearing a faded, mended shirt. It was the only gift my father had ever given her. “Sophie, what is it? Should I call your father?” she asked, her brow furrowed with concern. “He just lost his job, you know. He’s probably out pounding the pavement at the recruitment agencies.” He’d used that excuse to stay away from home for the past three days. Meanwhile, Leila had just posted an update to her social media. He said I needed to network, so he bought me a golf course. My mother’s hands were swollen and chapped from years of hard labor. The hands my father was holding in the photo were slender, pale, and perfectly manicured. “Mom,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Dad is having an affair.” I couldn’t meet her eyes. I just stared at the floor. “Sophie, how can you say that about your father?” she protested, her voice rising. “He’s just been away for a few days! He’s doing it for us, for our family!” I said nothing. I just unlocked my phone and showed her the photos I’d taken today: the purchase authorizations for all those custom pieces. The signature, the name, the ID number. It was all him. Then, I showed her more. “Mom, Dad has been lying to us for thirty years. He’s rich. He doesn’t need to work. He has more money than we could ever imagine.” I watched as her shoulders began to tremble. Tears spilled from her eyes, silent and steady, soaking the front of her worn shirt. Every month, my father gave her just enough to cover the barest of expenses. My school tuition was paid for with her humiliation, one degrading job at a time. She wasn’t just a cleaner for the rich; she’d swept streets and scrubbed public toilets. She never took a day off. She gave everything for our family. But my father never gave her a single surprise. He even forgot their anniversary every year. “In our situation, what’s there to celebrate?” he’d always say. And my mother, though her eyes held a flicker of hope, eventually learned to say nothing. But he remembered every one of Leila’s preferences. Every gift he gave her was steeped in meaning. “Mom,” I said, my voice cold and hard. I had to be cruel to be kind. “Leila was his first love. The only reason he pretended to be poor was because of a joke she made years ago.” I watched her face crumble as the screen glowed with undeniable proof. “On your birthday, the fifteenth of this month, not only did he not get you a gift, he didn’t even come home.” I took a shaky breath. “That was the day he was at a high-end auction, spending a fortune on a diamond for Leila.” My voice was getting tighter, strangled. “Can’t I just… pretend I don’t know?” she whispered, her voice choked with tears, interrupting me. A surge of hot anger rushed through me. Even now, she wanted to protect him! But then I heard her next words. “He’s so rich… you’re his daughter. He’ll look out for you. It’s okay if he wants to divorce me, Sophie, as long as he takes care of you.” I hadn’t planned on crying. But hearing that, I broke down completely. The crushing weight of life had tamed my mother into a creature of infinite patience and forgiveness. Meanwhile, Leila, coddled and adored by my father, got everything she ever wanted. Why? I wiped the tears from my mother’s face. “No. If we divorce him, I’ll make sure he leaves with nothing.” 3 My mother was still hesitant. “He’s so powerful, Sophie. Can we really win against him?” Poverty had made me a target for bullies when I was a child. My father never stood up for me, which taught me to fight my own battles and never back down. He owed us. And I would make him pay back every single debt. “Trust me, Mom,” I said, my voice firm. “I’ve got this.” I tracked down the contact information for Diana Croft, the star anchor Leila had pushed out, and sent her a text. I have a story that can get you your job back. Her reply was instant. I’m listening. But purchase receipts weren’t enough to nail him for adultery. All of Leila’s social media photos were carefully framed to hide his face. So, I used the expensive watch as an excuse and arranged to deliver it to her at FNB studios myself. When I arrived at her office, Leila was thrilled with the timepiece, immediately snapping photos of it. Then she took out her phone and sent a voice message. “This is your birthday gift from me, darling. Will you come pick me up after work today?” The reply came back as a voice note, too. Leila played it without a hint of shame. “Leila, my love, just having you by my side is the greatest gift. You don’t need to buy me things like this.” At that exact moment, my mother sent me a screenshot of her own text conversation. Will you be home for your birthday? she had asked my father. His reply: The best gift you could give me is to stop complaining and stop being so needy all the time. Seeing me staring at my phone, Leila leaned back in her chair, a smirk on her face. “Envious of my love story, little girl? It’s a shame, really. But what can you do? Blame your parents for not giving you a better start in life.” The irony was so thick I could choke on it. My father hadn’t given me a good start. But he’d certainly given her one. Walking through the FNB building earlier, I’d overheard employees whispering about her incompetence. The ratings had plummeted to less than half of what they were under Diana Croft. “I’m launching a new segment,” Leila announced, examining the watch. “Interviews with poor people like you. Should be fascinating, don’t you think?” She picked up an alcohol wipe and began meticulously cleaning the watch I had just handed her, even though I’d worn gloves. Her eyes were filled with disdain, as if my very presence was contaminating her space. Once she signed the confirmation receipt, I left. I sat in a coffee shop across the street from the FNB tower for hours, waiting. Finally, the workday ended. Leila emerged, clicking down the steps in her sharp stilettos. A sleek sports car pulled up to the curb. My father got out. They fell into each other’s arms, their lips meeting in a long, deep kiss. Leila leaned against his chest, laughing softly. My face was a mask of ice as I raised my phone and captured photo after damning photo. I showed them to my mother as soon as I got home. I needed to steel her resolve, to make sure she wouldn’t beg him to come back. In the past, she would try to be affectionate with him, to cuddle up to him, but he would always subtly push her away, a flicker of disgust in his eyes. Now, looking at the pictures, she just smiled faintly. “I’ve already started looking at new apartments. Once the divorce is settled and we get the money, I can buy one outright.” But before I could package the evidence and send it to Diana, I got a call. It was about my mother. There had been an incident.

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At our high school reunion, my old deskmate suddenly walked up to me and asked, “Do you remember how you bullied me in middle school?” The chatter stopped instantly. Everyone looked at me. Even the livestream camera of our classmate, a famous influencer with millions of followers, turned to focus on my face. The whole world was waiting for me to prove my innocence. I smirked and pulled out a notebook, thick enough to be a weapon. Five hundred pages of receipts. “Tell me when and where I bullied you. Let’s check the ledger.” Who keeps a diary like this? A normal person? No. But I, unfortunately, have suffered from persecution paranoia since I was ten. I always felt like someone was out to get me, so I came prepared. 1 In elementary school, I was falsely accused of stealing a hair clip. They called me a thief with nothing but their words and demanded I prove I didn’t do it. The clique relied on their numbers, drowning me in accusations. I had no friends, no one to back me up. I could only clench my teeth and let the tears fall. In the end, the matter was dropped. No one bothered me about it again, but no one cleared my name either. But it left a scar on my heart. Just like that, I developed persecution paranoia. I always believed there were “unruly subjects trying to harm the Emperor”—me. So, starting at age ten, I began keeping a diary. There was no “Today was sunny” or “I felt sad.” It was a record of every grudge, every slight, every conflict. You could call it my “Book of Grudges.” The purpose was simple: if I was ever falsely accused again, I could lay out a clear timeline and leave them speechless. Later, I did plenty of those “mental gymnastics” exercises popular online. One question was: [If someone at a reunion suddenly asks if you remember bullying them, how should you respond?] I skipped that question at the time. With my Book of Grudges, I didn’t need to worry. But that absurd hypothetical became my reality. It had been ten years since middle school. Suddenly, someone in the group chat called for a reunion. As a freelancer, I didn’t have many friends around, so I agreed without thinking. We had just started eating when a girl with short hair arrived late. She was painfully thin. Even with makeup, she radiated a bleak bitterness. The smile on her face was faint and fake, like a mask. Her eyes darted around with a calculating coldness. Having studied some physiognomy, I didn’t want to engage with her. It wasn’t until she introduced herself that I realized she was my old deskmate, Jenny. We were deskmates in name only; we didn’t sit together for long. Seats were rotated monthly based on grades. I didn’t expect that while I ignored her, she would come for me. 2 Among the attendees was a mega-influencer, Chloe. From the moment she walked in, she had been livestreaming. Chloe was a talker. Back in the day, she was the school gossip who couldn’t keep a secret. She sat diagonally across from me, eating and talking non-stop. Just then, Jenny ran up to me, raising a glass of wine. She stepped right into the livestream frame. She didn’t come with good intentions. A hint of sarcasm played on her face, her tone passive-aggressive. “Vivian, do you remember bullying me in middle school?” Jenny looked like the protagonist of a revenge drama who had suffered immensely. Years later, the ugly duckling returns as a swan for a grand entrance. She provokes the perpetrator, savoring their shock. Then pretends to be magnanimous, forgiving, and above it all. It was such a sensitive topic. As soon as Jenny spoke, everyone stopped talking. The noisy private room fell dead silent. Every classmate stared at me, each with their own thoughts. Chloe panned the camera, showing the whole scene. Then she gave my face a clear close-up. Thousands of people flooded the livestream instantly. They were all smirking, waiting for me to defend myself. [Bullies deserve to die! That woman looks mean.] [I grew up being bullied. I know exactly how helpless it feels.] [Does anyone else feel like this is a setup?] [No way, who would joke about this at a reunion? Victim blamers, get out.] [If she didn’t do anything, it’s still hard to prove a negative.] [Are you empathizing with the bully? You must be one too!] Although my face showed confusion, it wasn’t panic or guilt. I was wondering if Jenny was pulling a prank, so I asked: “Are you sure? You say I bullied you. When?” Jenny sneered contemptuously, looked at the ceiling, and sniffled loudly. She looked like she was holding back tears. “You locked me in the bathroom and poured water on me.” “You locked me in the teacher’s office all night.” “You snapped all the pens in my pencil case so I couldn’t take the exam.” “Forget it, why am I telling you this? It’s been so many years. I’ve let it go.” “Vivian, I don’t plan to hate you anymore. Drink this glass, and let’s reconcile.” She tilted the glass toward me. I stared at the swirling red wine. If I clinked glasses with her, wouldn’t that be admitting my guilt as a bully? 3 I extended a finger and pushed her wine glass away. Then I stood up, looking Jenny in the eye. “I never accept false accusations.” “I thought you were joking.” “Now I see you’re serious.” “Jenny, I really can’t compete with people who are naturally talented at being ridiculous.” Jenny came prepared. Her earlier setup was a retreat to advance, forcing me into a corner. How could she be here to reconcile, as she claimed? “Vivian, it seems the internet is right. Villains never know they’ve done evil.” “How can you be so self-righteous! For ten years, I’ve had nightmares every day, dreaming of your ugly face.” “Do you know the psychological trauma you caused me?!” Her eyes grew redder until a tear fell. Trembling fingers, shaking body, twitching facial muscles. Anyone else seeing her state would have felt a pang of guilt. But not me. I straightened my back and answered her with absolute certainty. “Jenny, I did nothing wrong to you. If you want to be an actor, don’t practice on me.” “You’re an adult. You should know there are consequences for spreading rumors.” “You open your mouth with no evidence, just tears falling pat-pat-pat. If that worked, lawyers should just merge with professional mourners.” Jenny raised her volume, delivering a K-drama-worthy performance. “Don’t threaten me! I was threatened by you back then, and now you want to do it again! Do you think I’m still that pushover?!” “You know it’s hard to get evidence for these things, but you bullying me is a fact!” I wiped Jenny’s spit off my face. She suddenly stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Vivian, I gave you an out, you should have taken it. Don’t make this hard on yourself. Can you really explain this away?” “Why can’t I?” I pulled a five-hundred-page diary from my bag. And slammed it onto her face. Since she insisted on embarrassing me, I wouldn’t hesitate to ruin her socially. “Look closely. Everything that happened in the last ten years is recorded here. A dull pencil is better than a sharp memory.” “You said I locked you in the bathroom and poured water on you. Please watch the VCR.” I had already asked someone to project the contents of my notebook onto the wall of the room. “March 11th. Jenny didn’t finish her math homework. Afraid of being scolded by the teacher, she dared not return to the dorm and locked herself in the bathroom.” “She tried to get herself wet to catch a cold so she wouldn’t have to do homework.” “But she accidentally locked herself in the stall.” “Everyone asked her how it happened, but Jenny wouldn’t say.” “Only I knew, because I was in the next stall, constipated.” “My homeroom teacher can testify for me. I was the one who helped her out when my legs went numb.” “May 27th.” “The eve of the placement exam. Jenny went to the teacher’s office to steal the answer key. Unexpectedly, the grade director had been kicked out by his wife that day and slept in the office all night.” “Jenny had no chance to return and called me for help. She asked me to distract the director because I was the class representative. I still have the call logs saved on my hard drive.” I read sentence by sentence. Logical, clear. Every word was a public execution of Jenny. Jenny interrupted me impatiently: “Enough! You even have call logs from ten years ago? You are too sinister!” The word “sinister” seemed so pale and weak right now. Even she seemed to panic, clenching her teeth, unsure how to end this. The livestream chat was buzzing. [Holy moly, who keeps a diary like this?!] [And she listed a clear timeline. The Chronicle of Events. I didn’t even study history this seriously.] [This sister prepared a Book of Exoneration for herself in advance!] [Thought it was ‘The Glory’, turns out it’s ‘The Twilight Zone’.] Even at this point. Jenny still didn’t want to give up. 4 “Maybe I don’t remember those things clearly because it’s been so long.” “But you abusing the stray dog is true!” Jenny started crying to the livestream camera. “That puppy was named Lucky. I fed him every day after school. But suddenly, one day, Lucky never ran to me happily barking again.” “It was this vicious woman! I saw her drug Lucky, beat him, force water down his throat, and finally, Lucky died that winter.” “Since then, there has been a small grave at the school.” “Stop denying it! The school surveillance cameras captured it all!” Jenny wiped her tears, a glint of success in her eyes. This move was clever. Even harder to disprove than bullying, since there was no witness. The vet clinic that treated Lucky had closed down, so I couldn’t get a diagnosis record. I thought my self-defense earlier would calm the livestream audience. Unexpectedly, a wave of bots flooded the chat. All accusing me: [She’s so twisted, who keeps a grudge book like that!] [Is she a serial killer? And she abuses dogs?] [What did the puppy do wrong! Hang in there, short-haired girl! These psychos are usually deep schemers.] I admit I’m dark. Normal people don’t keep ledgers of grudges. But calling me a psycho dog abuser? That won’t stand. Jenny seemed to relax silently, thinking she could proceed with her plan. I pulled out another weapon. No witnesses? Did she think I didn’t have physical evidence? “I knew text could have flaws and sometimes isn’t convincing enough.” “I have terabytes of video.” “Lucky was a dog you couldn’t tame. Every time I fed him medicine, he was fierce.” “To catch him and take him to the vet, I almost fought him. In the end, I had to drug him.” I skillfully connected my phone and clicked screen mirroring. The restaurant’s Wi-Fi was fast. Soon, images from ten years ago appeared. In the video, I faced the camera: “It is 6 PM on the 20th. I am preparing to kidnap the school’s limping dog, Lucky, to take him to the vet.” As soon as I approached, Lucky bared his teeth at me. I had no choice but to return to the camera. “The wound on Lucky’s leg is deep enough to see bone. He needs stitches. But the dog won’t cooperate. Clearly, there is no basic trust between human and dog.” “Now I need to put a pill in a sausage.” Lucky ate the sausage and soon stopped moving. The footage shook as I carried Lucky, preparing to leave for the vet. I ran into a short-haired girl coming down the stairs. She pointed at me and screamed: “I saw you drug Lucky! If you’re hungry, buy food! Why eat dog meat?!” In the video, I froze for a second looking in the direction of the voice. Then I cursed at her. I was a rebellious teen once; I couldn’t take that kind of slander. “If your brain is full of water, shake it out. The sun is so bright, and it still hasn’t dried you out.” She was clearly stunned by my scolding, freezing in place. I rolled my eyes and walked straight ahead. Walking to the school gate, I explained to the camera: “That psycho just now was Jenny, my deskmate.” “Always crying and whining, accusing people of bullying her at the drop of a hat.” “Doesn’t study seriously, eyes red, snot running down, pretending to be a strong little flower.” “I feel like this girl will definitely try to harm me in the future, frame me for dog abuse.” “When that happens, I’ll release the evidence.” And I was right. Ten years later, Jenny really accused me of abusing the dog. When those words appeared in the video, the whole room was shocked. Chloe covered her mouth in disbelief, screaming: “Fifty thousand viewers!” Another classmate jumped up from his seat excitedly. “Trending! Front page headlines! It blew up! It blew up!”

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The day after we got our marriage license, I saw a trending post on a local subreddit. The poster, bragging with a photo of a marriage certificate, wrote: [Free gym membership acquired.] When users asked what he meant, he proudly shared his “wisdom”: [A marriage license is basically a free gym pass.] [Use the wife as a punching bag. Workout while you discipline. The more you hit her, the clingier she gets.] [You hit her, and her only request is ‘please stop hitting me.’ You don’t hit her, and she has a million demands.] [My biggest wish is to have a wife who won’t die no matter how hard I hit her. Bonus points if she makes good sounds when hit.] I was intrigued by his confidence. He gave off the vibe of someone who was begging for a beating. I created a burner account and DM’d him: [Bro, what kind of ‘hit sounds’ are good? Can you give us a demo?] He replied instantly: [Sure. I’m planning to practice on my new nurse wife tonight. I’ll record it for the boys!] After confirming the poster was my new husband, Mark, I had an epiphany. I crushed the thermos in my hand, cracked my knuckles, and got ready to go home for a “workout.” Chapter 1 In a short time, the post had accumulated 14,000 upvotes. It was hard to imagine so many people supporting such filth. There were even comments agreeing with him. [Agreed. Getting yelled at by the boss all day, nothing beats going home and smacking the wife around. Way better than boxing.] [Some women need to be taught a lesson. If you don’t hit them for a day, they think they run the place. They need to know who’s boss.] On my phone screen. The user “Master Wife Tamer” seemed to find his people and kept spewing nonsense. [Check out my taming tool. It’s a swing I customized for my wife.] [She doesn’t know it can be detached. I’ll tie her hands, hang her up, and she becomes the perfect punching bag.] [I calculated the rope length perfectly. Her toes will just barely touch the ground. It’s going to be great.] I stared at the photo, my blood running cold. The swing in the photo was identical to the one in Mark’s and my new apartment. The comments kept piling up. They even discussed the feasibility of beating a wife on the balcony. [OP, if you beat her on the balcony, won’t the neighbors hear and call the cops?] The poster replied smugly. [Way ahead of you. I installed blackout curtains and double-pane soundproof glass.] [Close the doors and windows, draw the curtains, and no matter how much she screams, no one outside will hear a thing.] I couldn’t believe I married such a thing. When I snapped back to reality, the thermos in my hand was crushed. After a brief moment of shock, I suddenly found it funny. I was born with abnormal strength and a touch of sociopathy. In elementary school, I crushed the testicles of a groper on the bus with one hand. It terrified the teachers and the police, and even made the local news. After that, my mom taught me that girls should be quiet and gentle. So I learned to camouflage. I went to nursing school and became a gentle nurse. “A marriage license is a free gym pass,” huh? “The more you hit her, the clingier she gets,” huh? Great. I don’t have to pretend anymore! I rolled my wrist, joints cracking lightly. Mark, since you want to play the taming game. I’ll play with you. Chapter 2 Immediately, I registered a male burner account named “Angry Little Man.” I used a meme as my profile picture. I messaged him: [Damn, bro! Honestly, my wife needs a lesson too, but I’ve been too scared to do it.] [Bro, can you teach me? I want to take back control of my house!] To show sincerity, I sent him a $200 digital red envelope and a fist-bump emoji. The fish took the bait. Mark took me for a fanboy and started sharing his “taming plan” without reservation. [Bro, the first time is crucial. You have to beat her into submission once and for all, and you need a ‘legitimate’ reason.] [I’m inviting my boys over for drinks in a couple of days.] [We’re going to throw sunflower seed shells, fruit peels, and cigarette butts all over the floor. Make a huge mess.] [When my friends leave, that woman will see the mess and definitely get angry.] [As long as she dares to complain, that’s disrespecting her man.] [Then, using the alcohol as an excuse, I’ll slap her silly and force her to clean it up.] Reading the text, I could almost see Mark’s smug face. Suppressing my disgust, I typed: [What about after? What if she makes a scene?] [Scene? Bro, you don’t understand women.] Mark replied: [After the beating, you act like you snapped out of it. Kneel in front of her and slap yourself.] [Say you love her so much, but you just lose control when you drink. Cry and beg for forgiveness.] [Then, a few days later, find an excuse to hit her again.] [Rinse and repeat. A slap and a sweet date. Slowly, you erode her boundaries until she gets used to being hit.] [Ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome and Pavlov?] [Don’t be afraid she’ll run away.] [Beating a wife is like training a dog. The more you hit her, the more she can’t leave you.] [My dad beat my mom her whole life. Not only did she stay, but she served him hand and foot.] I took a deep breath, trying to calm the rage in my chest. He spoke of gaslighting like it was a science. Turns out he learned it from his parents. I questioned: [Will this really work? What about the police…] [Don’t worry.] He was confident. [Haven’t you seen the news? In domestic abuse cases, the police rarely do anything until it’s too late.] [As long as you don’t cripple or kill her, it’s a ‘domestic dispute.’ Cops just mediate.] [Besides, I know where to hit. At most, it’ll be classified as a minor injury.] [I just love hearing women scream when they get hit.] [My biggest wish is to have a wife who won’t die, preferably one who makes good sounds.] Reading this, I couldn’t hold back a curse. I almost crushed my phone. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to calm down. [Bro, I learned a lot! But I’m curious, what counts as a ‘good’ hit sound? Can you give us a demo first?] Then, I sent him another $200. Mark replied quickly. [Deal! My boys are coming over tonight to celebrate my wedding. I’ll record it for you guys!] Putting down the phone, my eyes went cold. Mark, I hope your bones are as hard as your talk. Chapter 3 At 5 PM, Mark texted me. [Wifey, a few of my buddies are coming over tonight.] [They’re jealous I have such a pretty, virtuous wife who can cook. They insisted on seeing you.] [Buy some groceries on your way back, lots of meat. Show them your skills.] [It might get a bit loud. You know I care about face, so please bear with it. Hubby will make it up to you later.] He sent a $520 red envelope and a “cute cat heart” sticker. I looked at the screen and sneered. Make it up to me? With a belt or a fist? I replied with a cute cat emoji: [Okay, Hubby.] After work, I went straight to the wholesale market and bought the cheapest pre-made meals. Braised pork, sweet and sour ribs, spicy chicken… All heat-and-eat junk. Since you want to act, I’ll play along. Back home, I dumped the food onto plates and microwaved them. Soon, the house smelled of MSG and grease. Around 8 PM, the doorbell rang. Mark walked in with four or five men. They looked like thugs—the kind of friends I usually avoided. As soon as they saw me, Mark’s buddy, Blackie, whistled. “Yo, this is Mark’s new wife? Looking fresh!” “Smells good. What did you make, sister-in-law?” Blackie actually lifted a lock of my hair and sniffed it. “Let me guess… sweet and sour ribs, braised pork… did I get it right?” Holding back vomit, I stepped back. Mark, walking in last, slapped the back of Blackie’s head. “Watch how you talk to your sister-in-law.” “Wifey, don’t mind him. He’s just like that, no bad intentions.” They walked in without taking off their shoes, stomping mud onto the carpet. I wiped my hands on my apron and brought out the food. “Come in, food’s ready. Sit anywhere.” Mark looked shocked that I was being so accommodating. He winked at the others, signaling them to provoke me further. “Eight dishes in one afternoon? Mark is lucky, marrying such a capable nurse!” “Nurse sister, come drink with us.” I didn’t get angry. I smiled and seated them. Once the food was served, I retreated to the kitchen. “It’s a guys’ night, I shouldn’t intrude.” Mark found it incredible. I used to complain about how sexist his friends were. Now, I was playing the perfect traditional wife. He came into the kitchen. “Wifey, come eat with us. Have a drink.” “Are you mad about their jokes?” I waved him off. “You guys eat. I’ll grab a bite in here.” Once the door closed, I pulled out the seafood feast I packed from a five-star hotel. Who eats pre-made slop when you can have lobster? But since I didn’t go out, he couldn’t pick a fight. Soon, Mark knocked again. “Wifey, I dropped my chopsticks. Get me a new pair.” I opened the door with chopsticks and saw the living room was a disaster zone. Sunflower seed shells, peanut skins, and cigarette ash covered the floor. Blackie threw a chicken bone on the carpet and stomped on it. “Oops, sorry sister-in-law, slipped.” He grinned at me, eyes full of provocation. They all knew the plan. They were trying to trigger me. If I showed even a hint of displeasure, Mark would explode. Unfortunately for them, I disappointed. Not only was I not mad, I smiled brighter. Mark was cleaning this up later anyway. The messier, the better. “No problem, have fun. The carpet needed washing anyway.” Blackie froze. He didn’t expect that reaction. Mark’s face stiffened. His prepared script was useless. For the next two hours, I played the perfect wife. Pouring tea, cutting fruit, handing out napkins. No matter how much they trashed the place—someone even poured beer on the sofa—I kept smiling. “It’s fine, we can use a slipcover.” “Oh, we were going to replace that rug anyway.” My performance was flawless. Mark couldn’t find an excuse to rage. Even his scumbag friends felt a little bad. “Mark, your wife is amazing! Such a good temper!” “Yeah, I’d give ten years of my life for a wife like this!” When they left, they patted Mark’s shoulder meaningfully. “Mark, don’t go too hard later. Just a little.” Mark stood at the door, smiling awkwardly. He wanted to beat me for embarrassing him in front of his friends. But now everyone was praising me. If he hit me, he’d be the asshole without a cause. He closed the door. The room went silent. Looking at the mess and Mark standing awkwardly in the middle of it. I decided to help him out. I claimed a stomachache and went to the bathroom. I messaged him from my burner account. [Bro, how’s it going? We’re waiting for the show!] I attached a $200 red envelope and a starry-eyed emoji. Mark loved his ego. I knew he wouldn’t let his big talk fall flat. Seconds later, he replied. [Wait for it.] Just three words, but I could feel the grit in his teeth. I smirked. Mark, you asked for this. Don’t cry too loud later. Chapter 4 I heard smashing from the living room, followed by Mark’s intentionally loud cursing. “F*ck! Look at this mess! Annoying!” I flushed the toilet and walked out, pretending to be startled. In the living room, Mark had flipped the dining table. Red oil and soup soaked the carpet. He stood in the middle of the debris, chugging a beer, face flushed. Seeing me, he finally found his target. He pointed at the trash on the floor and roared: “What are you staring at? Can’t you see this mess? Clean it up!” He was shouting, spit flying. I stood still, watching his performance. “Are you blind or deaf? I’m talking to you!” Seeing no reaction, Mark got angrier. He undid his belt, advancing on me step by step. “Lynn, why did you smile at Blackie just now?” “I hate cheaters. You were making eyes at him right in front of me. Do you think I’m dead?” I couldn’t help but laugh. What a pathetic excuse. Seeing me laugh, he raged harder, smashing a vase with his belt. Crash! “Today I’ll show you who’s the man of this house!” “Who’s in charge!” He raised the belt and lashed it towards my legs. Fast and vicious. No mercy. A normal girl would be screaming in pain. Too bad he met me. Watching the belt whistle towards me, I felt no fear. Only excitement. I sidestepped, my right hand shooting out like lightning, grabbing the belt and yanking back. Snap! The buckle whipped back and hit him in the face. Mark froze, his drunken haze clearing instantly. He touched the welt on his face, then looked at his wrist, caught in my iron grip. He instinctively tried to pull back. Immovable. He used both hands, pulling with all his might, face turning red. I stood like a statue. I stepped closer, smiling. Then, I pulled a rope from behind my back, tied his hands together. With one hand, I lifted him and hooked him onto the swing mount on the balcony ceiling. “Hubby, you’ve been naughty. I told you not to hang out with those losers. Why don’t you listen?” “Also, I’m curious who’s in charge of this house.” “You can tell me all about it.” Then, backhand, I whipped him with his own belt. Workout time.

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After binding with the “Word Editor System,” I immediately changed [Secret Crush] to [Secret Assassination]. The schoolgirls who were supposedly crushing on the Male Lead all raised knives from the shadows, ready to deliver a fatal blow. Then, I changed [Viral Hit] to [Viral Explosion]. The Male Lead’s school forum post didn’t just blow up the internet; his laptop literally exploded, sending him straight to the ICU. The Male Lead was confused. The System crashed. I smiled. “Today, this main character? He absolutely has to die.” 1 “Oh my god, Prince Julian! Please accept my love letter!” “Wow, Julian is so hot!” I rested my chin on my hand, sitting by the window, watching the Male Lead, Julian Ashford, walk into school bathed in admiring gazes. [Julian Ashford comes from a wealthy family. Handsome and rich, every girl in the academy has a secret crush on him.] The System popped up the plot text at the right moment, adding a slightly creepy reminder: [Unleash your imagination! Add some romantic scenes for yourself!] I scoffed. With a mental stroke, I changed [Secret Crush] to [Secret Assassination]. The girl who had just looked lovestruck suddenly pulled a dagger from her pink envelope and lunged at Julian. “Die, scum!” Julian’s eyes went wide with disbelief. He tried to dodge, but it was too late. The dagger plunged into his chest. He slowly collapsed. The System screamed in my head: [Are you crazy?! The Male Lead is dead!] 2 Because I had terminal cancer, the System dragged me into this cliché high school romance novel to be the heroine. The heroine, simply because she was poor, was targeted by the school’s “Prince,” the Male Lead. After a series of physical and emotional abuse, she eventually died from it. At the end of the story, the Male Lead stood in the rain holding her ashes, crying snot and tears: “I was wrong! Lori!” The System was moved: [What great love.] [As long as you obediently go through the plot of being bullied, kidnapped, imprisoned, and finally thrown into the ocean to feed the fish, you will get a healthy body in return.] Me: ??? Do you hear yourself right now? The System chuckled dryly: [To help you complete the mission, here is a cheat: ‘For every plot point, you can change one word.’ You can use this to start a beautiful romance with the Male Lead!] Screams erupted around us. Julian lay on the ground, unconscious. I thought darkly: Why is it always the heroine who dies in these angst fests? The Male Lead? Hmph! He can die! But Julian didn’t die. The school nurse said, “It’s a miracle! His heart is located near his belly button, so it was just a flesh wound.” The System sounded smug: [Good thing I was quick and patched the bug. You must have made a typo just now. Don’t do it again!] There were so many things wrong with that sentence, but before I could grind my teeth in response, the bell rang. 3 The teacher stood at the door, smiling encouragingly at me. “Come on, introduce yourself! You’re the only ‘commoner’ in the whole school!” As soon as she finished, whispers filled the classroom. “How did a charity case get into our elite academy?” “Probably did something shady~ This is going to be good.” Seeing I remained silent, the teacher’s eyes darted around, hatching an idea. “How about this, transfer student? You sit next to Julian Ashford. He’s the only one with an empty seat.” I looked around. The whole class was watching me like I was a circus act. In the original book, the heroine listened to the teacher, only to be dragged off the chair by her hair by Julian, who cursed, “What kind of trash dares to sit next to me?” Thinking of this, I smiled. “No thanks, Teach.” I didn’t stop walking. I dragged the desk and chair next to Julian all the way to the back of the classroom, starting a new row. “I’ll sit here.” Julian sneered, propping his legs up on his desk. “What? Does sitting next to me make you sick?” I cursed internally. This guy is a psycho. Before I could respond, the System released the next plot point. [Julian looked at this stubborn charity case and felt intrigued. He decided to show her who’s boss. He unilaterally issued a Red Card against her, making Lori’s life even harder.] The System hinted: [The more he bullies you, the more he loves you.] [You can change ‘Red’ to ‘Love.’ A Love Card, hehe~] Julian looked at me, holding a red Joker card between his fingers. “Charity case, I declare that against…” Holy crap! My hand moved so fast it left afterimages. I changed [Her] to [Him]. [He decided to show HIM who’s boss.] Julian’s words involuntarily twisted: “I declare a Red Card against… MYSELF! All students and staff can bully me at any time, in any place!” Gasps filled the room. The System was shocked: [What? That works too?] I couldn’t help but clap. “I didn’t know the Prince was a masochist! You can’t judge a book by its cover…” He glared at me. “I said bully ME!” Everyone looked at each other, unsure if they should approach. In the original book, as soon as Julian issued the Red Card, a mob descended on the heroine with punches and kicks. I sneered and charged forward, slapping him twice across the face. Rules are rules. Once the Red Card is issued, the target gets bullied. No exceptions. The class inhaled sharply. Julian shouted in humiliation, “Hit me! Hit me!” After a moment of hesitation, everyone swarmed him. One slap per person. The scene ended with the Male Lead bleeding. 4 Nobody helped the swollen-faced Julian. He limped back to his seat and gave me a vicious look. The System begged in my brain: [Stop your magic! Please, just fall in love!] I ignored it and stared Julian down. He twitched his lip. “Just you wait, charity case.” I replied to the System: [See? He’s not convinced yet!] Before Julian could make a move, his minions couldn’t wait. As soon as class ended, a group of girls dragged me out of my seat. “Newbie, we need to teach you some manners.” Julian saw this and gave me a provocative smile. The leader was a girl with dark skin and bright red lipstick. I remembered her name was Bella. She grabbed my hair and dragged me out the door. Once we were in the bathroom, she didn’t waste time. “Someone cut up her face.” A girl with glasses and black hair stepped forward, trembling. “Who… who told you to disrespect the Prince?” Just as the knife was about to touch my face, the plot text appeared. [Seeing the knife about to slice Lori’s face, Adrian wind caught some noise. He thought it was Julian’s business and didn’t want to interfere, but he still decided to SAVE her.] The System yelled excitedly: [It’s the Second Male Lead! The gentle one! He and the Male Lead are called the Twin Stars. Go develop feelings with him!] I frowned. I remembered this Adrian Wind was a hypocrite. After saving the heroine, he told her to endure it. Later, he even gave the heroine’s National Award to the Male Lead’s sister without asking. “Lori, you already have so many awards, but his sister has none. I think you should do something nice.” Thinking of this, I changed [Save] to [Substitute]. [He still decided to SUBSTITUTE for her.] The next second, Adrian kicked the door open, roaring, “Let her go! Slash MY face!”

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During Freshman Orientation Camp, the so-called “Campus King” tried to show off by opening a water bottle with his abs. He failed. My best friend happened to whisper a joke in my ear right at that moment, and I snorted out loud. The King’s sidekick thought I was mocking him and called me out. “What’s so funny? Put up or shut up.” So, I stood up, lifted my shirt to reveal a shredded six-pack, and popped the cap off a Dasani bottle using nothing but my core muscles. The girls screamed. The sidekick looked terrified. “Dude,” the sidekick whispered, “your nose is bleeding.” 1 During the break, my bestie, Chloe, dragged me under the shade of a massive oak tree. She shook a can of sunscreen spray like a bartender mixing a martini and unleashed a chemical fog on me. I swatted her hand away. “Chloe, stop. Save it for yourself. I’m a track athlete; I’m supposed to be tan.” Chloe smacked my hand back. “No way. I can’t let a goddess like you ruin her skin. Even if you don’t burn, we are not taking chances. I became your bestie for the eye candy, okay?” I rolled my eyes and let her marinate me in SPF 50. Nearby, a gaggle of girls from our dorm were whispering. They thought they were being subtle. They weren’t. “Omigod, Mason is so hot.” “I heard he was practically running his high school. A total alpha. See that skinny guy next to him? That’s his hype man, Leo.” “Look at those pecs. That waistline. I always thought these orientation uniforms looked like trash bags, but on him? With that tactical belt? It’s giving top gun energy.” Is he really that great? They were staring directly behind me. I was about to turn around when the Drill Instructor (DI) walked over, grinning like a shark. “You ladies and gentlemen bored?” “Yeeees,” the crowd groaned. DI Miller smirked. “Oh? How about we play a game?” A crisp, clear voice rang out from behind me. It sounded warm, like sun-baked pavement, but with a hint of arrogance. “Sarge, if your ‘game’ involves more burpees, we’re suddenly extremely entertained by sitting still.” A scrawny voice chimed in, “Yeah, we’re actually having a blast.” “Too late,” Miller snapped into authority mode. “You said you were bored. Form a circle. Sit down. We’re doing a talent showcase.” “Ughhhhh.” “I’m counting to three. Anyone not seated runs laps. One—” The shuffling was instant. Everyone hit the dirt. 2 I dragged Chloe to the back row and watched Miller. Miller was young, probably Gen Z like us. He was chill until he wasn’t. He definitely saw some TikTok trend and wanted to use us as lab rats. We sat there, blinking at him like baby birds. “Any volunteers? Show us a talent.” Silence. Miller put on his best disappointed-dad face. “Nothing? I thought Gen Z could do anything. Climb Everest, code an app, survive the apocalypse. I am disappointed.” The clear voice spoke up again. “Sarge, you’re Gen Z too. Can you do all that?” The skinny guy: “Yeah, exactly.” Miller adjusted his hat. “Nope. That’s why I’m disappointed in myself. And doubly disappointed in you.” I turned my head. The voice belonged to a guy with a buzz cut, sharp jawline, and high nose bridge. Mason. He was undeniably handsome. He was already bantering with the instructor, flashing a set of deep dimples. Chloe nudged me hard in the ribs. “Ooh, checking out Mason? The Campus King?” “That’s Mason?” I asked. Chloe looked scandalized. “Girl, are you blind? I spotted him day one. He’s the hottest guy on campus. How did you miss that?” I pulled her arm off me. “Probably because on day one, someone sprained her ankle, and I had to carry two sets of textbooks and piggyback you up six flights of stairs.” Chloe giggled guiltily. “Hey, you’re strong! I love you, Sloane!” I ignored her. Chloe, sensing danger, started cracking jokes to get back on my good side. As students started performing random talents in the circle, Chloe dropped a punchline that caught me off guard. I snorted. Loudly. The skinny guy, Leo, glared at me. “What are you laughing at? You think you’re tough? If you’re so cool, you do it.” Me: ? I looked up. Mason was standing in the center, shirt lifted, holding an unopened water bottle against his abs. There was a red mark on his skin. He had failed the trick. He looked at me, his eyes flickering with embarrassment. I looked away. Leo wasn’t letting it go. “Why aren’t you talking? Blah blah blah…” He was annoying. “Shut up,” I snapped. “I’ll do it.” 3 I walked up to Mason, took the water bottle from his hand, and turned to face the crowd. Without hesitation, I unzipped my jacket and lifted my olive-green tee. My abs were rock hard, defined, and tanned. I jammed the bottle cap against my oblique, twisted my core, and—Pop! The cap sent flying. Water splashed onto my camo pants. I didn’t care. I handed the bottle back to Mason and turned to leave. Leo’s jaw was on the floor. He looked like his brain had short-circuited. Mason stared at me, his pupils shaking. I scoffed. I was wearing a sports bra. No big deal. The crowd was stunned for two seconds before erupting. The girls were screaming louder than the guys. “Holy crap! I’m dead! Marry me!” “She’s ripped! She’s gorgeous and handsome at the same time!” “Ma’am! Gender is a construct, I am free this Friday!” DI Miller: “Whoa, keep it down! Don’t let the Commander hear you thirsting!” As I sat down, girls swarmed me. Chloe threw herself in front of me like a bodyguard. One girl asked shyly, “Hi, can we be friends?” Chloe barked, “No! You don’t want to be friends; you just want to touch her abs! Back off!” I recognized the girl. She was the one drooling over Mason earlier. The girl blushed. “Is it that obvious?” Chloe: “Yes! Sloane’s body is for my eyes only! I’m the only one allowed to touch the abs!” To prove her point, she reached under my jacket and slapped my stomach. My skin turned red. The girl’s eyes turned red with envy. Me: “…Stop it. Sit down.” “Okay.” Chloe sat. Just as I was about to scold her, I heard Leo scream in terror. “Holy sh*t, Mason! Your nose is bleeding!” Mason: “…Shut up.” 4 The downside of showing off is that the instructor remembers your name. Miller asked me if I had anything prepared for the Campfire Gala. He said, “This is a competition between the four platoons. We need to dominate. We need shock and awe.” I said, “I don’t know what kind of performance counts as ‘shock and awe.’” Miller waved his hand. “Just sing two songs. Then, for the grand finale, do the ab bottle opener thing. The guys in Platoon 3 will lose their minds when they see I have a student who can do that.” Me: “…Pass.” Miller gave me the sad puppy eyes. Me: “…Fine. Fine.” Miller: Happy noises. That night, I brought my guitar case to the field. Sixteen squads formed a massive circle. The Performing Arts squad did a choral rendition of “We Will Rock You” and a K-Pop dance cover. When a group of long-legged dancers made those baggy uniforms look like high fashion, the instructor of Platoon 3 was grinning so hard I thought his face would crack. He even came over to taunt us. “Hey Miller, your squad is looking a little low energy. You guys gotta step it up. My squad just… naturally excels.” Miller rolled his eyes. “Get lost.” He turned to me, handing me a water bottle. “Sloane, it’s all on you. Don’t let that guy win.” I nodded. “Got it.” The K-Pop dance ended, and the crowd started chanting for our squad. I was about to stand up when Mason walked past me. He snatched the water bottle out of my hand. He muttered, “Making a girl do the ab trick in front of everyone? Do us guys have no shame? What if… what if you have a wardrobe malfunction?” Me: “?” Mason walked to the center, put the water bottle on the ground, glanced at me, and nodded at Miller to hit the music. He started with a breakdance routine. The flashlights from the phones created a halo around him. He moved like water—sharp, fluid, mesmerizing. He was genuinely talented. The crowd went wild. Even Miller nodded. “Kid’s got moves.” We all thought that was it. But when Mason locked eyes with me, I knew he was up to something. Was he going to redeem his failed bottle trick? I underestimated him. The music switched abruptly. It wasn’t cool hip-hop anymore. It was… “Baby Shark” remix? No, something weirder. A viral TikTok meme song. Mason started twerking. He threw away all dignity. He shook his hips with a flexibility that put the K-Pop girls to shame. Me: “…” The Crowd: “HAHAHAHAHA!” Miller: “I take it back. That kid is a clown.” Finally, Mason grabbed the water bottle, successfully popped the cap with his abs (redemption!), and walked off to thunderous applause. He beamed at Miller. “Sarge, was that ‘shock and awe’ enough for you?” Miller: “It was shocking, alright. My colleagues are going to roast me for a year.” 5 Thanks to Mason warming up the crowd, the atmosphere was electric. I grabbed a fresh water bottle, slung my guitar over my shoulder, and walked to the center. I promised to open a bottle. Chloe ran over to set up the mic stand. The crowd was buzzing, but when I plugged the acoustic-electric in, the feedback hum silenced them. Then the whispers started. “She’s my new goddess.” “She has that ‘I could kill you but I won’t’ vibe.” “Is it true girls in Squad 1 have to bench press their body weight to join?” Someone shouted, “Hey Miller! Is having abs a requirement for your squad?” Miller beamed. “No, no. Sloane is just… standard. You know.” I tuned them out. Chloe ran back to her seat, holding her phone up to record. Strum. Just one chord, and the atmosphere shifted from “party” to “battlefield.” I didn’t play a pop song. I played a flamenco-metal fusion piece. Fast, aggressive, percussive. It sounded like arrows flying and swords clashing. “Whoa,” someone whispered. “I have goosebumps.”

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Six years ago, I was the head of Research and Development—a Chief Research Scientist—until I was busted for falsifying drug trial data, a scandal that killed countless patients. The entire internet crucified me, calling me the Butcher of the Lab. Before I was even sentenced, a group of victims’ families found me and carved their rage onto my skin—eighteen cuts, right on the street. When I got out, I vanished. I changed my name and hid, becoming a fishmonger at a downtown market, the stench of brine and blood clinging to me like cheap perfume. I was scrubbing down a fillet board when my billionaire ex-husband showed up. Harrison Shaw. He looked at me, his perfect face a mask of shock. “Sloane? What happened to you? Why didn’t you come find me after you were released?” I didn’t get a chance to answer. His assistant, sleek and terrified, leaned in from behind him. “Mr. Shaw, Ms. Wells is still waiting for the fish you promised to personally select for her broth. It won’t be fresh if we’re late.” I yanked off my surgical mask, exposing the jagged, half-scarred face I wore now, and let out a cold laugh. “That cut of salmon is twenty dollars. Pay up or get lost. You’re messing with my business.” He threw me to the wolves—Tatum Wells’ wolves—and let me take the fall, all so she could climb the corporate ladder. Now that Tatum was the replacement fiancée, he had the nerve to stand here? 1 I slammed my gutting knife down on the cutting board, splattering fish blood onto Harrison’s Italian leather shoes. He recoiled half a step, a flicker of pure disgust crossing his features. “Sloane, what are you doing to yourself? You know these hands weren’t meant for cleaning fish.” My body swayed, and my hands started to tremble uncontrollably. My fingers were chapped and swollen, the nail beds permanently stained with black dirt and fish guts. Six years ago, these hands handled million-dollar lab equipment. Now, they only gutted fish. “Mr. Shaw, don’t sully your pristine gaze. Are you buying this fish or not?” I reached into the tank, expertly snatched a thrashing trout, and brought the blunt back of the knife down hard on its head. Thunk. The fish went still. Harrison hadn’t spoken, but the old man behind him in line lost his patience. “Are you selling fish or holding a board meeting? I’m going to the stall down the row if you don’t hurry up!” “Selling, of course.” I pulled my gaze away, done with looking at Harrison, and prepared to weigh the trout for the customer. A large, controlling hand pressed down on my arm. Harrison placed a stack of cash on my counter. “Don’t sell anything else today.” “I’ll take the rest of your stock. Pack up and go home to rest.” I didn’t touch the money. I picked up my scaling tool and went back to work. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Shaw.” “But I run a small business. We don’t do exclusive buyouts. Now, if you’re not buying, please move. You’re blocking the line.” Just then, a saccharine voice chimed in. “Harrison, why are you still here? Miles and I have been waiting for you to come home to make the soup.” My hand, scaling a bass, paused. Tatum Wells stepped forward, linking her arm affectionately through Harrison’s, and then feigned shock when she saw me. “Oh, is that… Sloane? Sis, what are you doing here selling fish?” “Did you just get out and have nowhere to go? You should have told me! I’ll ask Harrison to find you a place to stay, or maybe a job!” She was immediately followed by a man who looked utterly ashamed to be there. It was Miles Harrington, my own brother. Six years ago, when I was sentenced, he not only cut ties and disowned me from the Harrington family, but he also triumphantly brought Tatum—my father’s illegitimate daughter from an outside affair—home to take my place. Our parents had made Miles and me swear on their deathbeds that we would never let Tatum Wells set foot in the Harrington home. They had warned us that Tatum’s mother had nearly destroyed our family years ago, and her daughter was no better. My own brother had forgotten our parents’ dying wish completely. Miles now spoke softly to Tatum. “Sweetheart, why talk to someone like this? Let’s go home. Harrison and I are making you a big dinner tonight.” He then glared at me. “Sloane is a disgrace who hasn’t learned her lesson. Six years in prison and she’s still covered in bad luck!” His loud voice drew the attention of everyone around. An older woman who frequently bought fish from me suddenly pointed a trembling finger. “Wait! I remember now! The news six years ago! The Butcher of the Lab! The one who killed all those people—that’s Sloane Harrington!” “Oh my God! I’ve been buying fish from a murderer!” Harrison immediately stepped forward to try and calm the enraged crowd. “Sloane, you can’t work here. Your hands belong in a lab, not a fish market.” “Tell me what you need. I can help you.” But the shouts and insults were growing louder. Rotten vegetables and eggs began to fly. Harrison spoke about helping me, but his body immediately shielded Tatum. He was terrified that the expensive designer dress she was wearing would be stained. I stood there, covered in the stench of fish and now the slimy mess of raw egg. Tatum peered out from Harrison’s protective embrace. “Sloane, you should apologize to everyone.” “Even though those patients died because of your fake data, if you just show genuine remorse, people will forgive you.” That single phrase, genuine remorse, sent the crowd over the edge. Someone shoved my entire fish stand over. The water tank burst. Over a dozen live fish flopped desperately in the dirty puddle on the ground, struggling for a final breath. Just like I did six years ago. I quietly gathered the remaining supplies and walked home. The next day, the market manager dismantled my stall. “We received complaints about unsanitary conditions and illegal operation. Your lease is terminated.” I looked at the empty space and gave a hollow laugh. They truly were determined to eliminate anything that reminded Tatum of me. They stopped at nothing. When I arrived back at my dilapidated basement apartment, all my luggage had been tossed out onto the street. The landlord had even refunded me three months’ rent—triple the deposit—just to ensure I left immediately. I sat on my pile of belongings, staring into space, when a pair of perfectly shined leather shoes stopped in front of me. “Sloane, Tatum’s research project has hit a crucial bottleneck. She’s only missing the final piece of data.” “You’re a genius in this field. If you agree to help her, I’ll give you enough money to disappear. You can start a new life somewhere no one knows your name.” Hearing those words made me sick. “Harrison, are you insane? You framed me for data fraud and put me in prison for years. Now you have the audacity to ask me to clean up the mess for that illegitimate daughter who killed those people?” Harrison’s face darkened. “Sloane, watch your tone. You’ve already paid for the mistakes of six years ago. Don’t try to throw dirt on Tatum.” “Tatum is highly gifted. She took over your disaster of a project and has practically ruined her health trying to perfect this drug. She’s the one who asked me to come to you, despite everything. Don’t be ungrateful!” I laughed again, a sound devoid of humor. “And what if I refuse?” Harrison spoke with his usual arrogance. “Then you’ll have to deal with the consequences yourself.” Harrison left, and I initially dismissed his threat. I found a new underground apartment and started looking for another job. Then, the caretaker of my parents’ memorial park called me. “Ms. Harrington, the Shaw family has acquired the land where your parents are buried. They plan to flatten the area and build a new sewage treatment facility.” “The Shaw representative said if you don’t accept their terms, they will scatter your parents’ ashes on the street.” My hand holding the phone trembled violently. Was this the man I had loved? He was using my dead parents as leverage, all for the sake of Tatum Wells? I looked at my half-ruined face in the mirror. For six years, for the sake of a misguided love and my family’s reputation, I had silently accepted the blame. I thought my sacrifice would protect Miles and the Harrington family, and that Harrison would remain untouched. What was the result? My brother elevated the illegitimate daughter to a princess, and Harrison cherished the murderer. Only I rotted in hell for six years. Harrison’s call came in. I answered on the first ring. “Have you thought it through? Sloane, stop being difficult. The past is over.” “If you just focus on helping Tatum, you still have a chance to restore your reputation. I’ll help you, alright?” I answered calmly. “I’ll do it.” “But first, I need the title to my parents’ burial plot transferred solely into my name, with a signed contract guaranteeing it will never be moved.” Harrison agreed.

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Part I: The Chokehold The first thing I felt was the cold. Not the kind of cold that comes from a drafty window, but the visceral, bone-deep freeze of fingers wrapped tight around my windpipe. My vision was swimming in black spots. My lungs were burning, screaming for oxygen that wasn’t coming. Above me, a face twisted in pure, unadulterated hatred hovered like a specter. “Say one more word about my father, Vivian,” the voice hissed. It was a low, jagged sound, like gravel grinding against glass. “One more word, and I will snap your neck like a twig.” I wheezed, clawing instinctively at the hands crushing my throat. My fingernails scraped against skin, but he didn’t flinch. I looked into his eyes. They were dark, endless pits of rage. But it was the rest of his face that jolted my memory awake. The left side was perfect—high cheekbone, sharp jawline, the kind of face that belonged on a Calvin Klein billboard. But the right side… the right side was a roadmap of tragedy. Burn scars, jagged and pink, twisted the skin from his temple down to his jaw. Liam Thorne. The name hit me harder than the lack of air. I wasn’t me anymore. I wasn’t the college student who fell asleep studying for finals. I was Vivian Vanderbuilt. The heiress. The queen bee of Crestwood Academy. And, most importantly, the “cannon fodder” villainess of the trashy young adult novel The Rest of Forever. And the boy strangling me? He was the villain. The future psychopath who would eventually burn half the city down. And I—Vivian—was the reason he turned into a monster. I was currently dying in the prologue. “I…” I choked out, my voice barely a squeak. “I’m… sorry.” The grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened. Confusion flickered in his dark eyes. The Vivian he knew would have spat in his face. She would have threatened to have her daddy buy the trailer park he lived in and bulldoze it. She wouldn’t have apologized. “What did you say?” he growled. “I said…” I gasped, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, “I’m sorry, Liam. I won’t… say it again.” He stared at me for a long, agonizing second. Then, as if my neck had suddenly turned into a red-hot coal, he released me. I collapsed onto the dirty tile floor of the boys’ locker room, heaving in air. It tasted like sweat and bleach. I coughed, clutching my bruised throat, and looked up at him. He was wearing a faded, oversized hoodie that had clearly seen better decades, and sneakers that were held together by duct tape and prayer. His fists were clenched at his sides, trembling. “Get out,” he said. “Before I change my mind.” I didn’t need to be told twice. I scrambled to my feet, my legs feeling like jelly, and bolted. I ran past the rows of gray lockers, burst through the double doors, and didn’t stop until I was in the pristine, marble-floored hallway of the main building. I caught my reflection in a trophy case. The girl staring back was stunning. Platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, skin that looked like it had been airbrushed. I was wearing a designer skirt that probably cost more than Liam’s entire life savings. “Great,” I whispered to my reflection. “I’m the rich bitch who dies in Chapter Ten.” Part II: The Redemption Arc According to the plot of The Rest of Forever, Vivian Vanderbuilt was obsessed with the male lead, Chase Sterling—the captain of the football team, the golden boy, the sun around which Crestwood Academy orbited. To get Chase’s attention, Vivian bullied anyone who got close to him, especially the scholarship student, Grace Miller. And Liam? Liam was just Vivian’s punching bag. She used him to vent her frustrations. She mocked his scars, humiliated him publicly, and eventually pushed him too far. In the original book, Liam kills Vivian on the night of the Senior Prom, framing it as a suicide, which kicks off his career as a high-functioning sociopath. I had about six months until Prom. Tick tock. The next day, the cafeteria was a war zone of social hierarchy. I walked in, my tray trembling slightly in my hands. Usually, Vivian sat at the “Table of Gods” in the center, flanked by her minions. I looked over. Chase was there, laughing loudly, his arm draped over a chair. Grace Miller was walking past, and I saw Chase wink at her. The main plot was moving along nicely. I ignored them. I scanned the perimeter. The outcasts. The stoners. The kids who ate quickly so they could leave. There, in the far back corner, sitting alone near the trash cans, was Liam. He had his hood up. He was picking at a sandwich that looked like two pieces of stale bread and nothing else. I took a deep breath. Don’t die. Just be nice. I walked past my usual table. My “friends”—Jessica and Chloe—waved at me. “Viv! Over here!” Jessica squealed. “Not today,” I murmured, clutching my tray. The cafeteria went silent as I approached the back corner. It was like the parting of the Red Sea, if the sea was made of teenagers wearing Abercrombie and judgment. I slammed my tray down opposite Liam. He flinched. His hand instinctively went to his pocket—I knew he carried a box cutter there. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “What game is this, Vanderbuilt? You want to pour milk on me again? Or maybe you brought your friends to film it this time?” His voice was tired. That was what broke my heart. He wasn’t even angry yet; he was just exhausted by the cruelty of his existence. “No game,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I opened my expensive bento box. Inside was sushi, fresh fruit, and a Godiva truffle. “I just… I don’t like the noise in the center.” Liam stared at me. He stared at the sushi. Then he looked back at me. “You’re out of your mind,” he muttered, and went back to staring at his empty bread. I pushed my tray toward him. “I’m allergic to crab.” “Liar,” he said. “I saw you eating crab cakes yesterday.” Crap. Vivian had no allergies. “I developed it overnight,” I lied smoothly. “Medical mystery. Look, just eat it. Or throw it away. I don’t care.” I pulled out my AP History textbook and pretended to read. For five minutes, he didn’t move. Then, I heard the subtle sound of chopsticks. I risked a glance. He was eating. Fast. Like someone who didn’t know when his next meal was coming. We sat in silence. The rest of the cafeteria was whispering, cell phones out, recording the downfall of the Queen Bee. But I didn’t care. I looked at the faint purple bruises on his wrist, peeking out from his sleeve. His father. The drunk who beat him every time he lost money at the track. I have to save him, I thought. Not just to save myself. But because nobody deserves this. Part III: The Umbrella It rained in Crestwood for three weeks straight in November. The kind of relentless, freezing rain that soaked through your soul. I was waiting for my driver, standing under the massive portico of the school entrance. My Mercedes pulled up. As I walked toward it, I saw a figure walking toward the bus stop. No umbrella. Just that soaking wet hoodie. Liam was limping slightly. “Stop the car,” I told the driver. “Miss Vivian?” “I said stop!” I grabbed the oversized golf umbrella from the backseat and jumped out. My Gucci loafers splashed into a puddle. “Liam!” I shouted over the roar of the rain. He didn’t stop. He kept walking, head down against the wind. I ran after him. I wasn’t built for running. I was out of breath by the time I caught up, shielding him with the umbrella. The sudden silence of the rain hitting the canopy made us both jump. He stopped and turned. Water was dripping from his nose, his scars standing out starkly against his pale skin. “What do you want?” he yelled. “Are you trying to see how pathetic I look? Is this funny to you?” “Get in the car, Liam,” I shouted back. “Go to hell.” “You’re limping! Just get in the damn car! I’ll drop you off!” “I’d rather walk on broken glass than get in a car with you.”

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