Category: English

I’m what you’d call a “Chatterbox Yandere.” A Stage-5 Clinger with a motor mouth. After school let out for the summer, I screamed “Mom!” about three hundred times a day. She finally snapped. She personally drove me six hundred miles across state lines, tricked me into getting out of the car, and dumped me. “Actually, sweetie, you have a childhood fiancé we arranged for you. Go harass him instead.” I turned around, and a face of absolute, icy perfection appeared before me. My possessiveness spiked instantly. I started haunting him like a poltergeist, clinging to him 24/7. “Location drop! Send it now!!! (Rage)” “Who were you texting? Why did you leave me on read for thirty minutes? (Interrogation)” “Who was that bitch kissing you in my dream last night? (Dark aura)” “Explain yourself! Is it that hard to say a single word? Huh? (Suffocating)” The butler looked at the boy, who looked like he wanted to un-alive himself, and whispered weakly: “Miss… our Young Master is mute.” 1 My dad is a possessive psycho. My mom is a ray of sunshine. They combined their DNA and created me: a obsessive compulsive yapper. Growing up, everyone around me lived in my shadow. My dad ran multiple psych evals on me. Only after confirming I was “all bark, no bite” did he cancel the reservation at the asylum. Junior year summer break. My bestie said goodbye with tears in her eyes, then sprinted away like Usain Bolt. I had no one to talk to, so I stuck to my mom like glue. Why? Because my dad has hearing loss. He takes out his hearing aids and literally ghosts me while sitting in the same room. One night, I had a nightmare. I knocked on their bedroom door, looking like the girl from The Ring. They took forever to open it. My dad didn’t even hide his annoyance, his voice rasping. “Jade, what do you want now?” I pushed past him, staring at my mom with the eyes of a Victorian widow. “Mom, why didn’t you say goodnight?” “What were you guys doing? Why did it take five minutes to open the door?” “Why was the door locked? We are a family! Explain!” “Mom, I dreamed you had a second baby and threw me in the trash. You wouldn’t do that, right? Hmm?” “Why aren’t you answering? Speak to me!” My mom closed her eyes, grinding her teeth. “Do you think I’d have another kid just to punish myself? One of you is already a life sentence!” I immediately beamed, climbing into bed to cuddle her. “Mommy, I knew you loved me most. Can you tell me the story about the dream you had when you were pregnant with me again?” My dad’s face went cold. He reached out to drag me off the bed, but Mom stopped him. They exchanged a look. My dad actually stopped, closed the door, and left. He didn’t even look mad; he looked… pleased? I was too immersed in the joy of being Mommy’s Favorite to overthink it. So when she suggested a “girls’ road trip,” I agreed without hesitation. The next day, I passed out as soon as I got in the car. Motion sickness is my only weakness; it shuts me up. They looked suspiciously happy. My dad even gave me a rare smile. I slept, woke up, slept again. I don’t know how much time passed before I was physically hauled out of the car. “We’re here.” The car was parked in front of a low-key, old-money estate that screamed generational wealth. Suitcase shoved into my hand. Dad back in driver’s seat. Doors locked. Engine revved. I snapped awake just as the car peeled out of the driveway. Only my mom’s voice drifted back on the wind: “Baby, you actually have an arranged marriage pact with this family! Go bother your future husband! We’ll pick you up when school starts!” My face darkened instantly. They dared to trick me? “Miss Sterling.” A respectful, middle-aged voice called out. I turned my head. My gloomy, murderous eyes instantly turned into heart emojis. I take it back. Mom is a real one. Standing there was a boy who looked like he walked out of a K-drama. Red lips, pale skin, tall and slender like bamboo. He lowered his eyes coldly, showing zero curiosity about his sudden fiancée. The butler in the sharp suit next to him was enthusiastic, though. “Miss Sterling, this is our Young Master. You—” I rushed forward like a hurricane, vibrating with excitement. “Oh my god, I knew it. One look and I know you’re my future husband!” “What’s your name?” “Hmm? Why aren’t you talking? Are you shy?” “Fine, I’ll just call you Hubby-Wubby.” Meeting his stiff, dead-inside gaze, I had an epiphany. “Right, I shouldn’t be so forward. I need parental approval. Where are your parents? Take me to pay my respects.” The butler’s face dropped. The boy stopped looking at me, pursed his lips, and turned to walk away. 2 I met Grandpa Silas—the owner of the estate—and learned the boy’s name was Silas. His parents died in an accident when he was six. The PTSD made him go mute. He hasn’t spoken a word since. “Your grandfather and I were war buddies,” Grandpa Silas explained. “We made a pact as a joke back then. Obviously, no one is forcing you. We just wanted you two to be friends.” He looked at my relieved expression and sighed heavily. “Silas has had a hard life. No dad, no mom, mocked for being mute… I don’t know how many years I have left. Jade, if you aren’t willing…” I waved my hand, already considering Silas my property. “Who said I’m not willing? Don’t worry, Grandpa. I’m loyal to a fault. This Hubby is mine!” Thank god he’s not deaf. If he was like my dad, how would I survive? Grandpa Silas grinned so hard his dentures almost slipped. We chatted for two hours. It was like soulmates meeting across time. Eventually, the butler mentioned it was getting dark. I reluctantly went to my guest room. Right next to Silas’s room. I knocked. He didn’t open. “Hubby? Open up. Don’t hide in there being silent. I know you’re awake.” “Aren’t you curious about your fiancée? Don’t you want to know if I like Mom or Dad more? My GPA? If I’ve ever received a love letter? My favorite anime? If I like sunny days or rain? The color of my pajamas? My thread count?” He didn’t respond for a full hour. But I talked myself into a great mood and went to sleep satisfied. Finally! Someone who listens to me for an hour without interrupting! The next morning, Silas was eating breakfast. I scooted over. “Yo, you like wontons? Crazy coincidence. There’s a shop near my school that sells the best wontons. The line is insane. I’ll take you there. Speaking of lines, there’s a supermarket sale… oh, by the way, what color are your boxers?” Cough, cough! The butler, who was smiling like a proud auntie, choked on air. Silas finally put down his spoon. His exquisite brows furrowed. His entire body screamed: GET AWAY FROM ME. But after living with my dad’s resting bitch face for 17 years, my skin is thicker than a bank vault. I turned to the butler. The butler cleared his throat and whispered: “Black.” Silas shot up from his chair, his eyes filled with disbelief and humiliation. “Young Master, the Master said to inform Miss Jade of anything she is interested in. Detailed information.” Silas turned cold and stormed off. I chased him. “We should add each other on Snapchat. Or WeChat. Speaking of WeChat, isn’t the ‘Press to Hold’ voice note feature so aggressive? Hahahaha…” SLAM. His bedroom door nearly took my nose off. I rubbed my face and yelled downstairs. “Uncle Butler! Speaking of boxers, I forgot to ask about the size. Does he—” The door opened again. With a face red as a tomato, Silas shoved a phone into my face. QR code. Add friend. I grinned. Gotcha. 3 From then on, wherever he went, I was the yapping tail behind him. Silas went from ignoring me to being annoyed, and finally, to resigning himself to his fate. I mapped out his incredibly boring routine. Breakfast -> Room. Lunch -> Room. Water plants -> Room. Currently, I was staring at him watering the hydrangeas. His movements were fluid and graceful. Silas glanced at me, confused. He seemed to be asking why I was so quiet today. I was suddenly moved. Tears welled up. Sob. Life really is different depending on who you’re with. Grandpa Silas and the butler walked by at that moment. Grandpa slammed his cane down and glared at Silas. “Are you bullying Jade again?” Silas: “…” He pursed his lips, accepting the blame silently. I stopped Grandpa. “It’s not him. It’s just… I’m too emotional. My parents think I’m annoying. Only Silas listens quietly. He never interrupts. Meeting him is my blessing. I’ll treat him well forever!” Silence fell over the garden. I wiped my eyes, unaware of the awkward atmosphere, and seamlessly pivoted. “By the way, Grandpa, where have you been? Busy? Why didn’t you reply to my text? Are you free to chat tonight? I heard you like fishing. I know a spot. Speaking of fish…” Grandpa Silas and the butler exchanged a panicked look, laughed nervously, pretended a fake alarm went off on their watch, and bolted. Sigh. True listeners are hard to find. At least I found the one who understands me. I turned back to look at Silas. He had his back to me, watering the plants. But his spine was stiff, and the tips of his ears were burning red. That night, after sending Silas my 1,000th message of the day, I got sleepy. Just as I was passing out, my best friend Ginger FaceTimed me. She’s the only person who can tolerate me (barely). “Something’s wrong, Jade. You used to send me 500 texts a day. Why has it been radio silence lately?” She squinted at my guilty face on the screen. “Oh my god. You’re seeing someone behind my back?” “Is he better than me? Can he handle ten years of your non-stop harassment?” “Better not let me catch him, or I’ll chop him into confetti.” Her accusations were getting wild, so I explained the situation. We talked until midnight. She came to a sour conclusion: Silas is just tolerating you. He’s suffering in silence. Literally. “Impossible,” I said. “We are soulmates!” That night, I had a nightmare. In the dream, Silas was hooking up with some random woman. I tried to stop him, and he looked at me coldly and said one word: Leave. I woke up sweating. My possessiveness hit me like a truck. I didn’t even put on slippers. I marched downstairs with a dark cloud over my head, grabbed Silas by the collar while he was eating oatmeal. In his shocked eyes, I exploded: “Report to me! Send your location!!! (Rage)” “Who were you texting? Why didn’t you reply for 30 minutes? (Interrogation)” “Who was that bitch kissing you in my dream? (Darkness)” “Explain! Is it hard to speak? Huh? (Suffocation)” The butler whispered in my ear, “Miss… he’s mute.” I froze. I loosened my grip and patted his collar. “Oh. Don’t be scared, baby. I was possessed by a demon just now. I didn’t mean to yell. I just like you too much. You understand, right? (Puppy eyes)” Silas slapped my hand away coldly and typed on his phone. My phone pinged. 【I have no obligation to report to you.】 My fingernails dug into my palm. I looked up, smiling creepily. “Great. I hope you don’t regret that.” 4 Silas checked his phone for the tenth time. Usually, by now, he’d have hundreds of unread notifications. But today? Nothing. Not a single ping from morning til night. Silas thought coldly: This is how it should be. But a strange irritation kept bubbling up in his chest. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. He quickly grabbed a book, checking the mirror to make sure his frown was relaxing. He didn’t realize he was relieved. But it wasn’t the familiar, aggressive knocking. It was the butler talking to a maid. “Miss Jade hasn’t come out all day?” “No. And she looked scary when she went in. She had a fruit knife…” Silas’s heart stopped. He recalled her last words: I hope you don’t regret that. He bolted upright, threw the door open, and marched to Jade’s room in front of the shocked staff. Knock. No answer. He took a deep breath and kicked the door open. A thick, spicy aroma hit him in the face. The smell of hotpot. Jade paused mid-slice, knife hovering over a slab of beef. They stared at each other. … Silas looked at the table full of food. His expression was… complicated. He pulled out his phone. 【When you said ‘regret,’ did you mean regretting not watching you eat yourself to death?】 Me: “…” I ignored him and kept slicing meat. He stood in the doorway, not leaving. The air had never been this quiet. Ding. Another message. 【I’m sorry.】 I looked up. He was looking down, almost nervous. My anger vanished instantly. I know I inherited my dad’s “yandere” genes. When someone I like treats others well, I get destructive urges. But my mom’s vanity neutralizes it. Whenever I want to hurt myself, I look in the mirror, see my glowing skin, and think: I can’t damage this masterpiece. As for hurting others? My mom made me watch “True Crime Daily” growing up. I know the law. People who don’t understand me aren’t worth jail time. So, I found the best outlet: Slicing meat. The feeling of a sharp blade through beef calms me down. But I hate sharing food when I’m mad. Wait. Silas kicked the door down. Was he… worried? I hesitated. “You want some?” He actually nodded. He walked over and sat opposite me naturally. The butler watched with a goofy grin and quietly closed the door. I tried to stay quiet, but Silas typed: 【Tell me about yourself. I want to listen.】 My eyes lit up. “Really?” He nodded. That hotpot lasted four hours. My mouth ran like a wild horse. Silas listened intently, nodding at the right times. Even Ginger tells me to shut up after a few hundred sentences. Oh God. I really found my soulmate. Overcome with emotion, I lunged across the table and hugged him. “Hubby! Meeting you is the best thing that ever happened to me!” Silas stopped breathing. He stiffened into a statue, but his pale face turned a deep shade of crimson.

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The year Julian Sterling became the nation’s top scorer on the SATs, Harvard and MIT were so desperate to recruit him that they offered him a special “Plus One” scholarship—he could bring anyone he wanted with him. Everyone assumed he would give that spot to me. But in the end, the girl who walked through the gates of Harvard Yard with him wasn’t me. It was the transfer student, Ivy Brooks. “Harvard is Ivy’s dream,” Julian told me, his voice calm and reasonable. “She needs this opportunity more than you do.” He said my grades were mediocre anyway, that I’d just be looked down on if I went to an Ivy League school. So he “helped” me apply to an art school in New York instead. “Wait for me,” he promised. “When we graduate, we’ll get married.” I didn’t wait. I packed my bags and flew to Paris to study art on my own terms. Years later, we met again. Julian stared at the ring on my finger, his eyes red and wet. “Why?” he choked out. “You said you’d only ever marry me.” 1 It had been seven years since high school graduation. The first time I heard Julian Sterling’s name in nearly a decade was at JFK Airport, waiting for a flight back home. The girl sitting next to me kept glancing my way. Finally, on the seventh look, she leaned in. “Lily? Lily Harper?” I looked up, confused. Her face didn’t ring a bell. “It is you! Do you remember me? We went to Westview High together!” Seeing my blank stare, she tried harder. “We were in the drama club? We painted the sets for Grease?” High school felt like a lifetime ago. I racked my brain, but nothing came up. She didn’t seem to mind. “It’s okay if you don’t remember me. But you definitely remember Julian Sterling, right?” Julian Sterling. The moment that name hit the air, my mask slipped. My eyes must have betrayed me because she clapped her hands together. “I knew it! You guys were the Golden Couple of Westview High!” “Remember when Julian got that perfect SAT score? Harvard practically begged him to attend and told him he could bring his girlfriend along.” Her eyes sparkled with gossip. “So? Did you guys go to Harvard together? Are you married now? Are you here on a business trip?” She fired off questions like a machine gun. I didn’t hear most of them. My mind was already spinning, dragging up memories I thought I had buried deep. Luckily, the boarding announcement saved me. “Sorry, that’s my flight,” I said, standing up abruptly. She looked confused as I hurried away, leaving her questions hanging in the stale airport air. 2 My escape didn’t calm me down. For the entire seven-hour flight, the name “Julian Sterling” echoed in my head like a cursed mantra. Julian was my childhood sweetheart. My “bamboo horse,” as they say. He was Westview High’s prodigy. He won every math Olympiad, every science fair. When he scored a perfect 1600 on the SATs, recruiters were camping on his front lawn. Harvard and MIT fought over him. To sweeten the deal, they offered him a rare “Partner Admission”—a guaranteed spot for a significant other. Before Julian even made a decision, people were already congratulating me. Everyone knew. Lily and Julian were inseparable. We were a package deal. Sitting in my cramped economy seat, I recalled the envy on that girl’s face at the airport. A bitter, ironic smile touched my lips. Seven years later, and people still didn’t know the truth. The girl who went to Harvard with Julian wasn’t me. 3 I spent the flight in a daze. It wasn’t until I landed and heard his voice that the fog lifted. “Hey. You land okay?” “Yeah. Just touched down.” “You sound off. Everything alright?” Five words, and he knew. I marveled at Ethan’s intuition. “Just jet lag,” I lied. I didn’t want to burden him with my high school drama. “Get to the hotel and sleep. I’ll call you later.” “Okay.” I hung up and took a cab to the hotel. I tried to sleep, but my phone buzzed. It was Sarah, my old class president. “Lily! You’re back in the States? Why didn’t you tell anyone?!” I was surprised. “How did you know?” “The alumni group chat! Check it!” I hadn’t logged into that Facebook group in years. I barely remembered my password. I scrolled back. Two days ago, someone had posted a candid photo of me at the airport. [OMG! Guess who I saw at JFK? It’s Lily Harper!] [I was scared to ask, but it’s totally her. She looks even more gorgeous now. So chic!] The photo was a side profile of me dozing off near the gate. The chat exploded. [Is it really her? She hasn’t aged a day.] [Is she alone? Where’s Julian? Aren’t they inseparable?] I scrolled down. Julian’s name appeared again and again. It was like we were still tethered together in everyone’s minds. Then, a message stopped the flow. [Wait, you guys don’t know? Julian and Lily broke up right after graduation.] The chat went wild. [What?!] [No way. Julian worshipped the ground she walked on.] [Why would they break up?] I closed the app. I didn’t need to read the theories. Sarah was still talking in my ear. “So, you’re in New York? I’m in the city too! We have to grab dinner!” Sarah was the only person from high school I kept in touch with. I agreed. That one “yes” led me straight into the path of the one person I had spent seven years avoiding. Julian Sterling. 4 It was a setup. Or maybe just cosmic bad luck. Sarah picked a trendy restaurant in SoHo. When I walked in, she hugged me tight. “I missed you so much! You look amazing!” She linked her arm in mine, chattering away as we walked toward our table. “You know, Mr. Harrison still talks about you. He was so bummed you didn’t go to art school in the States. He tells every freshman class about your talent.” “And honestly, I still don’t get it. Why did you leave over Julian? It wasn’t worth it…” She stopped dead in her tracks. I followed her gaze. Standing near the coat check was a man. Julian. 5 It had been seven years. I had imagined this moment a thousand times. What would he look like? He was wearing a white dress shirt and black slacks. The boyish softness was gone, replaced by sharp angles and a cold, professional aura. He looked successful. Mature. But his eyes—those dark, distant eyes—were exactly the same. Sarah looked back and forth between us, the air suddenly heavy and awkward. “Julian, everyone’s here. We’re just waiting for you.” A soft, melodic voice drifted from behind him. A woman walked up to Julian. She placed a hand on his arm, then noticed us. She froze. Her eyes widened in shock. “Lily…?” I recognized the panic in her voice. It was Ivy Brooks. I looked at her, calm and composed. Honestly, she had no reason to be nervous. She was the winner. I was the one who fled the country. If that girl from the airport were here, I could finally tell her the truth. “The girl who went to Harvard with Julian wasn’t me.” It was her. Ivy Brooks. 6 Before we were seventeen, Julian and I were basically the same person. We were born on the same day, in the same hospital. Our moms were best friends. We went to the same preschool, same elementary, same middle school. Julian gave me his first Valentine’s card. He got into his first fistfight defending my honor. When I got my first period at school, he was the one who ran to the store to buy me pads. We were inevitable. Everyone said so. Then came sophomore year. And Ivy Brooks. She was a transfer student from a small town. Quiet, studious, plain. I didn’t pay attention to her until midterms, when she scored second in the class—just one point behind Julian. “Whoa,” Sarah had said, looking at the ranking sheet. “Someone’s finally giving Julian a run for his money.” “Please,” I laughed. “Julian’s a genius. She won’t catch him.” I was wrong. She didn’t just catch him. She caught his attention.

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The dating profile claimed she was a teacher, but she showed up to the restaurant with ten friends, immediately ordered eight bottles of vintage Bordeaux, and enough Wagyu and Australian lobster to feed a small army, announcing it was a test of my financial viability. I simply smiled. I walked calmly up to the front desk and deposited a thousand dollars onto my account. Then, I left a message for the waiter: “The remaining balance will be settled by the beautiful lady in the restroom touching up her makeup. If she refuses, call the police.” 1 Twilight had settled over the city, the neon slicing through the thin haze like countless prying eyes. I was seated in the plush leather booth of The Gilded Coterie, my fingertip tracing the chilled glass of an unused wine goblet. The air hung thick with a peculiar, heady mixture: expensive perfume, seafood, and the aggressive scent of money. It was nauseating. The woman across from me was Sierra Wells, introduced via a distant contact of my mother’s—one of those well-meaning, meddling suburban matchmakers. Her profile had promised an elementary school English teacher, a product of a “refined background,” gentle and intellectual. Yet, here she was, giggling conspiratorially with her ten so-called “best friends.” Their laughter was a high, grating sound, sharp enough to cut through the opulent silence of the private dining room. Their gazes swept over me like floodlights, missing no detail: the brand of my watch, the subtle weave of my custom-tailored shirt, the keys to my German sedan resting casually on the tablecloth. “Rhys, I hear from the matchmaker that you run your own firm. A big success, isn’t it?” A woman with aggressive scarlet nails leaned forward, her décolletage a deliberate distraction. I adjusted my classic-frame glasses. My expression, framed by the lens, was perfectly neutral. “A small operation,” I answered, my tone mild. “Just enough to keep the lights on.” Sierra took a slow sip of the ruby-red liquid—vintage Bordeaux, which they’d ordered the moment they arrived, eight bottles deep, without consulting a single person. She looked at me with the assessing gaze of a buyer inspecting a commodity, a small, calculating smile playing on her lips. “Oh, Rhys Harrington, don’t be modest. Brenda Moyer told my friend that you’ve done quite well for yourself. A few properties downtown, I hear?” Her voice was just loud enough to carry across the long table. The ten women inhaled in an exaggerated, collective gasp. Their eyes, already hot with curiosity, now burned with renewed interest. Brenda Moyer. My mother’s Zumba buddy. I mentally rolled my eyes. It seemed my financial history was her favorite piece of gossip. “Just rumors, Sierra. Nothing worth repeating,” I maintained, my composure undisturbed. “Oh, but a man should show his strength!” another heavily made-up friend interjected. “Sierra is the prettiest of our group; the men lining up for her stretch down the block. Her agreeing to see you is a real privilege.” “Exactly,” a third chimed in, their voices a well-rehearsed chorus. “Our Sierra has impeccable taste. She doesn’t waste time on men who lack the necessary economic viability.” The message was singular, direct, and delivered with the force of a battering ram: Prove your sincerity with cash if you want to court our princess. I lowered my eyes to the wreckage on the table. The skeletal remains of the huge Australian lobsters, the bone fragments from the high-grade Wagyu, and the untouched sides of expensive, gourmet fare. This wasn’t a date. This was a sophisticated, high-end ambush. And I was the prey, surrounded by predators. Sierra kept her cool, demure smile, acting the part of a princess above the fray. But the flicker of greed and sharp calculation in her eyes stripped away the fragile veneer of her innocence. The room grew warmer, the conversation bolder. “Is that the latest model sedan you drive, Rhys? Over a hundred thousand, I bet?” “And that watch of yours… enough to buy each of us a new designer bag, right?” I continued to offer nothing but polite smiles and noncommittal phrases, maintaining an air of detached ease. In their eyes, my silence was not a sign of restraint, but an admission of weakness and consent. Finally, Sierra rose, swaying her hips slightly in the tightly-fitted dress. “I’m going to the restroom to touch up my makeup,” she announced, offering me a saccharine smile—a victorious look that suggested the hunt was already over. Her friends followed, some claiming they needed a smoke break, others saying they’d accompany her. Within seconds, the cavernous private room held only me and the evidence of their plunder. I sat for three full minutes, listening to their muffled, excited whispers fade down the hallway. Perfect. The charade was over. I stood up slowly, smoothing the jacket of my suit, ensuring there wasn’t a single wrinkle. Then, with deliberate, unhurried steps, I walked out of the room. I didn’t head toward the restrooms. I went straight to the restaurant’s opulent front desk. The hostess, dressed in a sleek uniform, gave me a professional smile. “Good evening, sir. How may I help you?” “The check,” I said simply. Her smile broadened. “Of course, sir. The total consumption for your table comes to thirty-one thousand, six hundred, and eighty dollars. We’ll round it down to thirty-one thousand six hundred.” I nodded and pulled my bank card from my wallet. “Here’s the thing,” I said. “I currently have exactly one thousand dollars in liquid cash available on this card. Please deduct that amount first.” The hostess’s professional smile shattered, replaced by an expression of baffled disbelief. She looked at me as if I’d spoken an alien language. “Sir… Are you serious?” “Do I look like I’m joking?” I countered calmly. I handed her the card. “Swipe the thousand.” She hesitated, then, under a discreet signal from the manager nearby, took the card and ran the transaction. The receipt printed out. I tucked the card and the slip away, then leaned in, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “The remaining balance will be settled by the beautiful lady in the restroom touching up her makeup.” I gestured toward the far hallway with a slight tilt of my head. “Her name is Sierra Wells. She was the host. If she refuses to pay, you are authorized to call the police immediately. She is skipping out on the check.” Without waiting for her spectacular expression to change, I turned, my stride steady and long, and walked out of The Gilded Coterie without a backward glance. The cool night air hit my face, dissipating the oppressive heat of the dining room. I took a deep breath. I felt lighter than I had in months. My phone screen glowed with an incoming call—my mother, no doubt checking on the progress of the date. I silenced the ringer and dropped the phone into my pocket. Tonight, I wasn’t speaking to anyone. Let that thirty-thousand-dollar bill be my little housewarming gift to Ms. Wells and her cadre of excellent friends. 2 Back at my condo, I took a long, hot shower, washing away the stench of expensive perfume, stale air, and social maneuvering. Dressed in comfortable loungewear, I sat in my study, the faint light of the computer screen illuminating my face. I didn’t spare a single thought for Sierra Wells’s current state of panic, or how she was managing the spectacle. An adult is responsible for her own actions. The moment they stepped into that restaurant with a plan to fleece me, the ending was inevitable. My phone vibrated a dozen times on silent mode. Sierra’s name flashed repeatedly, followed by a series of unknown numbers. I picked up the device and, without a shred of emotion, dragged her contact into the blocked list. The world went quiet again. The next morning, I went to work as usual. Life seemed to have snapped back into place, the absurd dinner feeling like a bad dream. But I knew better. A woman as high on her own ambition and as prone to vengeance as Sierra Wells wouldn’t simply swallow this insult. Trouble arrived that afternoon. My friend, Nolan Scott, pinged me a link with a simple message: “You’ve gone viral, Rhys.” I clicked on the link. It led to a major local social media group, something dedicated to neighborhood gossip and local politics. The title was shocking, visceral: “Heart-Wrenching Accusation! The Soulless Scammer Who Played an Innocent Teacher, Where Is the Justice?!” The ID of the poster was “Humble_Heart_Sierra,” and the profile picture was a soft, filtered side-profile, the background intentionally blurred to suggest a classroom chalkboard. It was Sierra. Of course. The post was a masterpiece of contrived victimhood, a moving, tear-soaked tale. She described herself as a humble, hardworking public school teacher from a modest background, seeking only a reliable man for a stable life. She claimed she’d been introduced to me—a man who looked successful. She wrote that I pursued her aggressively and insisted on taking her out. To avoid letting me overspend, she’d brought a few friends for company, thinking a larger group would make the atmosphere lighter. Instead, she claimed, I ostentatiously ordered an entire table of unimaginably expensive dishes to flaunt my wealth. Then, under the pretense of going to the restroom, I had run away. I had abandoned her, a vulnerable woman, to face a monstrous thirty-thousand-dollar bill alone, leaving her hysterical and distraught. “I was frozen,” she wrote. “My hands and feet were ice-cold. My friends were terrified; they’re regular working women, they’d never seen anything like this. I had to bite the bullet, max out every credit card I had, call my elderly parents, and borrow from every single relative just to cover the bill. When I finally stumbled out of the restaurant, it was the middle of the night. Walking alone on the empty street, I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. All I wanted was a simple, honest relationship. Why did I have to meet a monster?” She included a photo of the blurred restaurant bill, the final, enormous number clearly visible. The entire post was polished, tear-jerking, and calculated to incite immediate, furious sympathy. I almost believed her ghost-written plight myself. The comment section was already a dumpster fire. “HOLY COW! This guy is utter trash! A sociopath!” “Poor Sierra. Sending a huge hug. Don’t let this get to you.” “Someone needs to Dox this scum and run him out of the city!” “Justice for Ms. Wells! Society is so unfair to women!” Sierra was smart; she hadn’t named me directly, but the details—“runs his own firm,” “wears gold-rimmed glasses”—were specific enough to leave little doubt. Worse, she’d anonymously shared the post into a local “Moms and Tots” group, where people claiming to be her co-workers or friends jumped in to “confirm” the story. “It’s true, Sierra cried all night. Her eyes are so swollen.” “I think I know the guy, the one who owns the tech company. I knew he had a bad reputation.” “She’s a respected educator, to be abused like this is just heartbreaking.” The teacher title granted her an instant moral halo, a free pass to the public’s sympathy. Sierra was exploiting this perfectly. She had crafted herself into the perfect victim, and me into the unforgivable villain: the arrogant, heartless scammer who flaunted his wealth and dodged the check. I stared at the screen, a cold, sharp fire igniting in my chest. I had underestimated her ruthlessness, and the terrifying power of a manipulated crowd. This game, it seemed, was only just beginning. I picked up my phone and called Nolan Scott. “Nolan? You free? I need a favor.” 3 “My mother just called. She ripped me to shreds.” My voice was flat, devoid of emotion, as if discussing a character in a book. Nolan was silent for a few seconds, then I heard the familiar flick of a lighter. “Your mom knows? That spread fast.” “Brenda Moyer—the matchmaker—saw the post in some community feed, added her own spin, and called my mother. Now she’s convinced I tormented a ‘sweet, hardworking girl’ and wants me to apologize immediately and pay the tab.” I leaned back in my chair, the agitation creeping up my spine. More painful than the venom of strangers was the lack of understanding from family. My mother could never grasp the nuance; in her world, a teacher could not be a bad person. She would only see me as the cold, unforgiving son. “So what’s the move? Argue with the internet? I’m telling you, it’s useless. Emotions are running too high. You explain, they see deflection. You clarify, they see guilt,” Nolan’s voice was coolly analytical. “I’m not that stupid,” I replied. “We’ve already lost the opening skirmish on the battlefield of public opinion. Charging in now is guaranteed social suicide.” “Then what’s the strategy?” “I want her to swallow every lie she spat out, one agonizing bite at a time.” My words were soft, but Nolan knew I wasn’t joking. “Consider it done. Tell me what you need.” His loyalty was a given, an unspoken foundation of our friendship. “I need everything on Sierra Wells. Her social accounts, her actual consumption habits, her inner circle. The more detail, the better. She wants to play the role of the innocent sweetheart? I’m going to peel back every layer and show the world exactly what color she really is.” “A piece of cake,” Nolan replied instantly. “I’ll get started. But you also need to make a move. The surveillance footage from that restaurant is your primary evidence.” “I know.” I hung up and looked out the window at the dull, overcast sky. The outline of the city seemed vague, uncertain. Public opinion was like this weather: seemingly overwhelming, but a strong enough wind will scatter it. My job was to generate that wind. I called The Gilded Coterie and asked for the manager. He sounded instantly cautious when I introduced myself. “Mr. Harrington? Is this about Ms. Wells’s bill? She settled the account.” “I know,” I interrupted. “I’m not calling about the money. I’m calling about my reputation.” I briefly explained the social media campaign. The manager was silent. “Mr. Harrington, we’re a luxury establishment. We can’t just release customer private information.” “I’m not asking you to leak anything,” I countered, my voice gaining an edge. “I need you to preserve the raw security footage and the original order slip from that night. Ms. Wells is publicly claiming I skipped out on a bill—that damages your establishment’s reputation as much as mine. If this escalates, I won’t hesitate to involve my legal team, and then simply providing the evidence won’t be enough.” Pressure and leverage: the most effective tools in the adult world. The manager weighed his options, his tone finally softening. “…I understand, Mr. Harrington. We will archive all relevant evidence. Should the authorities or a legal representative request it, we will fully cooperate.” “Excellent.” I had the promise I needed. Now, I just had to wait for Nolan. Throughout the afternoon, my phone buzzed with screenshots and links from friends—all variations of the same accusatory post. Some were shocked, some were doubtful, and many urged me to post a rebuttal. I ignored them all. Making any move without absolute certainty would be foolish. My mother called again that evening, her voice sterner than before. “Rhys! What is wrong with you? The family group chat is ablaze! You’re making me look ridiculous! Brenda Moyer called me to tell me that poor Sierra was so upset she checked herself into the hospital! You march over there, apologize, and pay back that money! Do you hear me?” “I have not shirked my responsibility,” I said calmly. “You haven’t? She’s a young woman, thirty thousand dollars! How could you let her bear that alone? How did I raise such a heartless son?” My mother’s voice was wet with tears. I closed my eyes, a deep sense of powerlessness washing over me. “Mom, it’s not what you think. Give me time. I will fix this.” “I won’t wait! I’m going to the hospital tomorrow to see Ms. Wells and apologize for your behavior myself!” She hung up with a sharp click. I gripped the phone, my knuckles white. A suffocating knot tightened in my chest. This was Sierra’s true aim. Not just to damage my reputation and finances, but to inject poison into my family life. A cruel and calculated psychological attack. Vicious. And ultimately, stupid. She thought this would force me to surrender? She was wrong. She had stoked not my guilt, but my absolute, cold-blooded resolve to crush her. Nolan’s efficiency was remarkable. By nine that night, a clean, organized dossier landed in my secure email inbox. “The fish is on the hook. Check your mail,” his text read.

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Part I: The Request You work in Corrections long enough, and you stop seeing men. You start seeing files. You see sentencing dates, parole hearings, commissary balances, and disciplinary write-ups. You learn to turn off the part of your brain that wonders why they did it, because if you stare too long into that particular abyss, you’ll never sleep without a bottle of bourbon on the nightstand again. My name is Sergeant Ellis, and I’ve been wearing the gray uniform for the Louisiana Department of Corrections for seven years. I work the “Old & Infirm” block—officially the Special Needs Unit—at a facility that sits smack in the middle of a swamp, about an hour outside of Baton Rouge. The humidity here is a physical weight. It hangs on you like a wet wool blanket, smelling of mud, diesel, and industrial cleaner. The inmates in my block are usually the ones the world has forgotten. The wheelchair-bound, the senile, the ones whose bodies have been ravaged by decades of hard living and harder drugs. They are “The Recovering,” in prison parlance. Most are harmless. Burnt out. But some… some are just waiting. Ray Kincaid was one of those ghosts. Ray was doing a seven-year stretch for distribution—methamphetamine, mostly, with a side of possession with intent. He was forty-two but looked sixty. He had that hollowed-out look of a man whose bones had been brittle-fied by chemicals. His teeth were a wreck, his skin like old parchment. In the unit, he was a non-entity. He never fought, never joined a gang, never raised his voice. He was invisible. That invisibility ended in the summer of 2021. It started on a Tuesday, visitation day. The air conditioning in the visitation room was broken, rattling uselessly against the ninety-degree heat. I was posted by the door, watching the families. You get to know the regulars. Mothers crying, girlfriends looking defiant, kids looking confused. Ray didn’t get many visitors. But that day, his sister, Jenny, had come down from their hometown in the northern part of the parish. I watched them. Jenny looked like a woman holding on by a thread—tired eyes, nervous hands. She and Ray didn’t have a good relationship; you could see it in the way she sat, arms crossed, defensive. She was there to talk business. Their parents’ old farmhouse, a decrepit structure rotting away on family land, was finally up for demolition and redevelopment. The parents were kicking and screaming about it, but the money was necessary. I couldn’t hear everything, but I saw Ray’s demeanor shift. He leaned in, his forehead pressing against the plexiglass. He wasn’t talking about the house or the money. He looked desperate. A kind of frantic, pathetic pleading that I’d seen a hundred times when a junkie needs a favor. “The attic,” he whispered. I caught that much. “The south room. Under the bed.” Jenny looked annoyed. She shook her head. Ray kept pushing. “Just get rid of it, Jen. Please. It’s just junk. Don’t open it. Just take it to the river and sink it. For me. Please.”. I saw Jenny sigh. It was the sigh of a big sister who had spent her entire life cleaning up her little brother’s messes. She nodded, stood up, and left. Ray watched her go, and for a second, I saw something in his eyes that I couldn’t place. I thought it was relief. I was wrong. It was terror. Part II: The Attic Jenny didn’t go straight home to her own place. She drove out to the old Kincaid property. It was a failing structure, choked by kudzu and weeping willow trees, the kind of place that looked like it was bruising under the purple twilight sky. She told us later that she was angry. She felt used. Here she was, trying to save their parents’ retirement fund, and Ray was worried about some box of trash he’d left behind three years ago. But the conditioning of childhood is strong. When Ray begged, she acted. She climbed the narrow, creaking stairs to the attic. The air up there was stifling, trapped for years, smelling of sawdust and rat droppings. She went to the south room, just like he said. She got on her hands and knees and swept her flashlight beam under the rusted iron bedframe. There it was. A large, black, hard-shell suitcase. She dragged it out. It was heavy. Absurdly heavy. The wheels squeaked in protest, cutting tracks through the thick layer of dust. Ray’s instructions had been clear: Don’t open it. Throw it in the river. She dragged it to the top of the stairs. She stopped. The weight of the thing bothered her. What kind of “junk” weighed this much? Old tools? Stolen copper wire? Drugs? If she was going to risk a felony by dumping it in the river, she deserved to know what she was carrying. She sat on the top step, sweating in the heat, and stared at the zipper. She decided to take a peek. Just a quick look. She unzipped the main compartment. The zipper was stiff, corroded by time and humidity. It gave way with a tearing sound. The smell didn’t drift out; it punched her. It was a physical wall of stench—a thick, sweet, cloying rot that instantly coated the back of her throat with the taste of grease and copper. It was the smell of bad meat, magnified a thousand times. Jenny gagged, covering her nose with her shirt, but she didn’t look away. Not yet. She pushed the lid back. Inside, the contents were wrapped in layer after layer of industrial cling film. But the plastic was transparent enough. And time had done its work. What lay inside was a soup of organic decay. A slurry of dark, greenish-black fluid pooled at the bottom. In the center of the mess was a shape that was undeniably human. A skull, grinning through the slime. A ribcage, collapsed in on itself. The flesh had mostly liquefied or turned to a wax-like substance, but the bones remained, curled in a fetal position. Jenny screamed. She scrambled backward, crab-walking away from the open case, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. But in that split second of horror, her brain registered something else. Something that made no sense. The adult skeleton was curled up, yes. But tucked underneath the pelvic bone… sitting in the sludge near the thigh… was another set of bones. Tiny bones. A skull the size of an orange. Ribs like toothpicks. There were two bodies in the box. Part III: The Transport The call came into the prison the next morning. The local Sheriff’s department had secured the scene, but given that the primary suspect was already in state custody, the investigation required coordination. Detective Miller, a homicide veteran from the parish seat, was running the show. He needed Ray Kincaid brought to the county holding facility for interrogation. As a Sergeant in Ray’s unit and a former intake officer, I was assigned to the transport detail and to act as a liaison. I walked Ray out of his cell in cuffs and leg irons. He looked smaller than usual. He didn’t ask where we were going. He knew. The drive was quiet. Ray stared out the window at the passing cypress trees and the endless green monotony of the cane fields. “You talk to your sister lately, Ray?” I asked, watching him in the rearview mirror. He didn’t blink. “She opened it, didn’t she?” “Yeah, Ray. She opened it.” He just closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cage. When we arrived at the county station, the atmosphere was frantic. Detective Miller met us at the sally port. Miller was a big man, balding, with a permanent coffee stain on his tie and the exhausted demeanor of a man who had seen too much evil to be surprised by it anymore. “Sergeant Ellis,” he grunted, shaking my hand. “Welcome to the freak show.” “How bad is it?” I asked. “Bad,” Miller said, lighting a cigarette despite the ‘No Smoking’ sign. “We got the preliminary look from the coroner. The bodies have been in that box for over a decade. The heat in that attic… it basically pressure-cooked them. We’re dealing with soup and bones. DNA is going to be a nightmare. We tried to get a sample from the rib cartilage, but it was too degraded. We’re sending a femur to the state lab, but it’s gonna take time.” “Two bodies?” I confirmed. “Yep. One adult female. One infant. The baby was tucked right up under her.” Miller took a long drag. “We need him to talk, Ellis. Without a name for the victim, we’re just guessing. We can pin abuse of a corpse on him, maybe, but we want a murder charge. And for that, we need to know who she was.” “He’s a ghost,” I warned him. “In the prison, he doesn’t say a word to anyone. He might just clam up.” Miller smirked. “Everyone talks eventually. Especially when they think they’re smarter than you.” Part IV: The Hoodoo Man The interrogation room was cold, a sharp contrast to the sweltering heat outside. Ray sat handcuffed to the table, shivering slightly in his orange jumpsuit. Miller didn’t waste time. He threw photos of the suitcase on the table. Glossy 8x10s of the horror show Jenny had found. “You want to tell me about your roommates, Ray?” Miller asked. Ray looked at the photos. He didn’t flinch. “I didn’t kill ’em,” he said. His voice was like grinding gravel. “Is that right?” Miller sat down. “Hard to argue with the fact that they were under your bed.” “I know they were there,” Ray said. “I put ’em there. But I didn’t kill ’em. I bought ’em.” I stood in the corner, arms crossed, listening. This was a new one. “You bought them?” Miller raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Look, you know I used. Back then… 2007, 2008… I was using heavy,” Ray began. He started spinning a story that was so bizarre, so specifically Southern, that it almost sounded plausible. Ray claimed he had gone down to the bayou to score off some drifters—two locals, heavy into the occult. He said they were “Root Doctors” or something similar. They got high together, and these dealers told Ray he had a black cloud over him. Said he was leaking luck, that death was stalking him. “They told me I needed a ‘sink’,” Ray explained, his hands shaking. “Something to catch the bad spirits. A vessel. They said the best vessel is a ‘Gris-Gris Girl.’ A fresh corpse.”. Ray claimed he was terrified. He was a superstitious man—a lot of these rural guys are. They grow up hearing stories about hants and curses. He told the dealers he couldn’t kill anyone. “They laughed at me,” Ray said. “Said they had plenty. Said their product was the best because it was grown on ‘human fertilizer.’ They offered to sell me one.” . According to Ray, a week later, they delivered the suitcase. They told him it contained a “charmed” female corpse. “They gave me rules,” Ray whispered, leaning forward, eyes wide. “They said, ‘Don’t open it.’ They said if I opened it, the worms inside would crawl out and eat my eyes. They said I had to sleep on top of it. Said if I dreamt of a woman talking to me, the luck was changing.” . “You paid for a dead body?” Miller asked, incredulous. “Two thousand dollars,” Ray said. “Half-price, they said. A favor.”. “And the baby?” Miller pressed. “Did you buy a two-for-one special?” Ray paused. He looked genuinely confused. “I don’t know about no baby. They just sold me the girl. I never opened the box. I just did what they said. I put it under the bed and I slept on it.” Miller stared at him for a long time. Then he stood up and walked out. I followed. In the hallway, Miller rubbed his temples. “You believe that horse manure?” “The part about the occult dealers? No,” I said. “But the superstition? Ray believes it. Or he’s convinced himself he believes it. He’s playing the insanity card without saying the word insanity.” “It’s a stall,” Miller spat. “He thinks if he claims he bought the body, we can’t prove he murdered her. Without a name, without a cause of death… he might skate on the homicide charge.” We needed to identify the victim. And we needed to know whose baby that was. Part V: The Bloodline The investigation split into two tracks. Miller’s team started digging into Ray’s past, looking for missing women. I went back to the prison records, pulling every file from Ray’s previous incarcerations—1998 for burglary, 2003 for assault. We were looking for a gap. A time when Ray wasn’t locked up, but someone else was missing. A week passed. The heat wave broke, replaced by torrential rain that hammered the metal roof of the station. Then, the lab called. They still couldn’t get a clear profile on the woman. The DNA was too degraded. But the infant? The infant’s bones were more protected, encased deeper in the biological matter. They got a profile. Miller called me into his office. He looked pale. “We got a hit on the baby,” he said. “It’s a familial match.” “To who?” “To Ray.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “The baby in the box is Ray’s?”. “His biological son,” Miller confirmed. “Which means the woman in the box isn’t just some random body he bought. It was someone he was sleeping with.” The horror of it settled over the room. Ray Kincaid had been sleeping on a mattress for years, supported by a suitcase containing the rotting corpse of his girlfriend and his own son. My mind immediately went to the dark places. The “Hoodoo” story. Was it possible? Did he sacrifice them? “How?” I asked. “Ray swore he bought the body. He swore he didn’t know about the baby.” “There’s something else,” Miller said, pulling out a file. “We found a witness. A landlord.” Miller had tracked down the owner of a run-down apartment complex in the next parish over. The landlord remembered Ray from back in 2001 and 2002. He remembered Ray wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend. A girl who ran away from home to be with him. The landlord couldn’t remember her name, just that she was young and looked tired. We needed a name. Miller went back to Ray’s family. The parents were useless—screaming that their son was a saint, that the police were framing him. But Jenny, the sister… she was the weak link. Miller brought Jenny in again. He played “Good Cop.” He sat her down, gave her a coffee, and told her, “Jenny, we know the baby was Ray’s. We know the woman was someone he loved. You have to tell us who she was.” Jenny broke down. She admitted she knew Ray had a girlfriend back before his second stint in prison. A girl named Sarah. Sarah King. “I thought they broke up,” Jenny sobbed. “Ray never talked about her after he got out in ’06. I just assumed she left him.”

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I was three years old when I was diagnosed with selective mutism. My father, a forensic pathologist, immediately filed for divorce. His reasoning was cold, clinical, and simple: Forensics is a field that requires collaboration and communication. He didn’t need a child who couldn’t become a Medical Examiner. Even though my mom clung to the judge’s leg in court, screaming and begging not to divorce, the gavel still came down. The decree was final. My mom wiped her tears, drove me to a street corner, and set me down on the curb. Then, clutching the massive alimony check my dad gave her, she vanished. 1 I was picked up by social services and taken to an orphanage. I was five by then. Although I couldn’t speak, I was acutely aware of the reality: Mom and Dad had thrown me away like garbage. To be honest, the orphanage was way more chill than my house ever was. At home, it was either my dad freezing the room with his icy stare, or my mom crying her eyes out. Sometimes, she’d secretly slap me across the mouth, hoping the pain would shock a word out of me. The more she did it, the deeper my silence grew. When I was eight, a middle-aged woman adopted me. She had a hard face, etched with a permanent grimace, and her smile looked painful, like cracked pavement. Standing near her, you’d swear the temperature dropped ten degrees. But her hands were calloused and warm. So, I took her hand and walked out of that orphanage. My adoptive mom—let’s call her Martha—was always busy. She’d lock me in the apartment for safety. She’d come home exhausted, dragging her feet. But she always made sure I had three square meals, and she’d hold me in her lap to read stories. Still, that cold aura clung to her. For a while after I learned to read, I genuinely suspected Martha wasn’t among the living. Later, I found out why. Martha worked at the crematorium. She was a “removal technician.” A body snatcher. 2 I couldn’t talk, which made normal schooling a nightmare. Special ed was too expensive, so Martha taught me to read and write after her shifts. Slowly, I became literate. But I still couldn’t vibe with kids my age. Martha, afraid I’d rot away locked in my room, started bringing me to work during her night shifts. Her job was grueling and dull. It wasn’t just driving; it was hauling all kinds of “human confetti”—complete bodies, pieces of bodies, fresh ones, ripe ones… She had to babysit the furnaces overnight. Because of my condition, I lacked the natural fear of the dead. Maybe it was just exposure therapy. I saw them as Martha’s clients. I had to treat them with respect. The crematorium staff all knew me. When they worked, they’d toss me little nuggets of trivia. At first, I just watched. Later, I stood at the main table, stitching bodies back together. Maybe it was in my blood. Eventually, I could take one look at a corpse and tell you exactly what made those marks. I got recommended to the PD’s Medical Examiner’s Office as an intern, dealing with even more bizarre “human puzzles.” I still didn’t speak. But the autopsy reports I typed up let countless restless souls finally sleep. I was good. Until the day before my official promotion letter was supposed to drop. My spot was given to someone else. 3 The unit suddenly got a new Assistant ME. Her name was Bella Vance. Bella was a bubbly, “pick-me” kind of girl. On day one, she was already besties with everyone, dragging the squad out for drinks. “Come on, are we brothers or what? Don’t be a little bitch. We’re getting wasted tonight!” The new Captain, Captain Miller, ate it up. “Bella has worked huge cases at City HQ. She’s down here in the trenches to get gritty experience. She’s taking over the lead ME role for our squad.” Miller finished his speech, but the expected applause didn’t happen. One detective looked awkward. “Cap, we already have a dedicated examiner.” Miller glanced at me, dismissive. “Just a temp. Let her go.” The old ME had retired, and I’d been doing the actual work for years. I had a disability, sure, but everyone knew I was a wizard with a scalpel. My promotion vote had been unanimous. I was an intern on paper, effectively doing the job of a lead. Now Bella waltzes in, steals my job, and kicks me to the curb. My teammates, who had all voted for me, spoke up. “Maya has been with us for years. She knows the flow. Swapping her out now feels wrong.” Miller frowned. “What’s wrong about it?” “Bella’s father is Dr. Sterling Vance. The guy is a legend. Every agency fights for him. You got those genes? That pedigree? You think the mute girl can compare to Bella?” Seeing the team waver, Miller softened his tone slightly. “Maya can stay as Bella’s assistant. Support role.” I rolled my eyes. Didn’t say a word. I usually play deaf when dealing with idiots. Besides, who can force a mute girl to kiss ass? 4 After the meeting, Bella cornered me. “You must be Maya. The Captain put me with Lt. Davies. I honestly didn’t know you and the Lieutenant were partners. I’ve known him for years—if something was gonna happen between us, it would have happened by now. Don’t worry.” I assessed Bella’s personality type in exactly 0 seconds. You probably can too. I kept my head down, working, pretending I was deaf. She didn’t get the hint. She slung her arm around my shoulder. “Maya, look, today is for the boys. No girls allowed, you know? Don’t take it personal, I’m just one of the guys. I’m blunt like that.” I was speechless. Not literally, well, yes literally, but also figuratively. This was such low-tier gaslighting. It was embarrassing. I noticed the rest of the squad glancing over, their eyes glued to us. I grabbed a notepad and scribbled a note: [Are you a dude?!!!!!!] I heard a detective snort-laugh nearby. Bella’s face turned bright red. Pure rage. She tried to recover, grabbing my hand. “Maya, it’s my fault. I came in and took your spot. I’ll go tell the Captain to give it back right now!” I yanked my hand away like she was toxic waste and turned my back. Bella looked confused. A teammate stepped in to save her. “Maya has a trauma response to men. She probably thought you were a guy.” Bella’s face went from red to green. She was choking on it. “Maya, I am a girl. The guys just treat me like a bro because I don’t like hanging out with other girls. Too much drama.” I nodded like I finally understood. I wrote another note. [Maybe you and Lt. Davies should have a contest to see who can pee the farthest?] The sound of grown men trying not to explode with laughter filled the room. Bella’s face went from green to purple. 5 Captain Miller treated Bella like royalty. First time Bella went to a crime scene—this “legendary daughter of Dr. Vance”—she took one look at a bloated, decomposing floater and puked her guts out. Lt. Davies literally had to carry her away. Miller defended her. “She’s just adjusting. It’s a new environment.” He comforted her like a toddler. “If you’re feeling sick, just take the week off.” Then he barked at me: “You finish the autopsy report and give it to Bella. She’ll analyze it. I’m sure her analysis will be more professional than yours.” I pretended I didn’t understand English and went to help the team fish out the rest of the body parts. Since Bella arrived, Captain Miller had become a “Bella Supremacist.” Everything started with Bella. If she poured a cup of coffee, Miller acted like she invented caffeine. I suspected that if we weren’t at a murder scene, Miller would have complimented the artistic pattern of her vomit. Naturally, Bella took credit for the report. The detectives weren’t stupid. Seeing their hard work claimed by a nepo baby pissed them off. But Miller was the boss, so they only complained in the breakroom. I sat nearby reading files, my ears tuned in like radar. “Acting like her dad’s reputation is gonna get him a promotion.” “I think Miller wants to make Bella the Captain.” “I saw Miller take Bella to a hotel. Bought her flowers.” “I heard Bella calling Miller… ‘Daddy’.” Snap. The pen in my hand broke. Miller is in his early thirties. He definitely doesn’t have a twenty-something daughter. Spicy.

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Another girl just confessed her love to Levi. Thirteenth time this semester. Even though everyone knows he has a girlfriend, they still throw themselves at him like hungry wolves. Luckily, I’m used to it. After all, I’m the one who told him not to go public with our relationship. 1 Someone stepped up to comfort the crying girl, shooting Levi a playful, resentful glare. “Same old excuse, Levi? Could you at least change it up? Save the girl some face.” Whoa. That’s the Drama Department’s Queen Bee, isn’t it? Judging by those soft eyes and that intimate tone… is there something going on? I felt a spark of excitement. Is Levi about to cheat? Does this mean I can finally dump him guilt-free? Clearly, I wasn’t the only one smelling drama. The mixer instantly buzzed with energy. “Ooooh~ Look who’s stepping in to comfort her? Smells like the real girlfriend energy.” “Saving the face he wouldn’t give, huh?” “Does anyone not know our department Queen and King are the #1 ship on campus? They beat second place by two thousand votes!” “Why are they even at this mixer? Just here to flex on us singles?” “Probably just supporting the class. Otherwise, this power couple would be on a date right now!” … The jeering got louder. Someone shoved the Queen Bee, and she stumbled, nearly falling right into Levi’s arms. I whipped out my phone, camera ready. I just needed them to hug, and click—cheating evidence secured. But Levi dodged her like he was on roller skates. Smooth. Tsk. What a pity. “I told you, I have a girlfriend.” Same old line. Someone laughed dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve said it a hundred times since freshman year. We all know you ‘have a girlfriend’.” Another girl giggled, linking arms with the Queen Bee. “And that girlfriend is her, right? You two been keeping it secret?” The Queen Bee shook her head frantically, blushing with embarrassment and shyness. She glanced at Levi. “Stop talking nonsense! I’m not his girlfriend!” “She’s shy! She’s shy!” The noise erupted. I watched Levi’s expression darken. A bad feeling started to creep in. I heard him say, “She’s not my girlfriend.” The Queen Bee chimed in, “Exactly! If you guys keep talking nonsense, I’m gonna get mad!” The others exchanged knowing looks and laughed. We get it, wink wink. Levi’s face was now black as a skillet. He looked up, scanning the crowd. My heart skipped a beat. I tried to turn away casually. But he locked onto me in a second. Then, under the gaze of everyone in the room, he parted the crowd and strode straight toward me. He touched the glass in my hand and took it away. “You have a bad stomach. Don’t drink cold stuff.” He downed the drink in one gulp, turned to the statues in the room, and said, “I’m taking my girlfriend home.” Under the dim lights, I saw the Queen Bee’s face go pale, her eyes fixed on me with a death stare. 2 Levi actually has a girlfriend. The news swept through campus that night. By morning, the school forum was flooded with my info and photos. The judgment threads were building skyscrapers. [She’s so average I can’t believe it.] [Does Levi have an ugly fetish?] [A flower stuck in cow dung.] [Comparing her to Sienna is an insult to Sienna. Levi needs to see an optometrist.] And those were the nice comments. Some were so nasty I started to wonder if I was some hideous monster unworthy of life. After venting their confusion, the forum reached a consensus: [I bet Levi just doesn’t want to go public with Sienna yet, so he grabbed a random girl as a shield.] This theory got rave reviews. Any dissenting opinions were ignored. I lay in bed, scrolling with relish. I ignored Levi’s messages and even liked the “shield” post, bringing the likes to a perfect 666. Just as I was clicking the next thread, my dorm door slammed open. My roommate—who slept on the bottom bunk—stormed in and smashed her lunch box onto my bed. I jumped up, dumbfounded, watching food splatter all over my sheets. “Are you crazy?” “You’re the crazy one!” She stared at me with pure hatred. “You’re really Levi’s girlfriend?” “…” Right. I forgot. She’s also one of Levi’s secret admirers. She used to rant in the dorm about how shameless Sienna (the Queen Bee) was. “You watched me fangirl over him every day. Were you laughing at me the whole time?!” ?? I swear to God, I wasn’t! Levi has been a shining star since he was a kid. Even with his prickly personality, he shines. It’s normal for everyone to love him. Why would I laugh? But my roommate clearly didn’t see it that way. Her eyes were red, and she looked ready to scream more, but my phone interrupted her. “Zoe, are you okay?” My roommate and I both froze. I looked at my phone. When I jumped earlier, I must have accidentally answered Levi’s call. He heard everything. It was awkward. His tone was icy. “I’m coming over.” “Don’t!” But he hung up before I could finish. My roommate finally reacted. She threw herself on her desk and started wailing like she’d been mortally wounded. “You did that on purpose!” Through her sobs, she spat venom at me: “Don’t get cocky, Zoe! The last person who crossed Sienna dropped out in disgrace. She won’t let you off!” Hearing this unexpected gossip, I didn’t even blink. I just stared sadly at my quilt. I just changed the sheets. My spare set isn’t dry yet. 3 Five minutes later, Levi arrived. My roommate bit her lip stubbornly. Levi glanced at my messy bed, his face cold enough to freeze water. Then he looked at her, undisguised disgust in his eyes. “You did this?” Being looked at like garbage by your crush is apparently hard to handle. My roommate’s lips trembled, and she ran out crying. Levi stepped up onto the ladder with his long legs and started stripping my bed. I slid down to sit on his chair, scrolling the forum, eating my own melon (gossip) while dealing with him. “Move out of the dorm.” “Where would I live?” “Rent a place off-campus.” “With you?” I scoffed. “Dream on.” He went silent. My finger twitched, refreshing the page. Two new threads popped up. [BREAKING! Campus King just entered the girls’ dorm!] [Debunked! Zoe Cow-Dung might not be a shield. Her roommate just got dumped and ran out crying.] “…” Zoe Cow-Dung? Seriously?! Levi walked over with the dirty sheets in a bag. “Let’s go buy new bedding.” I looked up at him coldly. “Did I or did I not say I didn’t want people to know?” “But I hate them throwing themselves at me when they know I’m taken.” I laughed sarcastically. “Ungrateful.” “I only want you to like me. Everyone else can get lost.” I hate it when he gets cheesy. He’s been like this since we were kids. An emotionally stunted weirdo who followed me around calling “Zoe, Zoe” like a lost duckling. People thought I was his child bride. God knows I was just a stray kid his grandpa picked up while collecting cans. Before his house, I lived under bridges and in hospital waiting rooms. And less than two years after I arrived, his parents died in a car crash. Grandpa died of grief soon after. I’m a jinx. He shouldn’t be with me. 4 The rumors got wilder. Besides attacking my looks, they added new lore. They said I was a rich heiress who used money and power to force Levi to be my boyfriend. They said I was loose, sleeping with tons of guys on and off campus. They described it so vividly you’d think they were watching. At noon, I was at my new part-time job at a bubble tea shop when I heard my roommate’s voice. I couldn’t see who she was talking to, but I heard her say I wore cheap clothes but used cameras worth thousands. “The rumors aren’t fake. She’s dirty. Levi was definitely tricked.” “Really?” The other voice was gentle, concerned. “Then Levi…” “There’s no way Levi is with her because he likes her!” “Who knows what dirty tricks she used?” I wanted to laugh. I was about to look up when the agitated voice continued: “Sienna, no one would choose her over you! Levi wants to be an actor, and your family owns a media empire. How could he not choose you?” “What are you saying? Choose me…” The other voice sounded flustered, then sighed softly. “It has nothing to do with my family. I’m just worried about Levi. Even if he doesn’t like her, his reputation will suffer. You know how important a clean image is in this industry.” “Then you should steal him back!” My roommate urged. “If it was you, I’d accept it. Everyone would. But Zoe? Who does she think she is? How is she worthy of Levi?” “Stop… stop saying that. We’re just good friends!” “Levi never makes friends easily. You’re the special one!” I quietly lowered my head, covering my face with the ingredient list.

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Five years into my marriage with Grant Holloway, heir to the Holloway Group, we were still just a signature on a document. I knew the truth: his heart belonged to someone else—a woman who was less a person and more a sacred, untouchable shrine. That shrine was Sierra Cole, the younger sister of his deceased platoon brother, Patrick Cole. The rule was: Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, he was home. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, he was with Sierra. He never once kept his side of the bargain. Five years, and I had never truly had him alone. The world called me ‘The Saint of Highbury.’ Mrs. Holloway Sr., Grant’s mother, called me a disgrace for failing to keep my own husband home, dragging the Holloway name through the mud. Until that evening. I passed his study and heard him speaking to his assistant, his tone utterly casual: “If Izzy comes looking for me, tell her something came up. A last-minute board meeting. Something easy.” A slight chuckle. “Sierra’s been having a rough couple of days. If I don’t go, she won’t sleep.” No tears. No confrontation. Just a terrifying calm. I found the old burner phone I’d kept hidden for five years and sent a single text: “Five years ago you said if I was ever truly unhappy, you’d come for me. Do you still mean it?” 1 The phone, unused for so long, died the second the message was delivered. I sank onto the bedroom carpet, the image from the study flashing behind my eyes. Grant leaning back against his mahogany desk, speaking to his assistant with easy indifference: “Just give her an excuse. Izzy never pushes. Patrick died saving my life. Sierra is all alone in the world, a fragile woman. I owe them that debt.” In that instant, every lonely night, every dinner that went from warm to cold, became a sliver of glass piercing my lungs. Staring at the empty bedroom, my chest constricted, making it nearly impossible to breathe. He had never spent a single night here. Whenever he returned from her place, he’d bring a gift, a peace offering. Everything from a rare vintage perfume to the custom-made jade bracelet he’d bid for at an exclusive auction. I used to think they were his quiet, awkward attempts at tenderness. Now I knew. They weren’t acts of affection. They were receipts for his guilt. Proof of his absence. I swept my arm across the dresser, sending the expensive bottles and boxes crashing to the marble floor. The door flew open. Grant strode in, stopping dead at the sight of the glittering wreckage. “What the hell are you doing?” I didn’t turn around. I just held onto my shaking voice, forcing out the calmest question I could find: “It’s Monday, Grant. Are you staying?” The air froze. Grant’s eyes darted away before settling on my hand. He knelt, taking it in his own. “Something really urgent came up tonight, Izzy. Next time. I promise, next time I’ll stay.” Looking at the perfect features of his face, so close to mine, a fresh wave of pain hit me. “Grant, I’m your wife. But for five years, Sierra Cole has been living like your bride.” The dam of five years’ worth of hurt finally broke, rushing out. He knelt there, gently wiping away the tears streaming down my face. “Patrick died saving my life, Izzy. You know Sierra’s depression is severe. If I don’t go, she really could do something drastic.” He looked utterly sincere. I only felt a glacial coldness spread through me. I was about to push him away when his phone pinged. A voice note from Mrs. Holloway Sr.: “Dinner tonight at the estate. We need to discuss you and Isabelle finally providing the family with an heir.” My heart plummeted. My inability to conceive had been a consistent point of contention for his mother. She had publicly called me an infertile hen and had once gone on a hunger strike to force Grant to divorce me. He’d only stopped her by kneeling outside her bedroom door for three days. Grant squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll go with you.” The words were barely out before Sierra’s call came through: “Grant? My stomach hurts so badly. Can you come over?” He dropped my hand instantly. His face was a mask of strained apology. “Izzy, Sierra’s situation is delicate. Go have dinner with my mother, and I’ll come collect you later.” He turned and practically ran out the door. My vision blurred with tears. Grant never showed up that night. I endured Mrs. Holloway Sr.’s barbed insults alone, catching the whispers of the staff in the hallway: “Young people are just different, aren’t they? The cleaning lady said she saw at least half a dozen used wrappers in the trash at the other house yesterday…” “Five years and not a flicker in the Rhodes-Holloway line. That poor saintly wife is going to be replaced before Christmas, I bet.” I bit down hard on my lower lip, letting the words pierce me like needles. He had sworn, on bended knee before both our families, that he would always cherish me. Everyone envied me, saying I had married my soulmate. But on our wedding night, his unit showed up, their faces grim. “She tried to overdose, Grant. You have to go.” He had knelt there in the hallway of our bridal suite, his eyes red. “Izzy, I know I owe you everything, but this is a debt to Patrick. I can’t leave her.” “Trust me. Just let her get stable, and then we can start our life. Just wait for her, Izzy. Please.” Seeing his pain, I had relented. For five years, I had kept an empty house, managed his family’s affairs, and played the dutiful wife. Tonight, I finally understood that every night he’d claimed to be working late, he had been in the arms of another woman. I dried my tears and signed the divorce papers I’d prepared. The ink was barely dry when the doorbell chimed. I opened the door, and Sierra shoved past me, waltzing straight in. She looked around the room with exaggerated pity. “Oh, wow. It’s so… quaint. Not exactly the master suite I pictured for the Holloway heir.” I capped my pen. “Do you need something?” She let out a soft, mocking laugh, dropping the neck of her top just enough to reveal a purple shadow near her collarbone. “Look what your husband did to me, Izzy. Begged him to stop last night, but he just wouldn’t. Oh, right. I forgot. You wouldn’t know what that feels like, would you, sister-in-law? Poor thing.” I clenched my fists so tight my nails cut into my palms. When I didn’t answer, the false pity vanished. Her voice turned hard. “Isabelle Rhodes. For five years, Grant would rather handle things himself than come home to you, even when I’m on my period. Don’t you get it? Be smart. File for divorce and walk away empty-handed.” I slowly stood up and pulled the front door wide open. “Are you finished? Get out.” Her eyes flashed with pure malice. She grabbed my wrist and, before I could react, slammed it hard into her own stomach. She let out a piercing scream, collapsing to the floor. “My baby! It hurts!” The bedroom door burst open. Grant was there, charging in. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He kicked my legs out from under me, sending me sprawling. He rushed to Sierra, who was sobbing uncontrollably. “Sierra, are you okay? What happened?” She clung to him, tears streaming. “Grant, the baby… will our baby be okay?” When Grant looked up at me, his eyes were blazing with savage fury. Before I could regain my footing, he backhanded me across the face, the force of the blow snapping my neck back. “Izzy! How could you be this vicious! Patrick died for me. I put up with you giving her cold shoulders, but now you attack her? She’s carrying the only heir Patrick’s family will ever have! Why can’t you just be the bigger person for once!” My cheek stung, but the pain was distant. I looked at him, my voice a broken whisper. “She… she’s carrying your child?” Watching him gently cup Sierra’s trembling stomach, a lance of pain shot through my heart, stealing my breath. Grant’s gaze was icy. “If anything happens to her or the baby, I will never forgive you.” Perhaps sensing the severity of his words, he paused, his eyes falling on the red thread talisman around my neck. “Take that off,” he commanded. “It’ll be an apology, a sign of respect, to ease Sierra’s shock.” The thread. I recoiled violently, instinctively clutching the silk cord around my throat. “No! This is my mother’s relic! She used her dying wish to get this for me!” I screamed. “Grant! What about the promises you made her on her deathbed?” He faltered for a moment, his brow furrowed, but his impatience only grew. “You’re my wife now. Everything you own is mine. It’s a ridiculous piece of string. Is it more important than human life?” He reached out, his grip bruising as he clamped onto my neck and violently ripped the thread off. I stumbled and fell, scrambling to snatch it back, but he shoved me away again. “Give it back!” My mother had been violently opposed to the marriage. Grant had spent three months by her bedside, tending to her, until he finally knelt before her, swearing: “Madam, I will cherish Izzy more than my own life. As long as I live, she will never know a day of sorrow.” My mother, finally yielding, had used her last strength to tie the talisman around my neck, watching him with her failing eyes. He knew better than anyone what that thread represented. Sierra, watching the scene, casually took the thread from Grant, examining it with disdain. Then, with a bored flick of her wrist, she tossed it out the open window. “No!” I lunged for the window, my body half-out the frame, desperately searching for the fluttering red silk. Grant stood still, then his face hardened. “Izzy, it’s a piece of trash. Let it go. Stop this hysteria. You’ll upset Sierra and the baby.” He ignored my look of complete devastation, wrapping his arm around Sierra. “Don’t be scared. I’ll take you to the clinic now. We can’t risk any trauma to the baby.” The red thread was gone, carried away by the wind. The wind burned my tear-swollen eyes, but no more tears would come. I simply whispered: “Divorce me, Grant.” The air solidified. Grant spun around, his expression incredulous. “You want to divorce me over a piece of worthless string?” I slowly pulled myself upright, smoothed my wind-tousled clothes, and picked up the signed divorce papers from the desk. I met his gaze, my voice steady now. “Yes.” His shock turned instantly to volcanic rage. “Izzy Rhodes, you’ve lost your mind! Don’t forget, if you leave the Holloway family, you have nowhere to go! You’re infertile, you haven’t worked in five years. Who would ever want you now? You’re the woman Grant Holloway was bored with!” He snatched the agreement and tore it into confetti. “Divorce? Dream on!” He shoved past me, delicately supporting Sierra as they walked out. I stumbled against the sharp edge of the coffee table, a searing pain shooting through my ribs. Grant didn’t look back. I heard his voice, tender and low, directed at Sierra: “Sierra, once the baby is here, we’ll give him the Cole name. I’ll make sure he’s well provided for. I won’t fail Patrick in this. And if Izzy ever gives you trouble again, you call me. I won’t go easy on her.” Listening to that, I turned to the window, seeing my own battered, defeated reflection in the glass. I let out a low, shaky laugh. Three days. That was the window. With or without his signature, I was leaving. But late that night, I was woken by a searing jolt of heat. Grant was standing over me, his hand clamped around my throat, his eyes filled with murderous intent. “Izzy! Didn’t I warn you to stay in line!” I thrashed beneath him, struggling to breathe. “Poison? I don’t know what you’re talking about…” He released my neck and violently dragged me out to the car, speeding to the hospital. He threw me to my knees on the cold marble of the hospital hallway, outside Sierra’s room. “Kneel there! Wait until Sierra wakes up and apologize to her face!” A sharp, dizzying pain shot through me, and my vision tunneled. The door to the room suddenly burst open. Sierra, holding a small paring knife, lunged at me. “You murderer! Give me back my baby!” I scrambled to evade her, but the blade still sank deep into my side. A gasp of agony tore from me. Clutching my bleeding wound, I looked to Grant. There was a time when he would have rushed me to the ER for a simple papercut. Now, though I was bleeding freely, he was merely adjusting his cufflink. “You owe her this, Izzy. It’s not fatal. Just get it over with.” I was too weak to speak, my eyes locked on his cold face. Sierra’s eyes were wild. She pulled the knife out and stabbed again. Once. Twice. Warm blood pooled beneath me. I retched, spitting up a mouthful of blood, collapsing onto the marble. Only then did Grant step in, seizing the deranged Sierra. “Sierra, that’s enough. She’s been punished. We can’t have a scene like this—it’s bad luck for the baby.” She burrowed into his chest, sobbing hysterically. “But she almost killed our child! Grant, if you keep protecting her, I’m taking this baby and going to join Patrick!” With that, she turned the knife, pointing it at her pregnant belly. “Sierra! Stop!” Grant’s old unit, having rushed in, tore the knife from her hand. The hulking man in the lead backhanded me with brutal force. “You absolute monster! Can’t have your own kid, so you try to murder the last heir of Patrick Cole’s line!” “Let’s teach this bitch a lesson! Make her slap herself! Don’t stop until she’s bleeding!” My ears were ringing. I saw a flicker of hesitation in Grant’s eyes, but it was immediately replaced by a chilling calm. “Izzy. You need to accept the punishment. Sierra is a fallen hero’s kin. You’ve gone too far.” He nodded to his men. “Get the knuckle dusters. She needs a wake-up call.” The steel was quickly produced. Grant roughly grabbed my hand, forcing my fingers into the tight metal rings. I grabbed his pants leg, my voice shaking. “I swear, it wasn’t me… Please, believe me…” “Still lying?!” He kicked my hand away. Two men pinned me against the wall, one grabbing my hair to hold my head steady as they forced my hand to strike my own face. Sierra, nestled safely in Grant’s arms, shrieked. “Harder! One thousand slaps! Don’t stop until she breaks!” My cheek swelled instantly, splitting open. Blood and tears blurred my vision. I bit my tongue to keep from losing consciousness. The pain on my face was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. When the one-thousandth slap landed, I was kicked to the wall, left like garbage. The cold radiating from the floor seemed to draw the life out of me. I woke up later to find myself back at the villa. Grant was sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully dabbing the gash on my forehead. He set the cotton swab down, his voice betraying nothing. “Sierra’s baby is fine, and she’s calmer now. Once the child is born, I won’t need to see her as much. I can come straight home from work.” My heart plummeted, the familiar constriction returning. I weakly pushed his hand away, a hollow, cynical smile twisting my lips. “Five years, Grant, five entire years. She called, and you abandoned everything, every time. You keep claiming this debt to Patrick. Does that debt require you to give her your whole life? Your whole life, Grant? And now, a child?” Grant’s eyes flickered, avoiding my gaze. He placed the ointment on the nightstand, his voice flat, but with an unshakeable certainty. “Izzy, I know you’re hurt. But Patrick squeezed my hand just before he died and only said, ‘The Coles and my sister are your responsibility now.’ I have to provide his family with an heir.” “Starting tomorrow, you’ll rest at home. I’ve already contacted your office—you’ve resigned. Sierra will take over your duties at the charity. You need to relax.” Fighting back a surging wave of nausea, I finally asked the question that had poisoned my marriage for half a decade. “Grant. All those odd-numbered days, those Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays you never came home… you weren’t busy, were you? You just didn’t want to be here. You never loved me.” Grant was silent. The concrete air thickened. Then, I heard the word I had spent five years dreading. The word that finally broke me completely. “Yes.” Even though I had been preparing for it, hearing Grant say it shattered the last pieces of me. “Why? Five years. You watched me be humiliated, slandered, pointed at, and you never said a word to defend me.” Grant reached out to touch my face, his voice sickeningly gentle. “Izzy, you know you’re the only one I want. My duty to Sierra was only because her brother saved my life. Once the baby is here, it’s all over. We can start our own family, just us. Okay?” I jerked my head away from his touch, bile rising in my throat. “You disgust me.” “Grant Holloway, I want a divorce.” His face instantly turned cold. His eyes became venomous, his mouth twisted into a cruel smirk. “Fine. You’re a piece of work, Izzy. The whole city knows you as my woman. You think I’ll let you divorce me and let the Holloway name become a joke?” “You want to play this game? You stay here. No phone, no communication with anyone. Let’s see how long your little rebellion lasts.” He slammed the door behind him. I collapsed onto the bed, silent tears tracing the lacerations on my face. In the days that followed, Grant took my phone and cut off all communication. I could only track the rising and setting of the sun to count the time until the day I had planned to leave. Only one day left. The Cole family hosted a grand celebration for Sierra’s pregnancy, where Grant was formally accepted as an honorary son. In the villa, I quickly packed my few belongings. The zipper on my suitcase was barely closed when the door was kicked open. “Grant, what are you doing?” My heart seized. “Sierra’s vintage sapphire bracelet—Patrick’s heirloom—is missing. The maid said you were in her room this morning. You’re trying to stress her out to cause a miscarriage, aren’t you!” His accusation sent a chill deep into my bones. “What are you talking about? I haven’t left this house.” But Grant roughly seized my arm and dragged me straight to the Cole estate. Mr. Cole was seated at the head of the table, and Sierra was weeping into a handkerchief beside him. The maid instantly pointed an accusing finger at me. “It was her! I saw her leaving Miss Cole’s room this morning! She’s jealous of Miss Cole’s pregnancy because she can’t have children herself!” Mr. Cole was furious. “Grant, is this true?” My breath caught. “I haven’t left the house in days! I haven’t spoken to anyone!” Sierra immediately wailed, burying her face in her hands. “Sister Izzy, if you want me to lose this baby, just say so! But please, don’t steal my brother’s last memory!” Mrs. Cole’s face darkened. “Patrick died to save you, Grant, leaving us without an heir. Now that Sierra is finally pregnant, you’re letting this woman try to destroy us again?” Mr. Cole slammed his fist on the table. “Grant Holloway! You will give us an answer now!” Grant’s eyes showed a brief flicker of internal struggle. Then, his face hardened. “Izzy, show them the jewelry.” When I remained silent, he picked up the antique riding crop from the nearby mantle and dipped it into a bowl of salt water. My face went white. I grabbed his sleeve, screaming. “You believe them? Just based on their accusations?” Grant’s body stiffened, a brief look of doubt crossing his face. Sierra instantly let out a choked sob. “Grant… I feel so dizzy…” In an instant, Grant ripped his arm away from me. The riding crop came down with a vicious crack. “Confess!” My heart plunged to a depth from which it could never return. Pushed to the floor, the brine-soaked leather cut through the air. Crack! The blinding pain was overwhelming. Grant had no pity. He only ordered Sierra to turn away. “Don’t look, you’ll scare the baby.” Through the agonizing blur, I saw the fireworks on the Fourth of July, the year he held my hand and promised: “If I can spend my life with you, I will never let you go.” Crack! The second strike. I remembered the year a hurricane trapped me on a business trip, and he drove a thousand miles through the storm to bring me home. Crack! The third. The time I had a high fever, and he sat by my bed all night, his eyes red with worry, saying: “When you hurt, I hurt more.” Strike after strike, blood seeped into the polished wood floor. The heart that had burned so fiercely for him shattered, piece by excruciating piece. The stares of the wealthy guests felt like a thousand pins. Pity, scorn, schadenfreude. The once-glorious Rhodes heiress was being stripped of her final dignity in front of the entire city. Just before my consciousness completely dissolved, a voice, impossibly weak but crystal clear, echoed in the silent hall. “Grant Holloway… we are done.” He gave no answer. He simply gestured to a bodyguard to drag me out. As I felt the darkness closing in, a clean scent of cedar and sea salt suddenly cut through the brine and the blood. A pair of strong arms carefully lifted my broken body.

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I’m a daddy’s girl, and for the last five years, he’s been gone. But this morning, after a stupid fall off my bike, I could hear him again. “Honey, don’t let that boy Garrett Pierce fool you again. He’s about to fake amnesia so he can manipulate you into doing something foolish. He wants to make a fool of you in front of the whole Base community.” I thought the ringing in my ears was just a concussion. I immediately ran next door to Garrett’s house. He opened the door and blinked at me blankly. “Who are you?” he asked. My father’s voice, sharp and frantic, echoed in my head: “Last time, you let your mother adopt him. You gave him everything good in your life. But he locked you in your house while he went off with someone else, and you were trapped in that fire! He left you to burn!” “Sloane, listen to your old man. Your mom is going to ask you to pick a little brother tonight. Don’t pick Garrett again. Pick Miles Thompson. The one who always glares and gets under your skin. But remember, every time you finished your dance practice, he was the one who quietly slipped you a bottle of water.” And sure enough, that evening, my mother, Base Commander Eliza Miller, walked toward me holding a handful of photos of young boys. “Sloane, honey,” she said, her tone serious. “These boys are all children of fallen service members. I’ve decided to adopt one to be your brother. I want you to pick. We’ll be a family.” This time, I didn’t hesitate. I pointed straight at the photo of Miles Thompson. “I’m listening to Dad,” I said. “I pick him.” 1 Mom looked at me, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “Miles? Sloane, you two are constantly fighting. Are you sure you want him as your brother? Think this through. Once we make it official, he’s family for life.” My mother is a high-ranking officer on this Base. Anyone she brings into our family gets an automatic ticket to a better life, better opportunities. Aunt Carol, Garrett’s distant guardian, stepped forward quickly, trying to interfere. “Sloane, Garrett may have a little temporary amnesia right now, but you two were inseparable before. Why don’t you wait a few days? I’m sure his memory will come back.” My dad made a loud, disgusted sound in my head. “She is full of it! Last time, that little Reed girl broke your most prized doll, and before you could even say a word, Garrett locked you out in the rain! You almost had pneumonia. It was Miles who came looking for you with an umbrella, muttering ‘This is such a pain,’ the whole time, but he still took you back to his place.” Hearing that, a painful knot tightened in my chest. I didn’t understand why Dad kept talking about these “past life” things, but every word felt heavy and suffocating, like cotton soaked in cold water. It was true that Brooke Reed had always been Garrett’s favorite playmate. They were always together, playing marbles and trading cards, and I was perpetually on the outside. “Mom,” I said, my voice firm. “I’ve made my choice. I want Miles Thompson to be my brother.” Mom collected the photos and gently ruffled my hair. “Okay, I respect your decision. I’ll host a dinner for the community two days from now and formally announce it.” Dad let out a long, audible sigh of relief. “That’s my girl. This time, my Sloane is going to grow up safe and happy.” After Mom and the adults left to discuss the official paperwork, I changed into a t-shirt and shorts, wanting to get some air. I wasn’t surprised to see three familiar figures standing in the hallway when I opened the door. They were the kids Mom was considering, my usual circle of playmates. Garrett was there, along with Zack and Ryan. Miles was, predictably, missing. Zack grinned and nudged me. “Sloane, we heard you’re picking a brother! Who did you pick?” Ryan chimed in, “Who else? It has to be Garrett! Everyone knows Sloane is totally obsessed with him and shares everything good with him.” Garrett, however, just glanced at me with an air of adult indifference. “I really don’t remember the last few years. I only remember playing with Brooke. But if the grown-ups decide I’m your brother, I’ll… accept you as a sister.” Dad gave a cold, hard scoff. “Accept you? Last time, he used that amnesia act as an excuse to be glued to Brooke while still taking advantage of all your attention. He broke your heart over and over again. The rotten jerk!” I looked at Garrett’s dismissive expression. If Dad hadn’t warned me, I might have fallen for it again. I had trusted him completely, truly believing he liked being my friend. I remembered my birthday three years ago. He had gathered all the Base kids to sing to me, his eyes bright as he said, “Sloane, I will always be right behind you.” I was so touched I nearly cried, and from that day on, I followed him everywhere. Now I knew he actually preferred Brooke, only being nice to me because of Mom’s rank. Now, he was faking amnesia, openly admitting he wanted to hang out with Brooke, yet still trying to begrudgingly agree to be my brother just to get into our family. Not on my watch. The obnoxious little fraud. I fought back the urge to expose him right there. Let him be smug for two more days, I thought. I wanted to see the look on his face when Mom made the official announcement. Zack poked my shoulder. “So? Who did you pick?” I kept my voice flat. “You’ll find out in two days.” I turned to leave, but Ryan’s voice stopped me. “Garrett, she definitely picked you. Don’t you remember when you had a cold, Sloane went out in the rain to the commissary to get you ginger candy and got soaked herself? She practically worships you.” “She does?” Garrett flashed a conceited smile. “I guess she really cares about me, then.” My heart seized up, a sudden, sharp pain. My eyes immediately burned with tears, but I refused to let them fall. Everyone on the Base knew I liked spending time with Garrett. The other kids often teased me, calling me his “shadow,” but I didn’t care. I lost my dad young, and Mom was often deployed or busy. Garrett was the only one who stood up for me when other kids bullied me. So, when he offered his friendship, I was ecstatic, promising myself I would be the best friend to him, ever. Now I realized his kindness might have been entirely transactional, entirely due to Mom’s influence. “Sloane Miller, wait up.” Garrett called out. I turned back. He walked toward me, holding a brightly dressed doll—Brooke’s doll. “I know you chose me. I’ll be your brother, but I need you to promise me you won’t interfere with me playing with Brooke.” I looked him dead in the eye. “You have amnesia, right? How are you so sure I chose you?” Garrett frowned. “Everyone says you like me best. Who else would you pick?” A rush of pure, hot anger went through me. So Garrett knew how I felt. He knew, and he was still using my affection to bully me. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t be chasing after you anymore. You can hang out with Brooke all you want.” In fact, I thought, he should be thrilled when he hears the news. Garrett looked genuinely stunned by how quickly I agreed. As I started to walk away again, he reached out, instinctively trying to grab my arm. Just then, a little kids’ scooter wobbled wildly toward me. The wheel slammed into my ankle, and I went down hard. My palms scraped against the rough concrete walkway, peeling the skin. Brooke, the little girl from the scooter, jumped off frantically, her voice already tearful. “Sloane, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you…” Before I could even speak, Dad started railing in my head. “The little actress! She’s doing it again! Last time she stole your toy, but she cried like you were the bully, and that idiot Garrett believed her every time!” Seeing Brooke’s watery eyes, Garrett immediately rushed to her side, his expression softening with concern. “It’s okay, Brooke. It was just an accident. Sloane won’t blame you.” He helped Brooke up, then turned to me, his face showing clear annoyance. “It’s just a scrape. Don’t make a scene.” My palms were throbbing, searing with pain, but I bit back my tears and stood up slowly. Brooke sniffled dramatically. “Sloane, please forgive me. I was playing carelessly. I’ll hit myself as punishment, okay?” She made a show of raising her hand to hit herself. Garrett quickly blocked her, then glared at me in anger. “Sloane, she apologized! Can’t you just drop it?” Dad’s voice was livid. “This rotten kid! My Sloane hasn’t said a single word—that little drama queen is doing the whole performance herself! Sloane, you can’t let this go!” I always listened to my father. I raised my hand and shoved Brooke squarely, sending her tumbling back onto the ground. I looked at Garrett. “That is making a scene. My father taught me to stand up for myself.” Brooke sat on the ground, completely frozen. Garrett was equally shocked, a flash of pure rage on his young face. “Sloane, you—” I raised my hand again and pushed him too. “That is taking it too far.” Since I’d known him, I’d always deferred to him, never once pushing back. The shove completely stunned him. Garrett stared at me in disbelief, his face red with fury. “Fine. You think you’re so tough? You’ll regret hitting me.” “Brooke, I’ll take you to the Base infirmary.” Dad was merciless in his derision. “Doesn’t even check on his hurt sister-figure, but rushes to comfort the one who crashed into her. You’d only regret having a family member who has no moral compass. Sloane, your hand must hurt.” I looked down at my bleeding palms. The raw, gut-deep feeling of betrayal was unbearable. In the past, whenever I was hurt, Garrett would be frantic, desperate to trade places with me. Maybe that concern wasn’t entirely fake. But now, he looked right through my pain, prioritizing Brooke instead. Everything Dad said was starting to sound horrifyingly true. Even if he did become my brother, it would only lead to the same tragedy Dad had described. 2 I wiped away my tears and went to the Base clinic to have the nurse clean and bandage my scrapes. The nurses were all gathered by the window, peering toward the main field. I looked out of curiosity. Garrett and Brooke were hiding behind the basketball hoop, whispering. Garrett was gently stroking Brooke’s hair. “Garrett,” I heard Brooke say in a tiny voice. “If Sloane finds out you’re faking amnesia just to play with me, she’s going to be so mad.” Garrett sounded completely unconcerned. “Who cares if she’s mad? She likes me so much. Even if I pretend to forget her, she’ll beg to be my friend again.” “Dream on, you little menace!” Dad spat in my head. “My Sloane didn’t pick you this time! Just wait until the announcement, then we’ll see how smug you are!” I scrunched up my face into a small knot of frustration, holding my bandaged hands as I walked toward the youth center. Suddenly, a loud scream rang out from the field. “The older kids are fighting! Get a coach!” The whole area erupted into chaos. I instinctively tried to run, but a high school-age boy who was fighting slammed right into me. The wooden handle of a broom he was holding was about to smash down onto my head. I had taken some self-defense classes with Mom, but I was still small and weak. Seeing Garrett look over in our direction, I screamed, “Garrett, help me!” Garrett started to move toward me, but Brooke immediately clutched his arm tightly. “Garrett, I’m scared. Please don’t go.” In that one second of hesitation, the broom handle connected with my arm. Blood immediately soaked through the bandage on my hand. The pain was so sharp that my eyes swam with tears. “This is an outrage!” Dad was stamping his imaginary foot. “That little punk has no conscience! My Sloane has been nothing but kind to him, and he’s going to let her get hurt?!” I was barely standing, using the last of my strength to yell, “Garrett, it hurts! Please, help me!” Before the words were out, Brooke shrieked again. Another boy from the fight was charging toward them. Garrett instantly pulled Brooke behind him and ran, not even glancing back at me. I watched their retreating backs, the sting of betrayal worse than the physical pain. Even if he didn’t want to play with me anymore, we had grown up together. In a moment of danger, he wouldn’t even spare a hand to pull me to safety? Suddenly, a blur of motion appeared. Miles Thompson sprinted toward me and kicked the charging teenager out of the way. He pulled me up from the ground and shielded me, pushing me toward the building. “Move!” By the time the adults broke up the fight, I was shaking, sitting on the edge of a planter box. Miles wordlessly handed me a bottle of water, his expression difficult to read. I noticed a tear in the sleeve of his uniform jacket from the chaos, revealing a patch of healed, faded scar tissue underneath. “Your arm…” I murmured. “It’s nothing,” he said, quickly pulling the sleeve down. “Drink your water.” I whispered a thank you, feeling a small ripple of warmth despite the cold shock. The incident quickly reached my mother’s office. Mom was furious and immediately tracked down the parents of the kids involved. Brooke’s family grounded her and sent over an expensive box of Godiva chocolates as an apology. That evening, Garrett came to my house, clearly annoyed. He tossed a bag of convenience store snacks onto my desk. “Sloane, what happened today wasn’t Brooke’s fault. Why did you get her grounded?” I held up my bandaged forearm. “See this?” Garrett paused, then quickly scoffed. “You’re fine. Everyone knows your mom protects you. You’ll always have people to help you. Brooke is younger and only has me to protect her. You saw what happened—she almost got hit, too. Can you stop targeting her? Go tell your mom to un-ground her, or I swear, I won’t be your brother.” Garrett sounded so entitled, so certain I would cave. “The nerve of this kid!” Dad was absolutely raging. I was completely done with him. I didn’t even want to argue. “I have homework. You should leave.” As the housekeeper ushered Garrett out, he flung one last furious parting shot: “Sloane, you’re going to regret this!” The next day, Mom held a lively party at the Base Community Hall, inviting all the kids. I wore my favorite athletic shorts and a t-shirt and went to the Hall. I was surprised to see Brooke, who was supposed to be grounded, already there, wearing a brand-new jacket, sticking her tongue out at me. “Garrett must have sneaked her out,” Dad snickered. “He never put that much effort into you, not even in the past life.” When Garrett saw me, he immediately turned his back, laughing loudly and intentionally with Brooke. The other kids were buzzing. “Why isn’t Garrett talking to Sloane?” “They look so cozy with Brooke.” “Sloane loves Garrett the most. She’s definitely going to pick him, right?” Miles stood quietly in the corner. When he heard the gossip, he shot a cold look at the kids talking, and they scattered instantly. Mom led me to the stage in the center of the Hall and handed me a red megaphone. “Sloane, today, you get to tell everyone who you’ve chosen as your new brother.” “Okay.” I took the megaphone, noticing Garrett staring at me, his eyes wide and anxious. Brooke gripped his shirt sleeve tightly. I gave Garrett a small, measured smile, took a deep breath, and shouted into the megaphone: “Thank you for coming to my welcome party!”

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I was born with a naturally sweet scent. When the transfer student—our campus beauty—arrived, she crinkled her nose and called it “artificial fragrance,” saying it smelled terrible. My childhood friend sitting next to me immediately turned cold, frowning at me. “It is strong. Chloe, change seats.” I was moved to the back row. Right next to the school’s notorious bad boy. Later, the bad boy pinned me against the wall in the stairwell, inhaling deeply, when my childhood friend stumbled upon us. He crushed the soda can in his hand, eyes red with rage, gritting his teeth: “Chloe, I’m counting to three. Get your ass over here!” 1 I was born a little slow. My childhood friend, Liam, was a genius—top of our major. When I couldn’t grasp a concept after he explained it several times, he’d say, “It’s okay if little Chloe is a bit dumb. I’ll just take care of you in the future.” He never hid it. He said it loudly, like staking a claim. The whole class would look at us with暧昧 (ambiguous) grins: “Oooooh~” I’d flush with embarrassment, puffing out my cheeks. “Liam! I can learn it myself! I don’t need you to take care of me!” Then I’d grab my notebook and study the wrong answers again and again. It was hard. But give me enough time, and I could learn anything! But the whole class had already mentally bound me and Liam together. So when Bella, the transfer student and campus beauty, appeared, tilting her chin arrogantly and tapping on Liam’s desk to ask if she could sit next to him… Everyone looked at me and whispered. “Tsk, the way Liam looks at Bella isn’t innocent. I bet he says yes.” “Of course he will! Bella is gorgeous and smart. They did Math Olympiad together. What does Chloe have to compete with? Her big boobs?” “Hahahaha—” “Poor little childhood sweetheart is getting dumped by the academic god. She’s gonna cry, isn’t she?” My pen shook in my hand. Hearing the endless chatter, I couldn’t help but hunch my shoulders. It felt like ants were crawling all over me. It was unbearable. I had reminded Liam not to reveal our childhood connection when we ended up in the same class. He was the one who insisted on binding us together. But I was the one getting mocked. Just because I was slow and he was a genius. Next to me, Liam slammed the table and stood up, glaring around the room. “Anyone else want to say something about Chloe? Try me!” The room went silent instantly. Bella, unsatisfied, hopped onto Liam’s desk, her pale, slender legs dangling. She nudged his chest with her knee, impatient. “Liam, do you want me sitting next to you or not? I’m only asking this once.” “Look, so many guys want me as their desk mate.” She lifted her chin, gesturing to the eager boys around them. Liam stared at her long, pale legs for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He smirked. “I already have a desk mate. Can’t change.” “But you can sit in front of me.” 2 I have a natural sweet scent. Liam always liked to stick close to me. Even in class, he’d rest his head on my shoulder. My face would burn. I’d whisper, “Liam, the professor is watching.” “Mmh, he turned around to write on the board.” He’d move away quickly, acting like nothing happened. But after Bella transferred, everything changed. She sat in front of him, high ponytail exposing a slender neck that glowed under the fluorescent lights. Liam would often stare, dazed, chin in hand for the whole class. Every break, Bella would turn around to discuss problems with him. They got very close. Sometimes her long hair would brush against Liam’s face. His ears would turn bright red. Walking home, he told me: “Girls like Bella are too loose. She relies on her looks to flirt with every guy. I don’t like it. Our little Chloe is much better behaved.” But when I encountered a difficult problem I couldn’t solve after two days… I went to ask Liam during break. He stared blankly at the empty seat in front of him, pushing me away coldly. “You’re so slow. Teaching you takes all afternoon. Other people need to ask me questions too. Can’t you just Google it?” I tried Googling. I still didn’t understand. I bit my lip. “Liam, I’ve been studying this for days. If you explain it, I’ll definitely get it.” “Just once. If I still don’t get it, you don’t have to teach me anymore…” Before I could finish, he shot out like an arrow from a bow. Straight toward the slender figure in the hallway. Bella wore a white blouse and a pleated skirt. The wind blew, lifting the hem slightly. Liam moved closer, blocking her completely from view. I stared at them blankly. Before my vision was blocked, I caught Bella’s provocative glance. She did it on purpose. “Ooh, little childhood sweetheart gonna cry? Told you Liam likes Bella, you didn’t believe me.” “You’re so dumb, what will you do without Liam?” “Why don’t you sit with me? I’m third in the major, not much worse than Liam, right?” A hand reached out to pull me. Oscar stared straight at my chest, tone arrogant. I backed away, bumping into the corner of a desk. Just as I was trapped… A bottle of Coke smashed into him. Oscar howled in pain, clutching his hand and curling up on the floor. A tall, lean figure walked over from the back row, holding a jacket. His face was cold and gloomy. He kicked Oscar hard. “Move. You’re blocking the way.” Oscar scrambled away. I gulped, packing my things to leave too. Someone knocked on the desk with their knuckles. “Which problem can’t you solve?” I froze, following the finger to see Jax’s strikingly handsome face. “What… did you say?” Jax’s ears turned red. He coughed lightly and repeated: “I asked, which problem can’t you solve? I can teach you too.” 3 Liam was number one in the major. Jax was number two. But Jax was a delinquent. Fights, skipping class, bad temper, and a scary little scar by his eye. Almost everyone was afraid of him. Including me. Usually, I’d detour around the back row to avoid him. But finals were in two weeks. I wanted to keep my GPA up for grad school recommendations. But I still couldn’t solve the last big math problem. Liam wouldn’t help me anymore. If I didn’t learn it now, I’d run out of time. I steeled myself and followed Jax to the back row. He sat alone. plenty of space. I sat right next to him. Unexpectedly, Jax wasn’t scary at all when teaching. His voice was like a gentle breeze and soft rain, pleasant to the ear, with zero impatience. And his teaching style was totally different from Liam’s. Liam spoke fast. My brain would still be processing the previous step while he was on the next one. It made me dizzy. Jax deliberately slowed down, breaking the problem down step by step. Once through, and I understood ninety percent. I corrected the mistakes with a red pen. I looked up, smiling until my eyes curved. “Jax, I got it! Thank you!” Jax smirked. “You’re welcome.” I don’t know if it was an illusion. But Jax’s face seemed even redder. The tips of his ears looked like they were about to bleed. 4 The PE teacher was sick, so no Tai Chi. Free period. I went to the study hall alone. Liam was there. Um, and Jax was dazing in the back row. He didn’t go play ball today! I gathered my other wrong answers, planning to take advantage of the opportunity to ask him more. But my hand was pinned down. “Little Chloe, which problem did you ask about at noon? I have time to teach you now.” Liam, back to his usual slacker vibe, reached to flip through my notebook. I quickly held it down. “I already learned it. Go enjoy your free time.” He paused. Looking at me suspiciously: “You learned it that fast? By yourself?” I wanted to say Jax taught me. But remembering his aloof, “stay away from me” vibe, I shook my head. What if everyone found out Jax was a good teacher and swarmed him? Disturbing him wouldn’t be good. Plus, I had a little selfish wish. If Jax could teach only me forever… I could learn so many more problems! “Self-taught. I studied it for days, then suddenly it clicked.” Liam scrutinized me. “Then I can help you with other problems.” I shook my head vigorously. “I want to learn to solve them myself.” Liam’s hand on the notebook tightened, knuckles turning white. He stared at me for a while, then laughed coldly. “Chloe, think you’re grown up now?” “If you’re so capable, don’t ask me anything ever again.” “Don’t get jealous when I teach others later.” My face fell. That wouldn’t work. Even though Jax taught better, we weren’t close. What if he changed his mind and stopped teaching me? “Liam…” I tugged at Liam’s shirt, trying to salvage the situation. Suddenly, a beautiful figure appeared at the classroom door. When she smiled, dimples appeared on her right cheek. Her small face was translucent white. She waved at Liam coquettishly. “Teacher asked me to help write exam questions, I’m swamped. Help me, please?” Her voice was sticky sweet. Liam immediately grabbed his jacket and walked out, skillfully draping it over her shoulders, frowning. “Stop wearing short skirts. The guys are staring.” Bella tickled his chin, raising an eyebrow. “Dare to say you don’t like it?” Liam smirked, not answering. Watching them leave. Surprisingly, my heart didn’t ache anymore. Instead, I felt a trace of relief. After all, no rule says childhood sweethearts must end up together. I can find someone else too. I exhaled, taking my notebook and walking slowly to the back row. 5 I tentatively sat next to Jax. He didn’t stop me. Yes! I opened my notebook, clasping my hands together. “Jax, you teach so well. Can you teach me again?” Jax stopped spinning his pen. Raised his eyes to glance at me. Lips curled slightly. “Treating me like free labor?” I froze, feeling like a bucket of cold water was dumped on me. Quickly wrote down my contact info. “I can Venmo you. Name your price.” Jax put the note in his pocket, corner of his mouth lifting. “No money. I have a basketball game on Saturday. Just bring me water and cheer for me.” I vaguely remembered Liam telling me he had a game too. And asking me to bring water and cheer. So I nodded. Delivering two is still delivering. Jax raised an eyebrow. “Only for me.” I hesitated for a second, then nodded vigorously. The person helping with math is the boss. Besides, Bella would definitely bring water for Liam. I’ll just deliver to Jax. Jax finally smiled widely. He pulled my notebook over. “Which one first?” Wind blew in from the window, lifting his slightly long hair, revealing a bright purple ear stud. It gave him a somewhat devilish look. I swallowed, blushing secretly. Suddenly, I felt that compared to Jax, Liam wasn’t that handsome. Or that gentle. If only Jax would teach me math forever.

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The first time I saw my ex-wife, Eleanor Shaw, again, I was getting jumped. Roasted sweet potatoes, kicked from my cart, scattered across the pavement. The woman I remembered as being timid, one who used to tremble when she spoke, rushed into the fray, her eyes blazing, and shielded me with her body. After the crowd dispersed, she turned to me, a flicker of exasperation in her gaze. “Is this what you’ve become since you got out?” I didn’t answer. I just looked at her, at the designer clothes clinging to her slender frame, and spoke in a flat tone, “Freshly roasted sweet potatoes. Want to buy one?” She stared at the scattered potatoes, then met my eyes, her own filled with an unreadable mix of emotions. “Why didn’t you come to me? I had a plan for you, a way out!” Her voice trembled slightly. “Don’t you know I’ve been looking for you?” Finally, I met her gaze, but my eyes held only a cold indifference. “Why? So you could find me and then finish the job?” Eleanor Shaw. To me, you were nothing but trash now. 1 My words seemed to stun her. Eleanor recovered, her expression uneasy. She was about to speak again when she realized I was already pushing my cart away. She hurried to catch up, finding me crouched down, talking to a little girl. “Mister, I don’t have any money. Can I have a sweet potato for free?” I smiled, pulling the largest one from the oven and handing it to her. “Wow! Mister, your wristband is really pretty!” I instinctively glanced at the red string on my wrist. Without hesitation, I began to remove it, intending to give it to the little girl. But before I could extend my hand, a pale, slender hand clamped down on my wrist. On her wrist, too, was a red string. It looked identical to mine. Before I could even lift my head, Eleanor’s voice, trembling with emotion, came from above me. “Blake Reed, do you know what you’re doing? How can you just give this red string away? Don’t you know what it means?” The red string. It was a token of our love, from when we were together. I had meant to take it off, but I suppose when you stop loving someone, you simply forget. I casually shook off her hand and finished giving the bracelet to the little girl. The girl skipped away, but Eleanor remained rooted by my stand, her eyes fixed on me with an unsettling persistence. I didn’t know what she was doing. I didn’t care to know. “Want a sweet potato?” I asked, my voice devoid of emotion. As I spoke, snowflakes began to flutter down, landing on my shoulders, my hands, and—I imagined—my heart. Eleanor instinctively reached out, as if to cover my eyes, a rare hint of panic in her voice. “Don’t look! You’re afraid of snow.” I calmly stepped back, my expression as if she were a stranger. “I’m working. Don’t cause trouble, or I’ll call the police.” Something in my words seemed to pierce her. Eleanor’s face went chalk-white, her eyes clouding with pain. As I turned my cart to leave, her choked voice reached me from behind. “Blake, are you… are you still angry with me?” I opened my mouth to respond, but then a little girl suddenly ran up from nearby. Behind her was Jasper Stone. Jasper, my arch-nemesis, my half-brother. The little girl reached Eleanor, excitedly pointing at my stand. “Mommy, I want a roasted sweet potato!” “Sweetheart, Mommy will buy you one, okay?” I froze. In that moment of stunned silence, Jasper walked up to me. When he saw me, a flicker of shock crossed his face. But the next second, he simply smiled and extended his hand. “Brother, long time no see.” The Jasper of my memories was arrogant and unbridled, his every word laced with sarcasm. Looking at the man before me, now a little more composed, I gave a wry twist of my lips. Time, it seemed, really did change a lot. Jasper stepped forward, took the little girl’s hand, and smiled again. “Sweetheart, this is Daddy’s brother. Say hello to Uncle.” The little girl wrinkled her nose in distaste, backing away. “Daddy, he’s so dirty.” She looked up at Jasper. “Daddy, how can you have a brother like this?” Jasper’s lips curled into a faint smile. “He used to be the most brilliant neurosurgeon in A-City.” Eleanor, who had been silent for a while, stepped forward. She pulled a bank card from her pocket and offered it to me. “There’s ten million dollars on this card. Consider it compensation for what happened all those years ago.” Her eyes searched mine. “Come back with us. The three of us can be like we used to be.” Her face held a subtle, hopeful expectation. Under her hopeful gaze, I reached out and took the card. “Blake, it’s so good that you’ve finally come to your senses—” But before she could finish, my next action stunned her. I walked to a nearby underpass and casually handed the bank card to a shivering beggar boy. Then, I turned back to the three of them, my voice laced with impatience. “Anything else?” I asked. “If not, you can leave.” As I spoke, the portable oven in front of us suddenly tilted and began to fall in our direction. Before I could react, Eleanor sharply pushed me. In an instant, our positions swapped. I was now standing in front of the little girl. A searing pain shot through me, and my internal organs throbbed. It was just like before. Seven years ago, Eleanor had pushed me away to protect Jasper. Seven years later, Eleanor pushed me away again, this time to protect her child with Jasper. But this time, my heart was utterly calm. Eleanor no longer had the power to stir any emotion in me. Seeing me lying helplessly on the ground, Eleanor was the first to react. She hurried to my side, carefully checking on me, her eyes already crimson at the edges. I actually saw genuine distress in her expression. She instinctively began to explain. “Blake, I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t. Sweetheart is just a child. I just instinctively wanted to protect her. Please… please don’t be angry, okay?” I ignored her. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I pulled out my phone and, right in front of them, called the police. She must not have expected me to do that; Eleanor froze. Jasper was the first to recover. He knelt beside me. “Brother, we’re family. How can you call the police?” He stood up. “Alright, we have things to do. We won’t bother your work.” He gave me a triumphant look, then turned and took the hands of the little girl and Eleanor, ready to leave. After a few steps, Eleanor stopped, looking back at me, her eyes unreadable. “Blake, that’s enough. I told you I’d compensate you for what happened back then. How long are you going to keep this up?” She gave a sigh. “Think it over and contact me.” I lay on the ground, watching the three of them walk away, silent. Thankfully, the oven had fallen slightly to the side, only hitting my thigh. I struggled to my feet and continued pushing my cart. As I passed a high-end restaurant, I paused. A memory flashed in my mind: the time they celebrated something for me right here. I subconsciously glanced inside, but the next second, I froze. What was it about today? Not only had I run into Eleanor, but with a casual glance, I met my mother’s eyes. Inside the restaurant sat my father, my mother, Jasper’s mother, and Eleanor and Jasper. The five of them seemed to be celebrating the little girl’s birthday. Seeing me, my mother first froze. But the next second, her eyes filled with the same disgust they had held for me back then. She waved a waiter over, pointing in my direction. Before I could fully process it, several security guards rushed out, surrounding me. “Someone asked me to tell you not to disturb her precious granddaughter’s birthday party!” With those words, the guards kicked and shoved me away. As I left, I couldn’t help but look back one last time at my mother. She was smiling, happily serving Jasper. I don’t remember how I got home. The moment I lay on my bed, fragments of the past flashed through my mind. The dream. I started having it again, a dream I had been having for seven long years. Before my father remarried, Eleanor, my mother, and I were always on the same side. Because more than anyone, I knew how much my mother hated my father, how much pain she endured. Until my father remarried, until Jasper appeared, everything changed. The first time Jasper came to our house, my mother unleashed all her anger on him. That day, when Jasper left, he was covered in bruises. Perhaps it was my profession, but I took him home and personally treated his wounds. In our conversation, I learned he was also a neurosurgeon, just like me. Later, Jasper would visit my mother every few days, and each time, he would leave with new injuries. I asked him why he was so persistent. He said he simply wanted to “pay a debt” for his mother. But I was too busy with work; sometimes I wasn’t home, and Eleanor would be the one to treat his wounds. What I didn’t realize was that, subtly, everything was changing. For instance, my mother’s attitude toward him gradually softened. For instance, my mother, who had always hated my father, began to frequently enter and leave the Reed family home with Jasper. For instance, even without wounds, Jasper would stay at our house for a long time. At the time, my focus was on studying abroad. My wife, Eleanor, had a rare genetic disease. To keep her from being afraid, only I knew about it. And that trip abroad was because I heard there was new research on the disease in Country A. After two years of studying abroad, when I returned, everything seemed to have changed. Pushing open the front door, the house full of laughter made me freeze. Walking in, I saw my mother holding a child, smiling as she spoke. “You have to admit, Jasper and Eleanor’s child is truly beautiful!” I rushed forward, tears streaming down my face. I roared for an explanation, but my mother just glanced at me with disdain. “I made a casual joke. Why are you so sensitive?” My wife, whom I hadn’t seen in two years, stepped forward and slapped me hard, her voice full of anger. “Blake Reed, are you doubting me?” In my daze, a phone call came through from the hospital. It was an emergency surgery, one only I could perform. There was no time to say more. As I hastily turned to leave, Eleanor suddenly called out to me. She walked over and handed me a bottle of milk, her eyes showing rare concern. “You haven’t eaten, have you? Drink some milk to tide you over.” In that moment, my turbulent heart seemed to calm a little. I took the milk and drank it all. The surgery lasted seven hours. For some reason, during the operation, my head ached terribly, and my vision blurred. Realizing something was wrong, I immediately requested a pause in the surgery, but it was too late. The surgery ultimately failed. Because of the failure, the patient became a vegetable. And it wasn’t until after the surgery that I learned the patient was a special individual: A-City’s wealthiest man. I was suspended, pending investigation. And before the investigation even began, my wife, Eleanor Shaw, stepped forward with evidence. She accused me of drinking before the surgery. And because I was allergic to alcohol, that’s why I had reacted that way during the surgery. My test report indeed contained alcohol. Suddenly, I became the target of public outrage, countless people attacking and cursing me. And I, with Eleanor’s instigation, was sent to prison. Because of good behavior, I was released early. The day I got out, I rushed home, wanting to ask my mother what had happened. But as I reached the doorstep, I saw my mother casually chatting with Jasper. “Blake will be out soon, won’t he? But it doesn’t matter. You’ve already taken his place.” She smiled. “You have to admit, my suggestion of mixing alcohol into the milk was a good one, wasn’t it?” I don’t remember how I left that day. But for many years afterward, I would have the same dream: my mother pouring alcohol into milk, and Eleanor handing me the milk. When I jolted awake, I realized I was covered in sweat. I picked up my phone, finding a message from my wife, Scarlett Davis. “We should be home in about two hours.” I got ready to go out and buy groceries. But at the supermarket, I ran into someone I didn’t want to see. Eleanor saw me first. She ran up and blocked my path, then, without a word, grabbed me and dragged me toward my mother. “Mother, look who it is!” My mother, who had been smiling just a second ago, instantly froze when she saw me. “Why are you here again?” I gave a wry twist of my lips and turned to leave without hesitation. But Eleanor’s hand remained firmly on my arm. She patiently explained, “Mother, no matter what, we’re family. Let’s let bygones be bygones.” She looked at my mother, her voice softening. “Let’s let Blake come home, okay?” As Eleanor spoke, my mother’s eyes reddened, and she rushed toward me. I had never seen my mother look so anxious. In that instant, my dormant heart stirred slightly. But the next second, my mother surged past me, grabbing Jasper who stood beside me. In my surprise, a knife plunged into me from behind. Blood poured out, and I watched, stunned, as my mother spoke with a look of relief. “Jasper, thank goodness… thank goodness it wasn’t you.” In that moment, my last remaining flicker of hope completely vanished. Eleanor was the first to react. Without hesitation, she stepped forward and shielded me, taking the next few knife blows for me. Before I passed out, I heard Eleanor’s trembling voice. “Blake, this is what I owe you…” When I opened my eyes again, I looked around and found myself in a hospital bed. Eleanor was in the bed next to mine. She had woken up earlier than me. She was lying on her side, silently watching me, her eyes filled with complex emotions. When our eyes met, her eyes immediately reddened. “I realized I can’t let you go,” she whispered. “The moment I saw you covered in blood, my instinct was to protect you. I’ve thought it through. You’re still the one I love.” She swallowed, her voice thick. “Blake, let’s get back together! Let me spend the rest of my life making it up to you, okay?” Just then, a knock sounded at the door. I looked at the woman and child who entered, my heart filled with tenderness, and smiled. “Allow me to introduce you. This is my wife and child.”

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