Category: English

At 3:00 AM, my homeroom teacher was raging in the group chat because I scored 685 on the Gaokao (college entrance exam) but refused to apply to Tsinghua or Peking University. @Vivian: You stubborn student! You’re self-centered, ignoring my advice, and determined not to apply to the top schools. You’ve wasted the efforts of all your teachers! You don’t trust our experience and just blindly follow your own ideas. Wasting such a high score is the biggest failure of education! Everyone was waiting for my defense. Instead, I quietly left the group chat. By the next evening, screenshots of his rant had gone viral. He was labeled the “Meltdown Teacher” online. Terrified for his reputation, he begged me to clear his name. I just laughed. Too late! 1 I scored 685. First in the school. The moment Mr. Chen, my homeroom teacher, found out, he summoned me back to school to discuss my college applications. He pushed me relentlessly to apply for obscure majors at Tsinghua or Peking University. “You’re the only one this year with a shot at the Ivies of China! Grab this opportunity. Who cares about the major? Just get in first!” he said, eyes gleaming. “When the school puts up the Honor Roll, your name will be at the top to inspire the juniors!” He looked so sure I’d listen. I silently closed the browser and told him I’d fill out the application at home. Panic flashed in his eyes. He practically tried to wrestle the mouse from me to input his choice as my first preference. “What is there to think about? With this score, it has to be Tsinghua or Peking!” I guarded my login credentials like they were nuclear codes and fled the classroom. Back home, he called me nine times. “Vivian, you can’t waste 685 points! You have your pick of the best schools. Listen to your teachers; we’ve seen it all. We won’t lead you astray.” I had thought about this for days. I firmly chose Beijing Jiaotong University for Communication Engineering as my first choice. On the last day of applications, my phone blew up. “Vivian! How could you put BJTU first? Are you crazy? Do you have any respect for your score? For the teachers who worked so hard for you?” “Change it to Tsinghua or Peking immediately before the system closes!” 2 I found out later my mom had let it slip to a neighbor. Mr. Chen had been snooping around my neighborhood and heard the news. That’s why he was losing his mind. I told him over the phone, “My first choice is final. I’ve thought it through.” That sentence lit the fuse. He screamed, his voice cracking, “We worked so hard to create this environment for you, and you drop the ball now? How can you decide something this important based on your own whims? You’re being selfish! You’ll regret this! Change it!” I didn’t say a word. I hung up. Then I blocked his number. I heard from a senior that Mr. Chen had been teaching for fifteen years. I was the first student he’d ever had with a score like mine. He pathologically believed my success was entirely due to “the teachers’ guidance.” He tried to gaslight me into fulfilling his dream, even if it meant sacrificing my next four years. I knew from a young age that for a kid from a small town like me, the Gaokao was my only way out. I ground through every difficult problem until I mastered it. If I applied to the top two schools with my score, I’d end up in a major like Paleontology or Ancient Manuscript Restoration—dead ends for me. Communication Engineering was my dream. This was my life. I called the shots. Three minutes before the deadline, my choice remained unchanged. Mr. Chen completely lost it. 3 When he confirmed I hadn’t applied to the top schools, his rage kept him up until 3 AM. He spammed the class WeChat group: @Vivian: You stubborn student! You’re self-centered, ignoring my advice, and determined not to apply to the top schools. You’ve wasted the efforts of all your teachers! Many of us stayed up late working for you. Getting 685 should be a celebration, but you’ve turned our hard work into zero. You don’t trust our experience and just blindly follow your own ideas. Wasting such a high score is the biggest failure of education! I warn the class: never forget what the school gave you. Be grateful, or your path will narrow! I am so disappointed, especially in Vivian. Tomorrow, I will dissolve this group out of sheer disappointment! Reflect on your actions! His profile picture was still lit up. He was waiting for my apology. I stared at the screen, wide awake. “Self-centered”? “Reflect on your actions”? The only one who needed to reflect was the unreasonable, dictatorial teacher. I am an independent person, not a trophy for his resume. I realized quickly: he lost his bonus. At the 100-day pep rally, the principal announced a 200,000 RMB bonus for any homeroom teacher who got a student into Tsinghua or Peking. No wonder he was furious. Classmates started spamming emojis, waiting for the drama. I clicked settings. “Leave Group Chat.” The next morning, my best friend, Sophie, told me the group had imploded. 4 Sophie showed me the screenshots. [Did Mr. Chen get hacked?] [Is he trying to ruin the Valedictorian’s life for a bonus?] [Wait, does he get paid if someone gets into the top schools?] [He’s definitely venting because he lost his bonus!] The group was quickly muted by the admin. “Everyone knows what he’s up to,” Sophie sighed. I thought that was the end of it. But that evening, Sophie looked grim. “Vivian, bad news. Someone posted the screenshots online. Thousands of people are dragging Mr. Chen. The school’s reputation is tanking.” Then, Mr. Chen did something even crazier. My phone started ringing off the hook. Calls from a “Repeat School” (a cram school for retaking the Gaokao). Every thirty minutes. A new number. I finally picked up to tell them to stop. “Hello, Vivian? We are the Sunrise Repeat School. If you enroll with us to retake the exam, we’ll give you a 500,000 RMB signing bonus!” “How did you get my number?” I asked coldly. “Your homeroom teacher told us about your situation. Tuition is free. 500k cash. Just think about it. Talk to your parents.” I hung up immediately. Mr. Chen again! 5 Instead of reflecting on the backlash, he was doubling down. First the harassment, now selling my info to cram schools? He just wanted me to retake the test so he could try for his bonus again next year. I wasn’t falling for it. 500k was a lot of money. But giving up a sure thing for a gamble? Risky. And my first choice was solid. I didn’t tell my mom about the offer. I didn’t want her to worry. But at dinner, she looked troubled. She burned the sweet and sour ribs. “Did the cram school call you too?” I asked. Mom hesitated, then nodded. “Vivian, I was thinking…” I couldn’t blame her. 500k would change our lives. 6 This was the third year since Dad died. He was a weather recorder in the mountains. A mudslide took out the station during a storm. They found him three days later. Mom cried until she got sick. Most of our savings went to hospital bills. In 10th grade, I wanted to drop out and work. Mom stormed into my room. “Even if I have to sell everything, you are finishing high school! You’re 15! Who would hire you? Sharpening the axe doesn’t delay the woodcutting. Finish school!” I promised her I would. From that moment, I studied like my life depended on it. I went from average to top 10. And finally, first. The cram school’s offer was tempting. But the choice was: My dream now, or a gamble for money later. 7 Honestly, I didn’t want to do senior year again. It was hell. Endless tests, pressure, anxiety. I was an NPC in a game called “Gaokao.” I wouldn’t bet a year of my life on a “maybe.” Plus, high school wasn’t all sunshine. The boy behind me used to snap my bra strap. He’d laugh, “You’re flat anyway, who cares?” I told Mr. Chen. He shrugged. “Ignore them. Focus on studying. Don’t be distracted by small things.” I later found out those boys were his relatives’ kids. That’s when I stopped expecting anything from him. The summer uniforms were thin and white. When girls complained they were see-through, the principal yelled, “Wear light-colored underwear! Stop trying to be special!” Thinking back made me shiver. I was done. That night, I accepted the WeChat request from the cram school teacher. [I will not be attending. Please do not contact me again.] I thought it was over. But Sophie texted me. She got an offer too. 300k bonus, guaranteed score increase. “Vivian, wanna do it together?” she asked, excitement in her voice.

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The engagement party was well underway, but Rhys was nowhere in sight. I called him countless times. Nothing. Not a single text back. Not until I saw the post on Sloane’s Instagram story. “Someone has been flying back-to-back for work, but because I wanted to, he dropped everything to come swimming with me.” The picture was a selfie of her and Rhys in an indoor pool. In the background, tossed carelessly aside, was the familiar crimson fabric of my vintage family heirloom gown. Facing a ballroom full of guests, I announced I was calling the whole thing off. Six years. Six years I had loved him. I was simply—tired. 1 The guests had long dispersed when Rhys finally called. A spike of irritation shot through me, yet I answered anyway, a perverse reflex. Rhys’s voice was laced with an impatient indifference. “Gemma, come to The Meridian Club and pick up Sloane and me.” I looked down, my voice dangerously calm. “I’m nearby.” The club was less than two blocks from the hotel. “How could you possibly be nearby?” Then, a beat of realization, and a casual, dismissive “Ah.” “Oh, right, I forgot about today. Look, we’ll do the engagement next time. Just come pick us up first.” I didn’t respond. He continued, his tone hardening with authority. “It’s just an engagement, Gemma. Don’t start throwing a tantrum. Just come get me.” It’s just an engagement. That was it, wasn’t it? To him, my sincerity, my commitment, my grandfather’s final gift—that gown—none of it meant anything. Before the party, he swore he had to fly out for a last-minute deal, promising to be back the day before. He did come back, only to run straight to Sloane. I hung up, my chest aching with a dull, heavy pressure. A moment later, Rhys updated his own feed: “My little one loves to stay active.” The photo was a full-body shot of Sloane in a flattering swimsuit, proudly showing off her figure by the pool. A strange, acrid taste of nausea rose in my throat. I let out a sharp, empty laugh. In that moment, I finally saw how completely superfluous I was in this six-year relationship. The obsession, the fierce loyalty I’d maintained for so long, vanished into thin air. 2 Rhys finally stumbled in around two in the morning. His luggage—a couple of overstuffed weekend bags—was dumped unceremoniously in the living room. I glanced at his messy collar, catching a faint, dark smudge of lipstick and the unmistakable look of a hasty cleanup. He scowled, his tone instantly aggressive. “Gemma. What the hell is this? What’s with all the drama?” I stopped packing my own small box of essentials. My voice was ice. “We’re done. You need to move out.” “Seriously? Over this?” He scoffed. “I just forgot the date. You know how slammed I’ve been with work.” I let out a cold laugh. “Slammed enough to forget your own engagement, but not too busy to go swimming with someone else?” I paused, the air suddenly thin. “Where is the dress?” A flicker of guilt—fast, but visible—crossed his face. He pressed his lips together. “That old thing? I don’t know where I tossed it. I’ll pay you for it.” He pulled out his phone, ready to transfer money. “Twenty thousand? That should cover it.” The anger I’d suppressed all night finally erupted, scalding and pure. “No! You know exactly how much that gown meant to me!” My voice cracked. “It was my grandfather’s final gift. It’s not something you can just slap a price tag on!” He rolled his eyes, a sound of supreme impatience. “So what? Fine, I’ll add another ten thousand. Does that finally shut you up?” Ding-dong. My phone vibrated: three thousand dollars deposited. He looked utterly unbothered. “Look, I’m exhausted. Let’s just cool off tonight, okay?” He strode into the guest room and slammed the door shut. I stared at the closed door, and the last, microscopic flicker of warmth I held for him—the hope that he was still the man I fell for—was extinguished. I picked up my phone and dialed a number. “Hey, Lou. I need a reliable moving company… first thing in the morning.” 3 Perhaps it was the prick of a guilty conscience, but he was up ridiculously early, making breakfast. He held up a bacon and cheese croissant. “Your favorite. See?” This was his usual pathetic routine: a cheap, flimsy gesture of placation meant to paper over a massive betrayal. Before, I would have melted. Today, I was granite. “I’m not hungry,” I said, coolly. “I’m heading to work.” I was halfway to the garage when he rushed after me, breathless. “Let’s ride together?” I stopped, one eyebrow arched in genuine surprise. “Weren’t you worried about discretion?” He was a shareholder; I was a project manager at Crestwood Global. For years, he’d strictly forbidden me from publicizing our relationship, maintaining a glacial distance in the office, acting like we were barely acquainted. He flushed, realizing his contradiction. “The garage is usually empty this early. No one will see.” I didn’t argue. I pulled open the passenger door. The seat was covered in a ridiculous mound of plush toys, and tucked into the seat back was a little customized plaque that read: “Sloanie’s Spot!” Rhys stammered, scrambling to throw the toys into the back seat. “Sloane, you know. She just hitches a ride sometimes. She’s being ridiculous.” A sour, metallic taste flooded my mouth. I used to have to meticulously check his car for stray hairs or crumbs before I rode with him. Once, I’d accidentally left my ID on the floor, and he’d lost his mind, throwing it at me and warning he’d toss it in the garbage if I ever left a trace again. Now, he tolerated a whole zoo of a grown woman’s tacky toys. Watching him struggle to clear the mess, I felt only annoyance. “Don’t bother. I’ll take my own car.” I turned, but he grabbed my arm. “Let me drive. We haven’t spent time together.” I glanced at the panic in his eyes, but I was running late. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. I got in. 4 The entire drive, he kept up a stream of meaningless small talk, which I met with monosyllabic replies. As we merged onto the freeway ramp, his phone rang. Sloane’s voice immediately chirped through the car’s Bluetooth speakers. “Rhys… I feel so terrible…” My stomach clenched. I knew that tone. Rhys’s voice instantly went tight with frantic concern. “Sloane? What is it? Where does it hurt? Wait, don’t move, I’m coming right now!” He whipped his head toward me, his voice sharp and commanding. “Get out. Now! I have to turn around.” We were in heavy traffic, practically stopped on the overpass. Get out? I looked at him, genuinely aghast. “Are you out of your mind? We’re on the…” The flash of cold steel in his eyes made me immediately bite back the rest of my sentence. This wasn’t the first time. Every time we had a moment together, a single phone call from Sloane and he would abandon me without a thought. Arguing was useless. He seemed to realize how harsh he sounded and offered a flimsy excuse. “It’s only a short walk to the office from here. I don’t know how sick Sloane is, and she doesn’t have family nearby. I’m all she’s got, Gemma. Just try to understand!” I said nothing. I just got out. His car swerved immediately, leaving a trace of exhaust fumes, accelerating away without a second’s hesitation. The cold November air seeped into my coat, and I shivered. I pulled out my phone to call a ride-share, but as I stepped toward the shoulder, a car cutting through traffic clipped me. I stumbled, scraping my elbow and knee hard on the asphalt. 5 I was sitting on a hard plastic chair in the hospital waiting area, waiting for my name to be called for an X-ray. Rhys called. “What is your problem? Still pouting and skipping work?” His voice was furious. “It’s your project presentation today, and they said you’re a no-show. How old are you? Stop letting personal drama bleed into professional life! If this happens again, you might as well resign!” I opened my mouth to explain—to tell him I’d been hit by a car, that I was in the hospital. But he didn’t give me a second to speak. He slammed the phone down. I sat there, dumbfounded, the phone still hot in my hand. I felt like I’d been doused in a bucket of ice water. I looked up just as Rhys, his face etched with worry, carefully helped Sloane walk past me. He was murmuring reassurances to her, a constant stream of tender concern. It was the type of gentle care I had spent six years craving, but never once received. I closed my eyes and drew a long, shaky breath. Enough. That was it. I was exhausted, truly, finally exhausted. 6 I felt like my body was coming apart at the seams when I left the hospital. I called the moving crew and had the last of Rhys’s belongings delivered directly to Sloane’s apartment. I sat in my now-empty living room, just letting myself be blank. The front door suddenly burst open. Rhys stood there, eyes blazing with fury. “Gemma! What the hell is this stunt you’re pulling?” “You ditch work, and then you send all my things to Sloane’s place? Are you completely insane?!” I lifted my gaze, noticing the bandages wrapped around my elbow and knee. “You… you’re hurt?” “Yes. Small accident on the way to work this morning.” He flinched, unwilling to probe further. But he remained defiant. “It’s not my fault you got into a wreck! That doesn’t give you the right to throw my things out!” My voice was flat. “Rhys, we’re breaking up.” He frowned. “Don’t say things you don’t mean!” I sighed. “I’m serious. It’s over. I’m setting you and Sloane free.” His face twisted with the irritation of a manipulator caught red-handed. “You are so jealous! I can’t stand your insecurity!” He spat the next words out. “If you leave, don’t come crawling back and begging me to take you back!” For three years, we’d fought countless times over Sloane. It was always him who threatened to leave, and me who would swallow my pride, apologize, and beg him to stay. Not this time. I would not be humble anymore. “Go. I won’t regret this. We’re finished.” My gaze was steady, unwavering. His face turned a sickly, dark color. He glared at me one last time, then slammed the door on his way out. I looked at the closed door and reminded myself to call a locksmith tomorrow. 7 The moment I walked into Crestwood Global, the CEO’s assistant summoned me. “Gemma, your position… there’s going to be a slight shift.” The leader explained that my project manager role was being revoked. The major account I was finalizing would be handed over to Sloane. He patted my shoulder, feigning regret. “Your work ethic is stellar, and the company values you. It’s just… have you perhaps offended someone recently?” Who else but Rhys? He’d always subtly discouraged my success, worried I would overshadow Sloane. He’d previously suggested I quit, saying our corporate overlap “looked bad.” Now, he’d just yanked the rug out from under me. I kept my expression neutral, forcing a slight smile. “No problem. I understand.” Inside, my stomach churned, a humiliated fury burning in my chest. When I got back to my area, Sloane was directing a few colleagues to empty the office. She turned, her smile sickeningly smug. “Gemma, sweetheart. So sorry. This space is mine now.” She pointed to a messy pile of cardboard boxes in the corner. “I packed up your things for you. You can take them now.” I looked at the haphazardly dumped personal items and clenched my fists. I gave her a freezing look, walked to the corner, and picked up the boxes. They were light. Inside were a few textbooks, and a small, gaudy ‘Cornerstone’ statuette Rhys had given me years ago, engraved with a meaningless corporate motto. As I carried the boxes out, I passed Sloane. She chirped, dripping with false concern, “Bye, Gemma. Don’t trip on your way out.” I stopped. I turned back, a cold smile curving my lips. “Sloane. You better pray you never fall into my lap.” The major client, The Prescott Group, had partnered with Crestwood because of my expertise. If I was out, that project was going to tank. 8 I was already planning to quit. A headhunter had been pursuing me for months with an offer far superior to my current one, but because of Rhys, I kept putting them off. Looking back, I felt like an utter fool, sacrificing career opportunities for a man who didn’t love me. As I walked down the hallway, my foot snagged on something. I pitched forward. My boxes flew, scattering my belongings. The cheap ‘Cornerstone’ award shattered on the marble floor. The unhealed wounds on my knee immediately burst open with a sharp, blinding pain. “Oh my god, Gemma, are you okay?” Sloane’s voice was laced with unconcealed triumph. “Why are you so clumsy? Next time, you really should watch where you’re going.” I knew, with absolute certainty, she had tripped me. A few colleagues gathered, whispering, but no one offered a hand to help me up. I laughed, a humorless, empty sound. I looked straight at Sloane’s faux-innocent face. “Don’t celebrate too soon, Sloane. The smell of low-grade ambition is really repulsive on you.” Her expression immediately darkened. “What did you say?” Rhys appeared from around the corner, saw my bloodied state, and immediately launched into a rage, not concern. “Gemma! Why aren’t you at your desk? What is this spectacle? You’re always causing drama!” I pushed myself up, my knee throbbing. Rhys saw the blood and instinctively reached for me. I slapped his hand away. “Don’t bother with the fake compassion! Get lost, you despicable pair!” Rhys’s face went white with shock, but he couldn’t find a single word to say. I staggered away, letting the blood drip down my leg. I walked straight to HR and handed in my resignation. Outside the building, I pulled out my phone and called the headhunter. “Hello, is this Mr. Prescott’s office? It’s Gemma. About that position we discussed? I’m ready to talk now.” The manager’s voice on the other end was a surge of surprised delight.

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I loved cake. Every day, Dad would bring a small slice home for me after work. Mom, on the other hand, bought a brand-new stand mixer, baking pans, a whole arsenal of tools, and patiently taught herself how to bake for me. I used to think I was the luckiest girl in the world. Then came the day my parents got divorced, and the woman who came to pick up my father was the owner of the bakery. My mother’s head snapped toward me, her eyes bloodshot. “This is your fault! If you hadn’t been so obsessed with that damned cake, your father never would have met her!” She held out her hands, the backs of them a roadmap of pale, puckered scars from the oven racks. Her voice was a hysterical shriek. “I burned these hands for you, trying to make you happy! But it was never good enough, was it? You both just had to have what was out there!” The metal edge of a baking sheet slammed into my back. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth. That night, Mom brought another little girl home. Ignoring the throbbing pain in my back, I knelt on the floor and begged for my mother’s forgiveness. “Mommy, I’m sorry. Please don’t send me away! I’ll never eat cake again, I promise!” She slapped me, once, twice, three times across the face. Still not satisfied, she dragged me to the kitchen and shoved me into our large, walk-in oven. “Don’t you call me that. I’m not your mother!” “You love cake so much? Then you can stay in here and think about what you’ve done! You and your worthless, cheating father both deserve to die!” The heavy door slammed shut. A moment later, the little girl skipped into the kitchen. She peered through the glass, a triumphant little smirk on her face, and her small finger confidently pressed the ‘On’ button. “From now on,” she chirped, “your mommy is my mommy.” The oven hummed to life, a low, predatory sound. The air began to shimmer with heat. And I smiled. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe now, Mom could finally be happy. 1 Inside the oven, heat pressed in from all sides. The metal walls glowed with it, searing like a fire. I pounded on the thick glass door, my palms turning a painful, angry red. “Mommy! Lily knows she was wrong!” “Help me! I’m so hot! I want to get out!” Sobbing, I stumbled and my arm brushed against the interior wall. A white-hot lance of pain made me snatch it back. Molly pressed her face close to the glass, her expression smug. “You were always bragging at school about your perfect mommy. Well, look now. Your mommy doesn’t want you anymore.” “She’s only going to buy dresses for me from now on. She’s only going to love me.” “No, Mommy is mine…” I cried until my throat was raw and my voice was just a rasp. Sweat and tears hit the hot floor of the oven, vanishing instantly with a sharp hiss. Molly watched me, a delighted smile spreading across her face, before she turned and ran out of the kitchen. I could hear her voice from the living room. “Mommy, Lily is saying bad things about you in the oven! She said if you don’t let her out right now, she’s going to find the bakery lady and make her her new mommy!” No, Lily didn’t say that. Mommy, please don’t believe her! But a second later, I heard my mother’s voice, sharp with rage. “She can stay in there as long as she wants! God, she’s so spoiled!” “Come on, Molly. Mommy will take you to buy a new dress.” Slam. The front door closed, leaving only the low hum of the oven. It was so hot. Everything was hot. So hot that my hands and feet felt like they were on fire. The little gold heart charm on the bracelet Mom and Dad gave me for my first birthday was starting to burn my wrist. Mom said if I wore it, I would always be safe and sound. It was too hot. I wanted to take it off, but my fingers froze. I couldn’t. It was my fault Mom and Dad were apart. If I took off their gift, Mom would be even sadder. I curled into a ball, my head spinning. “Mommy, why aren’t you coming to save me…?” “Mommy, do you really not want Lily anymore? I miss you so much…” I clenched my body tight, the world fading into a dark, roaring haze. Mommy, Lily will be a good girl from now on. … When I opened my eyes again, I was floating, weightless, in the living room. From the kitchen, the big oven was silent. The glass door was smudged with dirty little handprints. I drifted closer and peered inside. There was a small, dark shape curled up on the rack. Was that me? Just then, Molly’s excited voice came from my bedroom. “Mommy, is this pretty room going to be mine now?” “And all the little dresses in the closet, can I wear them?” My mother glanced instinctively toward the kitchen, her brow furrowing for a split second. But just as quickly, the moment passed. She turned back to Molly, her face arranged into the same gentle smile she used to give me. “Of course, sweetheart. Everything in this house is yours now. Anything you want, you just tell Mommy.” Molly’s face lit up with the pure, unadulterated triumph of a victor. It was quickly replaced by a mask of concern. “But what about Lily? Won’t she be mad?” The smile on my mother’s face froze, then curdled into disgust. She snorted. “What right does she have to be mad? Staying in there this long… she’s just learned how to throw a tantrum.” “Are you hungry, Molly? Mommy bought you something good to eat.” Mom led Molly to the dining table, laughing and talking as they sat down. All the while, no one went to the kitchen. No one opened the oven door to take a look. The table was covered with steaming containers of pasta and garlic bread. But my gaze was pulled, irresistibly, to a small strawberry cupcake sitting at the corner of the table. A strawberry cupcake! My favorite. Mom used to always buy them for me. A tiny, fragile flicker of hope ignited inside me. Did… did Mom buy that for me? Maybe she wasn’t angry anymore. Just then, Molly, after taking a large bite of pasta, noticed the cupcake too. 2 She immediately started whining, tugging on my mother’s arm. “Mommy, Molly wants that strawberry cupcake, too!” My mother’s hand froze mid-air. Her voice was stiff, laced with some kind of internal struggle. “That cupcake is…” Her words trailed off, as if a hand were squeezing her throat. She closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. When she opened them again, she forced a tired smile. “Okay. Mommy will open it for you.” Molly let out a cheer of victory. And I, standing in the empty space between worlds, felt a sharp, acidic pain where my heart used to be. This agony was a thousand times worse than being burned alive in the oven. Mommy, you said it was because I was greedy, because I loved cake so much that you lost Dad… Then why? Why would you buy a cupcake for her? Molly ate the cupcake, her face a picture of contentment. She saw Mom staring off in the direction of the kitchen, lost in thought, and put on a show of being a good, thoughtful child. “Mommy, should we go ask Lily to come out and eat? She’s probably hungry, too.” The words were like a needle, popping the fragile bubble of my mother’s composure. Her gaze snapped back, her voice suddenly shrill. “Forget about her! She’ll come out when she’s hungry! Does she think she’s a queen who needs a special invitation?” The more she spoke, the more agitated she became, her voice rising as she turned to scream at the kitchen door. “You ungrateful brat! Are you playing dead in there? You’re just as good at playing games as your worthless father!” “Why don’t you just stay in there forever! Don’t expect me to come begging for you to come out! Why don’t you and your father just go die!” But Mommy, I’m already dead. My mother’s emotions completely shattered. After her screaming fit, her body was still trembling violently. She lost her balance, swayed backward, and fell to the floor in a dead faint. I rushed forward in a panic, trying to catch her, but my hands passed right through her body. I could only watch, helpless, as she lay there, unconscious. Lily really is a bad girl. When I was alive, I made Mommy miserable. Now that I’m dead, I still make her sad. The sudden turn of events startled Molly, too. She stared for a moment, then scrambled to grab the phone and dial 911. The paramedics arrived quickly and carried my unconscious mother away on a stretcher. The house fell silent. My gaze landed on the dining table again. Half of the strawberry cupcake was left, sitting alone on its paper plate. The bright, sweet red of the strawberry frosting looked like a single, perfect drop of blood that had hardened on the plate. I felt a phantom urge to gag. I will never eat cake again. I’m sorry, Mommy. … When my grandma heard that Mom had collapsed, she rushed over to take care of her. After Mom came home from the hospital, she would walk past the kitchen door countless times, but she never once pushed it open. She wouldn’t let anyone else go near it, either. Seeing my mother in this state, Grandma tried to gently persuade her. “Sarah, honey, let the child out.” “What happened between you and Mark… you can’t put all the blame on a little girl.” Grandma softly rubbed my mother’s back. “She’s still so young. Don’t let her get sick in there.” Mom stood frozen, her body as rigid as a statue. She stared at the kitchen door, her lips pressed into a thin, white line. I knew she was still angry with me. But Mommy, Lily is already dead. A dead little girl can’t open the oven door and say she’s sorry. Seeing my mother was unmoved, Grandma let out a deep sigh. She reached out, her hand closing over the kitchen doorknob, and spoke softly to the room inside. “Lily? Grandma’s sweet girl, come on out now. Don’t be afraid, Grandma’s here.” The only reply was a dead, suffocating silence. Grandma frowned and slowly turned the knob. The door opened a crack. An indescribable smell instantly snaked out from the opening. It was the smell of me, after being cooked at a high temperature for hours, then left to rot in a sealed space. The color drained from Grandma’s face. 3 My mother, her face still flushed with anger at Grandma for daring to open the door, rushed over. “Mom, don’t bother with her! I want to see how long she can—” Her voice cut off abruptly. She had smelled it, too. Her eyes locked onto the large oven against the wall. A thick, viscous, yellowish fluid was seeping from the crack at the bottom of the oven door. The fluids from my decaying body. I thought Mom would be scared, or shocked, or that she would finally understand. But she didn’t. After a moment of stunned silence, her face was consumed by a tidal wave of rage. She pointed a trembling finger at the puddle on the floor. “Lily! Ann! Peterson! I told you to stay in there and think about what you did, and you… you went to the bathroom in there just to disgust me?!” “How can you be so vile, so shameless?!” No, that’s not it, Mommy. I hovered around her in a desperate, frantic circle, trying in vain to explain. Mommy, I didn’t want to make you sick. I’m just dead. I wanted to tell her the truth, but my mother couldn’t hear me. I looked at her twisted, furious face, and a wave of grief and despair so vast it felt like a physical ocean washed over me. Even my death was just another disgusting thing in my mother’s eyes. Mom turned and stormed away. Grandma glanced at the oven, then sighed with resignation. “Lily, you were really too stubborn this time. How could you make your mother this angry?” “Be a good girl. Come out and apologize to your mom, and this will all be over.” Seeing no movement from the small figure inside the oven, Grandma sighed again and closed the kitchen door. I remained where I was, an infinite sadness soaking into my soul. Lily has said sorry so many, many times. But a dead little girl can say sorry forever, and Mommy will never hear it. I drifted out of the kitchen and followed my mother as she stormed into her bedroom. She unlocked a small chest on her dresser. Mom once told me that’s where she kept her most treasured possessions. She threw open the lid. Inside were all the gifts I had ever given her for Mother’s Day and her birthdays. A card made from flower petals I had carefully glued into the words “I LOVE MOMMY.” A crayon drawing of our family, the three of us with lopsided, beaming smiles. A friendship bracelet I had spent hours braiding for her from colorful embroidery floss… I never knew she had kept them all so carefully. But now… Like a madwoman, she tore the cards and drawings into tiny pieces. Colorful scraps of paper rained down onto the carpet. I cried, sinking to the floor, trying to gather the pieces and fit them back together. Mommy, don’t tear it. Lily worked so hard on that… When I’m dead, I can’t make you any more presents. But my mother, her face a cold mask, picked up a pair of scissors and, without a moment’s hesitation, snipped the braided bracelet in two. The colorful threads sprang apart, like the connection between my mother and me, severed completely. I collapsed onto the floor, listening to her hysterical screams. “She’s just like her heartless father! Neither of them deserved anything from me!” “I lock her up for one night, and this is the tantrum she throws? This is how she defies me? And I was supposed to take her to the park? Let her rot in there!” I rested my translucent head against my mother’s hand, pretending she was stroking my hair. But Mommy, I am dead now. If you knew, you would be so happy, wouldn’t you? My mother stared at the wreckage on the floor, and her gaze suddenly fell on my class photo in the corner. In the picture, I was wearing a princess dress, standing in the middle of all the other children. My face was radiant with the kind of pure happiness that only comes from being completely loved. Suddenly, her phone buzzed. In the parent group chat, my teacher had posted a notification: “A reminder that Lily Peterson’s birthday is next week. Parents are welcome to bring in a cake to share with the class.” The message had barely been sent before the chat lit up. “Last time, Lily shared her strawberry cupcake with little Jack when he fell. She’s such a thoughtful child.” “Yes, let’s do strawberry cake again for her birthday! The kids all love it.” The words “strawberry cake” were like daggers to my mother. She let out a cold, harsh laugh, her fingers flying across the keypad. “To all the parents, this is Sarah Peterson, Lily’s mother. It breaks my heart to inform you that her father and I have divorced. This is all Lily’s fault. For a piece of strawberry cake, she pushed her own father into the arms of another woman.” I spun in frantic circles. Lily didn’t! That’s not what happened! But my mother couldn’t hear me. She kept typing. “A child who would trade her father for a bite of dessert… I simply don’t know how to raise a child like that anymore.” The group chat exploded. The same parents who had been praising me moments before changed their tune instantly. “She gave up her dad for cake? That’s horrifying!” “If she’s that selfish at this age, imagine what she’ll be like when she grows up.” Reading the accusations against me, I felt a thousand tiny needles piercing my soul, a dense, sharp pain that went straight to my core. That’s not what happened. Lily didn’t trade her dad for cake. Mom put down her phone and turned to gently hug Molly, who was standing beside her. “Don’t be scared, sweetie. From now on, Mommy will only love you.” I watched Molly sink into my mother’s embrace, and my own heart shattered into a million pieces. Mommy, do you really not want Lily anymore? Molly stiffened for a second, a flicker of panic on her face, before it was replaced by a sweet smile. Just moments before, when my mother had stormed out of the kitchen, Molly had looked terrified. She must have been afraid Mom would discover my body. But seeing that she hadn’t, she nestled into my mother’s arms and rubbed her head contentedly against her shoulder. “And Molly will always love Mommy.” I hugged myself, trying to imagine it was me my mother was holding. Mommy will always love Lily. And Lily will always love Mommy. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, sharp and urgent. 4 When Mom opened the door, two police officers were standing there, along with my father, who I hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. Dad’s face was a thundercloud. The moment he saw my mother, he lunged forward. “Sarah, what the hell are you saying in the parent group chat?” “And the preschool called. They said Lily hasn’t been to school in days. Where is she? What have you done with her?” Seeing my father, all the old wounds and fresh betrayals erupted. “Mark, you have the nerve to call the police on me?” “Are you two in this together now? Did you team up just to humiliate me?!” The lead officer cut my mother off, his expression grim. “Ma’am, we need to ask you some questions regarding your daughter’s disappearance. When was the last time you saw her?” She stormed past them into the house, screaming toward the kitchen. “Lily, have you had enough of this game? Get out here right now!” “You brought your father and the police here to make a fool of me! Are you happy now?!” Mommy, Lily isn’t hiding. The police officers exchanged a look and began to search the house. They checked every corner, every closet, but there was no sign of me. Finally, only the kitchen was left. My mother stood with her arms crossed, her voice dripping with disgust. “I told you, she’s hiding in there! Fine! She can stay in there for the rest of her life for all I care!” A female officer was about to enter the kitchen when Molly suddenly stepped forward and timidly tugged on her sleeve. “Maybe Lily went to a friend’s house to play. Mommy has been very sad these last few days. Could you please not upset her anymore?” As she spoke, she subtly shifted her body, as if to block the path to the kitchen. “Please step aside, little girl.” The officer ignored her, gently moving Molly to the side and walking straight into the kitchen. A moment later, a muffled, horrified gasp echoed from the room. “Captain! In the oven…”

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At the school gate, I tossed a cold bun into the trash can and turned to leave. Suddenly, strange words floated before my eyes: [OMG! The Heroine is actually eating a bun out of the garbage!] I whipped my head around just in time to see a skinny, sallow-faced girl fishing my discarded bun out of the bin. She looked at me, terrified. “I… I’m sorry. I thought you didn’t want it.” I strode over to her, snatched the cold bun from her hand, and threw it back into the trash. 1 [No way! Is this NPC really that evil? He won’t even let her eat garbage?] [I feel a profound sense of powerlessness, unable to slap him through the screen.] The girl lowered her head, consumed by shame. “I’m sorry.” I flashed a bright smile. “You can’t eat stuff from the trash. Come with me, senior’s treat. Noodles on me!” She looked like a freshman. The girl froze, her instinct was to refuse. “No, no need!” “My family owns a noodle shop. It’s free. Let’s go!” I forcibly dragged the girl onto my electric scooter and headed straight for my family’s shop. [I take back what I said earlier. NPC Senior is actually a good guy.] [But wait, this plot isn’t right!] [Maybe it’s an adaptation? But it’s good, hopefully the Heroine escapes her misery sooner.] [What if the Heroine falls for this NPC Senior?] [Definitely not. The Male Lead is her canon match. Though NPC Senior might get promoted to Second Male Lead.] On the way, I asked for her name and grade. She was indeed a freshman, named Tara. After getting off the scooter, Tara dawdled, too scared to follow me inside. I had to grab her wrist and pull her in. “Mom, I’m back!” The shop was empty right now. My mom and dad were sitting there on their phones. They looked up, startled. I knew why they were surprised. I had only ever brought guys over to leech food. This was the first time I brought a girl. But they recovered quickly, both beaming with smiles. My mom said, “Hey there, pretty girl! Sit, sit. What kind of noodles do you want? Auntie will make them for you.” “We have toppings like ribs, chicken, beef, and spicy intestine,” my mom added. Tara sat down nervously, whispering, “Thank you, Uncle, Auntie. I don’t like meat. Just plain noodles is fine.” [Baby, isn’t beef noodles your favorite?] [She just doesn’t want the owner to spend too much.] [The Heroine is so good, her life is just too bitter.] I made the executive decision: “Mom, triple portion beef noodles!” My mom smiled and replied, “You got it! Jay, come help me in the back.” “Okay.” 2 I followed my mom into the kitchen while my dad stayed out front talking to Tara. My mom turned on the stove, her face darkening as she whispered, “What’s your relationship with her?” I quickly explained, “Nothing! She’s a freshman. I didn’t even know her half an hour ago.” My mom huffed, “If you don’t know her, why bring her to the shop? Is she starving or something?” I sighed. “Mom, she was eating a cold bun I threw in the trash.” My mom’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t speak for a long time. After a while, she raised her hand and smacked me. “Wasting food? You looking for a beating?” I clutched my head, acting pitiful. “You packed too much! I couldn’t finish it, and I was scared you’d yell at me if I brought it back!” My mom gritted her teeth. “From now on, take only what you can eat! No waste!” I grinned apologetically. “You got it!” My mom, afraid Tara wouldn’t be full, cooked a huge portion of noodles. There was plenty of beef topping left over, so she dumped it all on. I stared at the massive basin of noodles, dumbfounded. “Mom, isn’t that a bit much?” “You think everyone has a stomach the size of a thumb like you? Girls her age have huge appetites!” 3 When I placed the basin on the table, Tara looked overwhelmed. “Senior, it’s too much, I…” “Whatever you can’t finish, just leave!” Tara corrected herself. “I can finish it.” “Eat if you can, but don’t force yourself. Don’t make yourself sick.” “Mmh.” Tara’s eyes suddenly reddened. She lowered her head, staring at the table. “Thank you.” My mom smiled. “No need to thank us. Eat up before it gets soggy.” [NPC Senior’s family are all kind people. Looks like the Heroine won’t starve anymore.] [Not necessarily. Helping once doesn’t mean helping forever.] [It’s still better than her bio mom, who got a new family and completely ignores whether the Heroine lives or dies.] Tara ate the noodles in small bites, but large teardrops fell into the bowl. Seeing this, my parents and I felt a sour ache in our hearts. We all looked away. My mom dragged me back to the kitchen. “What exactly is the situation with this girl’s family?” The floating text hadn’t revealed enough yet, and having just met her, I shouldn’t know too much. I said uncertainly, “Her mom remarried and ignores her. Her dad is probably dead.” My mom was furious. “What kind of people are they? Forget it, can’t control other people’s families! From now on, you bring her breakfast. Lunch and dinner, you get food from the cafeteria for her. Bring her to the shop for supper. Consider it sponsoring a needy student!” I nodded vigorously. “Okay!” 4 My mom was right. Tara’s appetite was indeed impressive. She actually finished the entire basin of noodles. My mom loves it when people finish her food. She beamed, “Pretty girl, were Auntie’s noodles good?” Tara nodded seriously. “Auntie’s noodles were very delicious!” My mom’s smile grew even wider. “Then come every day to support Auntie’s business! Auntie won’t charge you!” Tara looked troubled, seemingly embarrassed. My mom proactively offered, “How about this? You come help out in the shop every night, and Auntie will make you noodles. How does that sound?” “Thank you, Auntie.” After Tara finished eating, my parents closed up shop. Tara fought to do the cleaning. She was quick and efficient, helping us tidy up in no time. Afterward, my dad offered to walk her home. Tara refused at first, but she couldn’t out-stubborn my dad, so she eventually agreed. However, an hour later, my dad brought her back home, along with a large woven bag. My mom and I looked at each other. We didn’t understand, but we welcomed Tara to sit. My dad drank some water, fuming with righteous indignation. “That woman isn’t human! To force the kid to drop out and work, she kicked her out of the house. Ignored her completely. This child has been living next to a public toilet for two or three months, surviving on picking through trash!” My mom and I were stunned. My mom recovered, grabbing Tara’s hand, tears in her eyes. “Tara, if you don’t mind, stay with Uncle and Auntie. We have a spare bedroom.” My dad comforted her too. “Don’t feel burdened. When you’re successful later, you’ll have plenty of chances to pay us back.” Tara lowered her head, choking back a sob. “Thank you, Auntie, Uncle.” “For what? Small thing.” My mom glanced at me sideways. “No bullying your sister, hear me?” I was speechless. Why would I bully this poor little thing?

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During spring break, my husband, our son, and I went shopping. My son, Tyler, fixated on a game console. When I said no, he started screaming at me right there in the mall. “Monkey! Why won’t you buy it for me? I want it! If you don’t buy it, I’ll hit you!” He lunged at me, punching and kicking. This wasn’t the first time. My husband, Dave, looked at me with pure disgust. “Let’s go. Stop embarrassing us.” I looked at my son coldly. “From now on, I’m not your mom. If you want something, ask your new mom.” I turned and walked away, leaving Tyler screaming in the middle of the mall. I quit. 1 Walking home alone, I realized I wasn’t even sad anymore. Countless hurts had left me numb. For years, I gave up a career I loved to raise a son and a daughter. But all they did was resent me. My son, Tyler, is only in elementary school, but he’s obsessed with video games and junk food. When I say no, he acts like I’m a monster. He has zero respect for me, hits me when he’s mad, and calls me “Monkey” in public. My daughter, Chloe, is just as bad. Since starting middle school, she’s become rebellious, obsessed with dating some blue-haired delinquent. I tried to guide her, but she sees me as the enemy of her true love. This is all thanks to their father—a misogynist who loves playing the “cool dad.” He constantly brags about his achievements while belittling mine in front of the kids. “Daddy works so hard to make money. Mommy has it easy; she doesn’t do anything.” “Housework and kids are women’s work. I’m a man; I do big things.” “I make four grand a month! Do you know how hard that is? I don’t have time for your nagging.” Every time I discipline the kids, he swoops in like a hero, badmouths me with them, and buys them junk food to make them happy. I’m the villain. He’s the saint. No wonder the kids hate me. Was I wrong? Maybe. Wrong for choosing this husband. Wrong for birthing two ungrateful tumors. I opened the door to see Chloe already home, dressed like a wannabe gangster, sitting at the table. She rolled her eyes. “Hey, I’m broke. Give me some cash.” I ignored her and walked to my room. She followed, leaning against the doorframe, shaking her leg. “Hey, I’m talking to you. Give me money. I need to go out!” I was so disappointed in this girl who only cared about hanging out with her blue-haired boyfriend. I hung up my new clothes. “No money. Ask your wonderful father.” Chloe snapped, slapping my clothes away. “What do you mean no money? You have money to buy clothes but not for me?” She reached for my phone, cursing. “Stupid bitch, why is it so hard to get money from you?” I pushed her away, disgusted. “Get out. Go ask your little boyfriend to support you!” “Fine! I knew you were trying to break us up! Tyler was right, you are just a brainless monkey!” Slap. I hit her across the face. “Watch your mouth. Since this is my last day as your mother, let me teach you how to speak like a human!” Slap. I hit her other cheek. I used to be too soft to discipline her. Now, I was completing her education. Just then, the lock clicked. Dave and Tyler were home. Hearing Chloe’s screams, they rushed over. Tyler charged at me, fists flying. “Stupid Monkey! Let go of my sister!” I backhanded him across the face. His cheek swelled instantly. “Listen here, you little brat. Call me ‘Monkey’ again, and I’ll slap you until your mouth rots!” Tyler wasn’t used to this. He screamed like a banshee and tried to hit me again. I grabbed his arm and kicked his butt and thighs. I used to hold back. Now that he wasn’t my son anymore, I hit him as much as I wanted! Dave finally stepped in, shielding the kids. “Jane! Enough! It’s just a nickname, is it necessary?” I laughed. “Dave, it’s about respect! They turned out like this because of you! If you think it’s no big deal, how about I call you ‘Pig’ from now on?” Dave was furious. How could anyone talk to a “big man” like him that way? “Jane, are you done making a scene? Fighting with kids, what kind of mother are you! Earlier at the mall, Tyler just wanted a game console. You should have just bought it. Making a scene in public… I’m embarrassed for Tyler having a mom like you!” “Yeah, so embarrassing! You don’t deserve to be my mom if you don’t buy me stuff!” Tyler chimed in. It was always like this. They ganged up on me until I caved. They spent my savings, but Tyler thought it was Dave’s money. He hated me and loved Dave more. But I wasn’t their mom anymore. I wasn’t compromising. “Tyler, ask your dad. Isn’t he the best? He’ll buy it for you. I told you at the mall, I’m not your mom anymore. Go ask him!” “And Chloe, you want money? Ask your dad. He’ll give it to you. Hurry up, grab the cash and go find Blue Hair.” The kids looked at Dave with expectant eyes. “Dad, you’re different from that old hag, right?” Dave looked awkward. He hated spending money on the kids, but he didn’t want to ruin his “cool dad” image. “Tyler, don’t worry. I’ll buy it for you. But Daddy is a little tight this month. How about… when I get paid next month?” Dave was the king of empty promises. Only an idiot like Tyler would believe him. “See? Stupid woman! Dad will buy it for me. You’re nothing compared to Dad!” Chloe held out her hand. “Dad, I don’t need much. Just five hundred.” Dave acted pained, pulling out two crumpled twenties. “Chloe, Daddy won’t stop you like your mom. But I only have forty on me. Take this for now.” Chloe looked grateful. “Thanks, Dad! You’re the best. Unlike her, hoarding money. Dad, I’m leaving, Blue Hair is waiting!” She ran out. Dave coaxed Tyler back to his room, then stormed back to confront me. “Jane, I work my ass off to support this family! You sit at home enjoying life and can’t even manage two kids? What good are you?” I scoffed. “You support us? You haven’t brought a dime home in years. We’ve been living off my savings! Where do you get the nerve to lecture me?” Dave puffed up his chest. “Being a supportive wife is your duty! Raising kids is your job! Paying for things is what you’re supposed to do!” I truly didn’t understand how his brain was wired. “Duty my ass. Go look in a mirror. I’m saying this for the last time: I quit being a mom. I’m done with those two. I’m not spending another cent. You handle it!” I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. “If you don’t handle it, who will?!” Dave roared. “Their wonderful father, obviously.” 2 Outside, I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. After a short ring, it connected. “Jane? Finally calling me? You heartless woman, did you forget your best friend?” Hearing Sarah’s voice, I finally felt safe. I started crying. “Hey, hey, why are you crying? I’m not blaming you! Did that dog Dave upset you? I told you he was trash!” I sobbed, “Sarah, I regret everything…” “Okay, okay, stop crying. Come to the dance studio. Same place!” When I arrived, Sarah was waiting. She saw my haggard face and said nothing, just led me to her office. “Jane, you used to be so radiant. That guy… he destroyed you. It hurts just looking at you!” I smiled bitterly and told her everything. Sarah was furious. “How did you put up with that for so long?! Ungrateful wolves! I would have torn them apart! Jane, what do you want to do now?” “I want to start over. I want to make them regret everything.” “That’s my Jane! But the industry changes fast. Even though you were in the National Troupe, you haven’t danced in years. You need to catch up on trends. Can you start as a regular instructor?” I agreed instantly. I was just grateful for the chance. I knew I could be the best. Sarah was happy. “Let’s go shopping! New makeup for your new life! You need to look gorgeous as a dance teacher!” By the time we finished shopping, it was evening. With Sarah, I felt like my old sparkling self again. I stayed at Sarah’s that night. My phone rang non-stop. All Dave. When I finally answered, he started screaming. “Jane, where the hell are you? No dinner, house is a mess! I come home from work to a cold kitchen! Get back here and cook!” I fired back, “Are your hands broken? Or are you paralyzed? Waiting for me to serve you? Cook yourself or starve! Don’t bother me!” “Jane, did you take the wrong meds? Fine, you don’t care about me, what about the kids?!” “Yeah, I took the wrong meds years ago when I decided to serve you like a maid. Are they hungry? Not my problem! I’m not hungry!” I hung up before he could respond. Sarah gave me a thumbs up. “That’s the spirit! No more taking crap!” Until bedtime, Sarah updated me on the dance world and sent me videos to study. She promised to start recruiting students for me tomorrow. For the next few days, I practiced from dawn to dusk. The familiar feeling returned. Sarah said I could start teaching next week. I was thrilled. I told Sarah I was going back that night. “Jane, you’re not going back to be a maid, are you?!” she asked, shocked. I laughed. “No way! I just want to see how those dogs are living.” I went back right before dinner. The house smelled awful. Leftover takeout everywhere, overflowing trash cans, sour stench. Dirty laundry piled high, socks on the sofa. Hearing the door, Tyler and Chloe came out, thinking it was Dave. “Dad, what’s for dinner?” Seeing me, their faces fell. “Stupid woman, you finally came back! Look at this mess! Clean it up and cook! I’m starving!” “Wait until Dad gets home, he’s gonna kill you!” Just like Dave. Disgusting. I pushed Tyler aside, sat at the table, and opened a large container of spicy crayfish I bought for myself. “If you’re starving, cook. If you can’t cook, you aren’t hungry enough.” Chloe sat next to me, reaching for a crayfish. I slapped her hand. “Hey! What are you doing?” “Eating! What does it look like?!” “Stealing my shrimp! Buy your own! Can’t afford it? Then watch! Don’t touch with your dirty paws!” Tyler tried to sweet-talk me. “Mommy, give me a bite? You know I love shrimp.” “Hey, I’m not your mom. Don’t call me that. You don’t deserve these shrimp. You can suck on the shells.” Tyler saw flattery wasn’t working and tried to hit me. “Stupid Monkey! Give it to me or I’ll beat you!” I backhanded him to the floor. “I told you. Call me Monkey, get slapped. Why use your mouth to bark like a dog?” Tyler screamed. “Ahh! You hit me! I’ll kick you to death! Die! Die!” Chloe yelled too. “Crazy bitch! You starve us and eat alone?!” She tried to flip the bowl. I held it down. Then I grabbed the other takeout containers on the table—their old leftovers—and dumped them on her head. “No manners! You want to eat? Eat this!” “And you, Tyler. Have a feast!” I threw the leftover soup and rice on his face. They shrieked like kettles boiling over. I took a video and sent it to Sarah: [This is what happens when you mess with me.] Sarah replied: [Queen!] I ignored their crying, ate my crayfish, and watched a show on my phone. By the time I finished, Dave still wasn’t home. I went to pack some clothes. While packing my skincare, I noticed something wrong. My expensive face masks were missing. I thought Chloe took them, but then I found a press-on nail in the drawer. I never wear those. Dave found a new mom for the kids. Good. Evidence of infidelity would be useful for the divorce. I packed quietly. Just as I was leaving, the door opened. Dave was back, holding a bowl of cheap spicy soup. Feeding the kids slop while he probably ate a feast with his mistress. Seeing me, he assumed I was back to beg forgiveness. He put on his arrogant face. “Couldn’t make it out there, huh? A woman with no skills can only starve. How would you live without me?” Ridiculous. I laughed. “Is your brain broken or did you gargle with sewage? Why does your mouth smell like sh*t? Rely on you? And eat spicy soup? No thanks.” Dave sneered. “Keep talking tough. If I’m wrong, why are you back? Whatever, I’ll save you some face. Since you’re back, clean this place up. Look at this mess.” He looked me up and down. “Yellow-faced woman wearing a dress? Go change. How can you clean in a dress?” He threw his jacket on the sofa and marched toward the bedroom like a king. “Okay. Let me show you how I clean in a dress.” I grabbed the bowl of spicy crayfish soup and dumped it over his head. “Here’s a tip. Crayfish soup. Oops, look at you, eating so fast you got it everywhere. Let me help you wipe it.” I grabbed a filthy rag from the table and smeared it over his face. Dave shoved me away, roaring. “Jane! Are you crazy?! You dumped soup on me?! You want to die?!” Tyler and Chloe ran out, looking like two sad piles of garbage. Tyler hugged Dave and cried. “Dad! That crazy woman bullied us! She threw leftovers on me! Kill her, Dad!” Chloe joined in. “Yeah, Dad, beat her! Blue Hair says disobedient women need a beating. Don’t lose face!” Brainwashed beyond repair. Dave was riled up. “Okay! Daddy will teach this bitch a lesson for you!” He raised his hand to hit me. Just as he thought! Before he could strike, I messed up my hair and clothes, ran out the door, and collapsed on the ground, screaming. “Help! Domestic violence! Dave is beating his wife! Help!” Neighbors opened their doors. A kind old lady ran to me. “Jane, what happened? Don’t cry, tell me.” “Dave… he beat me! I just came home a little late and he beat me!” “I don’t want to live anymore!” I had a reputation as a saint in the neighborhood. Everyone believed me and started yelling at Dave. Dave tried to defend himself. “No! She’s lying! I didn’t hit her! Look, she threw soup on us!” “If I didn’t throw it, I wouldn’t have escaped! He would have killed me! I took care of them for years and this is what I get!” The neighbors were furious. They looked ready to mob him. Dave panicked. He threw my bag out. “Jane, get out!” Slam. The neighbors comforted me. Once I “calmed down,” they went home. Dave’s reputation was ruined. I picked up my bag and went back to Sarah’s, satisfied. 3 When I got to Sarah’s, she had good news. The studio posted about my classes online, and lots of people remembered me. Many signed up. Sarah was excited. “Jane, you’ve still got it! You brought in so many students. Big bonus coming your way! Honestly, since you stopped playing maid, you look amazing. With a little makeup, you look just like you did back in the day.” I looked in the mirror and smiled. I used to be the troupe beauty. I told Sarah about Dave’s affair and asked her to investigate. I needed proof for the divorce and property division. She was on it. Two days later, Sarah got the PI report. The mistress was a new hire on Dave’s team, named Vivi. Photos of them dining, kissing, entering hotels. Ironclad evidence. Living it up with his mistress while his kids ate garbage. They deserved each other. Sarah asked, “Jane, what’s the plan?” I smirked. “Total destruction.” That night, we prepared. Sarah printed flyers. I made posters. Tomorrow was Monday—perfect day for drama. The next morning, Sarah hired five people to hand out flyers at Dave’s office. The flyers had dates, times, and pictures. The colleagues were shocked and thrilled. Nothing beats office gossip. Within an hour, everyone knew. We waited at a cafe until 5 PM. Quitting time. My turn. I wore a tight dress, heels, and sunglasses. Two bodyguards followed me. At the office entrance, the bodyguards unfurled a banner filled with intimate photos of Dave and Vivi. Large text: “CONGRATULATIONS DAVE ON YOUR NEW CONCUBINE!” I held a megaphone, looping a recording of their timeline. Colleagues leaving work stopped to watch and record. Soon, Dave and Vivi walked out, arms linked. Their smiles froze when they saw the banner. I took off my sunglasses. “Dave, long time no see. Congrats on the new lady.” Dave lunged at me, but saw the phones recording. He hissed, “Jane! What are you doing? Stop embarrassing us! Let’s go home!” I laughed. “Embarrassing? I don’t think so. I’m not the one who should be embarrassed. Let’s talk right here.” Sarah walked up. “Yeah, Dave. Dare to do it, dare to own it?” Dave’s face was black. “It’s not what you think. Let’s go home and talk.” “Not what I think? Then what is it? Say it here. Nothing to hide, right? I’m sure your colleagues want to know the truth.” Dave shouted, “Jane, Vivi and I are just colleagues! Nothing else! These are fake!” I pretended to believe him. “Really? Then let me check your phone.” “That’s my privacy! You can’t!” “I’m your legal wife! But fine, don’t show me. These proofs are enough.” I took the divorce papers from Sarah and slapped them onto Dave’s face. “Sign it. Cheating means you get less.” Sarah and I walked away, leaving Dave in his humiliation. 4 The next morning, I brought movers to the house. I bought most of the furniture and appliances with my savings. I wasn’t leaving them for the trash family. When I entered, Tyler, Chloe, and Dave were at the table, waiting for Vivi to make breakfast. Tyler glared. “Stupid woman, why are you here? We don’t need you. We have a new mom. She’s a million times better. She bought me my game console.” Chloe added, “Yeah, we don’t want a cheap mom. New mom supports me and Blue Hair. That’s what youth is about! Unlike you, old antique.” Laughable. They thought Vivi’s indulgence was love. She was just raising them to be useless. Not my problem anymore. “Think what you want. Good luck with Vivi. I don’t want you two idiots anyway.” I directed the movers. “TV, bookshelf, computer… I bought them all. Take them.” Dave slammed the table. “Who dares?! This is my house!” I shrugged. “Your house, sure. But I bought the stuff. I have receipts. Even the cops can’t stop me. Guys, ignore him. Move it out. I’ll pay extra.” “Jane, don’t go too far!” “I am going too far. What are you gonna do about it?” I walked into Chloe’s room. “Take the piano too.” Chloe blocked it. “My piano! You can’t take it!” “I paid for it. You begged to learn, then called me a control freak for making you practice. I’m doing you a favor. You’re too busy riding scooters with Blue Hair to play anyway. Don’t waste my money.” I pulled Chloe away. “Move it!” Chloe glared. “I hate you!” “Feeling is mutual.” I walked out under their hateful gazes. “Bye bye, trash.” A few days later, the court ruling came. I got 70% of the assets. Dave got 30%. The same day, Dave got fired for “misconduct affecting company image.” Meanwhile, my career was booming. My rate kept going up, but students kept coming. Parents wanted me to mentor their kids for dance school. I became the star teacher. Hearing Dave lost his job, I called him to gloat. I love kicking a man when he’s down. Even with little money left, Dave insisted on a lavish wedding with Vivi to save face. He sent me an invite to show off. I went. Dressed in black, looking fabulous. I gave him a thick red envelope. Dave smirked. “Regret it now? You were shortsighted.” I spoke loudly. “Oh, I regret it so much! Getting most of the money… This wedding cost a lot, right? Shame you can’t live the poor life anymore!” Dave huffed. “Don’t be smug, Jane. I’ll earn it back in no time. You’ll just eat through your savings.” “How? With your non-existent job? Oh, I forgot, you have no job and two kids to feed. Unlike me, making sixteen grand a month.” “Don’t bully the poor youth! You’ll regret it!” “Sure, sure. ‘Don’t bully the poor middle-aged man.’ I’ll wait for your miracle.” I left before eating. Pity I couldn’t see their faces when they opened the envelope full of spirit money (hell money).

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Donovan was in the center of the ballroom, locked in a slow, intimate dance with his secretary, Sierra Vaughn, when my asthma attack started. Even as I began to gasp, drooling, struggling to breathe, the man I was supposed to marry kept his arms around her, their heads close, sharing a private joke. On the ride home, I found a diamond ring box tucked into the glove compartment. Before I could say a word, Donovan frowned, snatched it up, and said, his voice cold as ice: “It’s not for you.” I simply nodded. Then, I pointed toward the bridal boutique coming up on the next block. “Pull over, please.” The bespoke gown I’d ordered felt like a relic from a different lifetime. It was time to cancel the fitting. 1 I’d barely made it through the door of the boutique before Donovan followed me, slamming a woman’s coat into my face. “Amelia,” he clipped, “for God’s sake, get rid of this awful habit of leaving your trash everywhere.” Donovan had a phobia of clutter. He never allowed a single one of my personal items to remain in his luxury sedan. I glanced at the coat on the floor. “It’s not mine.” At that, his expression softened. He picked up the discarded garment without a hint of disgust and carefully folded it. I knew the coat belonged to Sierra. Every other time Sierra “accidentally” left an item behind, it led to a spectacular, screaming fight between Donovan and me. This time, however, I had nothing to say. No fight left in me. I turned back to the attendant and quietly gave her my phone number. The young woman smiled brightly. “You’ve come at the perfect time! Your custom gown and his tuxedo are both finished. You can try them on now.” Before I could refuse the fitting, the man who had just snapped at me walked into the men’s changing room with a sigh of irritation. Ten minutes later, I stood before Donovan in the white gown. He pulled his mouth into a sneer. “Tacky.” I didn’t argue. Instead, I asked the attendant to take a photo of me. Donovan’s expression was impatient. He was about to put an arm around me for a forced couple’s photo when his phone rang. It was Sierra’s personalized ringtone. The girl on the other end was sobbing, complaining that her favorite jacket was missing. She declared that whoever was kind enough to return it would be rewarded with her undying, eternal devotion. Donovan hung up, didn’t bother to change out of his suit, and strode out of the store. Listening to the sound of his car speeding away, I picked up the shears used for alterations and, without a single moment of hesitation, shredded my wedding dress. It was half past one in the morning. I was cleaning out my personal items when a message popped up. It was from Donovan: [Out drinking] In eight years together, the man had rarely bothered to check in. I glanced at the cleaning gloves on my hands and didn’t reply. After taking out the trash, I had a hot shower and slept a deep, dreamless sleep. Donovan came home the next day just as I was heading out to the trash chute. His eyes narrowed in confusion. “Is your phone broken?” I shook my head. His brow immediately furrowed in that familiar sign of annoyance. I knew why he was asking. In the past, whenever he stayed out late, I would barrage him with texts and calls. But last night, his phone had been eerily silent. As I reached the door, he called out, “Amelia, where are the photos from the living room wall?” I looked down at the garbage bag in my hands. I was about to tell him the truth when his phone buzzed. He bumped my shoulder, walked past me, and pressed the voice-recording button as he headed further inside. “Hold tight, kiddo. I’ll bring it over the minute it’s ready.” Hearing the water running in the bathroom, I continued downstairs to dump the trash. Climbing back up, I felt the familiar dizzying chill of low blood sugar. Sweating and shaky, I stumbled back into the kitchen, grabbed the half-eaten plate of fried eggs and toast from the counter, and took a bite. That’s when I heard Donovan’s voice, thick with resentment: “Amelia, are you a starved stray?” I watched him pick up the plate with my half-bitten toast and drop the entire thing into the kitchen trash. I stared at him, my vision blurring. “I made your food for eight years. When my blood sugar crashes, do I not even deserve to eat a piece of the breakfast you made?” Donovan’s eyes were hard and cold. “Stealing is stealing, regardless of your emergency. Have some manners.” He put on his suit jacket and slammed the door shut behind him. Facing this fresh wave of silent treatment, I automatically grabbed my phone and opened his messaging app. He’d changed his background photo. It was a selfie of Sierra with a goofy cat-ear filter. I tapped the ‘like’ button—a final act of irony—and then unpinned his conversation from the top of my list. 2 Around lunchtime at the office, I was heading into the elevator to meet with my realtor when I ran right into Donovan and Sierra. Sierra’s long hair was a mess, and Donovan was gently pulling it into a ponytail for her. Seeing me, Sierra immediately put her hands on her hips, pouted, and complained: “Amie, you’re just in time. Look at Donovan. He keeps tugging my hair like a little boy. He’s so annoying.” Before I could speak, Donovan affectionately pinched the tip of her nose. “Little one, your nose will grow long if you tell fibs.” After teasing her until she blushed, he finally, reluctantly, looked at me. “Amelia, what a coincidence. Join us for lunch.” We had worked in the same corporate high-rise for five years. Donovan had never once asked me to lunch during a workday. Meanwhile, Sierra posted daily photos of every meal he shared with her on social media. The memory made me smile sadly. “You two go on. I have an appointment.” My refusal caught him off guard. His face darkened just as the elevator jerked violently, plunging us into darkness. I turned on my phone’s flashlight. Donovan was immediately wrapping his arms around Sierra, whispering reassurances. A moment later, the elevator lights flickered back on, and we reached the lobby. Donovan offered to drop me off wherever I was going. Before I could reply, Sierra suddenly collapsed. Donovan shoved me aside without a second thought, hoisted Sierra onto his back, and rushed toward the nearest hospital. I silently picked up my cracked-screen phone, hailed a ride, and went to look at apartments. That evening, Donovan personally delivered a box of pastries to my desk. I had seen Sierra’s new social media post half an hour earlier: [Loving him is like feeding a flower. My baby bought me too many treats, I can’t possibly finish them all!] The photo showed an entire table laden with expensive French desserts. I thanked him but didn’t open the box. A flicker of confusion crossed Donovan’s eyes. “Amelia, why are you being so formal with me?” I didn’t answer directly. “If there’s nothing else, I need to go print some documents.” When I returned from the printer, holding my resignation letter, Donovan was gone. He’d left a sticky note telling me to come to his office upstairs when I was finished. I tore the note off, crumpled it up with the box of pastries, and tossed them both into the recycling bin. I walked into my boss’s office and handed in my notice. He tried to talk me out of it for a long time, but seeing my resolve, he finally accepted it. I just had to finish out the week. At ten that night, Donovan called me while I was having dinner with some colleagues. A male co-worker accidentally picked up the phone. When I finally took the call, Donovan’s voice was terrifyingly cold. “Amelia, where are you this late?” “Out,” I replied. “Send me your location. I’m coming to get you now.” He hung up without waiting for my response. I sent the location and stayed until the restaurant closed. Donovan never showed. I opened Sierra’s social media feed and, sure enough, found a post about her being sick and getting an IV drip at the hospital. I took a cab home, showered, and went to bed. At half-past three in the morning, a travel-worn Donovan violently shook me awake. He said, his voice flat and demanding: “Amelia, I’m starving. Make me a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup.” He hated chicken noodle soup. He never ate it. I knew who was asking for it: Sierra. I tried to pull my arm away, but my fingers brushed against the scar on his hand. Years ago, the school auditorium had caught fire. Without Donovan, I would have been one of the casualties. A bowl of soup for a life saved—I was still coming out ahead. Seeing me quietly put on a robe to head to the kitchen, Donovan grabbed my arm again. For once, his voice held a trace of uncertainty. “Maybe wait until morning, it doesn’t matter right now…” I cut him off, asking softly, “Besides the soup, is there anything else she wants to eat?” After a moment of silence, Donovan slowly released my arm. “No,” he said. “That’s all.” 3 Before sunrise, Donovan stood at the door with a thermal food carrier in his hand. “Amelia,” he said, “I have to go abroad next week. I’ll make time this Saturday to meet your parents for dinner so we can discuss the wedding details…” I cut him off before he could finish. “There’s no need.” Donovan visibly froze. “What are you talking about?” I smiled, making up a smooth lie. “They’re traveling out of state. They won’t be back for a while.” He stared at me, as if he had more to say, but his phone rang—a priority call, I assumed, as he quickly turned and shut the door behind him. Friday, my last day at work. As soon as I walked out of the building, Donovan grabbed me and pulled me into his car. In the exclusive restaurant, Donovan cut my steak for me while asking, “What wine do you want to drink?” I distractedly scrolled on my phone. “You choose.” My inattention made his handsome face tighten. “Who are you texting?” “No one.” Despite my answer, he snatched the phone out of my hand. After scrolling for a minute, his eyes, dark and unreadable, landed on the screen. “When did you change your wallpaper?” For all the years we had been together, my wallpaper had always been a photo of us. Now, it was a picture of my parents’ ridiculously fluffy poodle. Too weary to answer, I simply stood up to go to the restroom. When I returned, Donovan was gone. Suddenly, the restaurant lights dimmed. A server wheeled a cart piled with flowers and a cake slowly toward me. The cart stopped at the table next to mine. At that moment, my phone lit up. It was an automated text: Happy Birthday, Amie. I walked out of the restaurant, passing a familiar, sickeningly sweet female voice: “Whoa! Donovan, you’re so strong! Push me higher, higher!” It was Sierra, shrieking with delight on a swing set outside, begging Donovan to push her higher. Her eagerness was her undoing; she lost her balance and tumbled right into his arms. They stared at each other, eyes locked, smiling, holding each other for a long moment before they noticed me. A flash of unmistakable disappointment crossed Donovan’s face. He looked at me blankly. “Oh, Amie!” Sierra chirped. “This swing is so fun! You should try it…” Halfway through the sentence, she blushed crimson and intentionally dropped her arms from around Donovan’s neck. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Amie. Donovan only hugged me to save me from falling…” Donovan gently ruffled her dark hair, his gaze utterly tender. “Silly girl. You don’t owe her an explanation. All that matters is that you’re not hurt.” After soothing Sierra, he withdrew all the tenderness and looked at me, detached. “All finished eating?” I didn’t answer him. I started walking toward the Ferris wheel nearby. I’d heard a silly rumor that if you made a wish on a Ferris wheel on your birthday, it would come true. Seeing my back, a flash of mockery crossed Sierra’s eyes. She quickly grabbed Donovan and dragged him along. “Ooh, a Ferris wheel! Donovan, I want to ride it, too…” The attendant announced only two seats were left. Donovan didn’t spare me a glance. He took Sierra’s hand and they rushed into the cabin. Twenty minutes later, the ride over, Donovan searched the entire plaza but couldn’t find me anywhere. Eight o’clock that evening. I walked out of the bedroom, carrying a suitcase. I placed a slip of paper with the single word [BREAKUP] written on it under the house keys. And I walked out, not looking back. 4 At eleven o’clock that night, my phone rang. It was Donovan. I was in the living room talking to my parents and didn’t see it. An hour later, he called again. I dimmed the screen, powered off the phone, and went to bed. I slept until noon the next day. When I rebooted my phone, I was surprised to see a dozen missed calls. Feeling a strange pull, I opened my messages. Donovan, who was usually so emotionally closed off, had uncharacteristically sent a string of texts: [What is the key and that note supposed to mean?] [So I missed your birthday? Not answering, not returning texts—are you playing games? Is this fun for you?] [Amelia, I’m giving you one hour to get your ass back here, or don’t bother coming back at all.] The last message was sent three hours ago. A deep sigh of relief left my lungs. I slowly moved my fingers, highlighted his name, and selected Delete & Block. A knock came at my door. After I called out, my mother brought in a mug of warm milk. “Amie, your stomach is delicate. Drink this while it’s hot.” I had shown up on their doorstep last night with a suitcase, and they hadn’t asked a single question, just showered me with their usual care. I hugged my mother’s arm, my nose stinging. “Mom, I found an apartment I like. It’s small, but it’s enough to keep me safe and sound.” My mother smiled. “Then buy it. How much do you need? Your father and I will cover it.” Even though I shook my head, insisting I had the funds, my mother immediately wired me twenty thousand dollars. She said a woman with her own home and savings has real backbone. I immediately called the landlord and scheduled the signing for Monday. That night, my father cooked a feast and bought a buttercream cake to celebrate my belated birthday. Facing the lit candles, I clasped my hands together, making a simple, earnest wish. I wished for my parents’ continued health and happiness. However, moments after I blew out the candles, my phone buzzed with unexpected news. Dozens of messages, all from different people, yet expressing the same thing: [OMG, Amie, congrats on the long-haul win! I’m flying back for the wedding and bringing a giant gift!] [Amelia, wishing you and Donovan a lifetime of happiness!] … As I stared at the flurry of congratulations, a notification popped up: Donovan Reed requests to be your friend. [Amelia, I announced our engagement on social media. You’ve achieved what you wanted. You’ve had your little tantrum.] The word “tantrum” made me laugh, a sharp, bitter sound. Who, exactly, was throwing a tantrum now? I recalled that my mother had once asked me to introduce her to Donovan online, but he had always ignored the request. Now, I was grateful for his disregard. If this farce reached her, she’d be up all night worrying. Calmly, I replied to all the well-wishers, informing them I had broken up with Donovan. Then, I posted a new public update on my long-neglected social media feed: [Single and ready to mingle. Rumors are false. I have no boyfriend.] Donovan called less than two minutes after the post went up. I ignored it. He called relentlessly. I finally pulled up his contact and hit Block Number. The world went quiet. I lay on the soft, comfortable bedding, put on my headphones, and closed my eyes to listen to music. Monday arrived. After eating my mother’s loving brunch, I was on time at the property management center. Just as the landlord and I were about to sign the contract, the older man’s phone rang unexpectedly. A few seconds into the call, the landlord looked at me with confusion and hesitantly handed me his phone. “Ms. Stone, this person is asking for you.” I knew Donovan was well-connected, but I never imagined the usually detached, rational man would extend his reach this far just to force me to take his call. I found a quiet corner and spoke, irritation finally breaking through my calm. “Donovan, don’t you ever stop?” My cold, impatient tone startled him into silence. After a pause, he asked in a low voice: “Amelia, why are you telling people you’re single?” “Because it’s true.” Donovan scoffed. “Leaving a key and a ridiculous note makes you single? Amelia, I’m begging you. You’re almost thirty. Can you act like an adult? We’re engaged. We’ll be married soon, just like you always wanted. If you keep acting like this, how are people supposed to show up for our wedding?” I pressed my fingers to my forehead to suppress a laugh. “There won’t be a wedding.” “What does that even mean?” Donovan let out a cold snort. “You’re not seriously going through with the breakup, are you?” I looked down and replied with absolute finality: “Yes. We are breaking up.” He fell silent. I could hear the background noise on his end—I knew he was at the airport, about to board a flight. 5 I glanced at the landlord nearby, who was anxiously watching, afraid the deal might fall through. I was about to hang up when Donovan’s tone suddenly softened. “Amelia, I know you’re furious because I forgot your birthday. I admit it was my fault. When I get back from taking Sierra abroad for her treatment, I promise I’ll make it up to you.” I listened to him finish, then replied blandly: “You’ve misunderstood. I’m not angry, and I don’t need compensation. You just need to know this: you and I are already over.” I hung up, returned the phone to the landlord, and told him to block the number if it called again. After signing the purchase agreement and completing the paperwork, I soon received the deed to my new home. I took a photo for posterity, then immediately left to meet a friend. I had a pleasant evening and arrived home around ten. I volunteered to take the dog out for his last walk of the night. As I pushed open the glass door to the lobby, a tall, familiar figure blocked my path. It was a travel-worn Donovan. “Amelia…” I tightened the dog’s leash and took a small step back, my face rigid. “Don’t come any closer.” Pained by my coldness, Donovan ignored my request and frowned, closing the distance. He started to speak, but our little dog went into full attack mode, snarling and snapping at him. Donovan didn’t seem to notice. He kept pressing forward, backing me into a corner. Standing against the lobby light, he stared at me, his gaze cold and unwavering. He said, “We need to talk this through. I don’t want any misunderstandings between us.” I frowned. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He put his fist on the wall, trapping me completely. “Amelia, have you forgotten we’re getting married? You think you can dismiss eight years with a flimsy breakup note? What do you take me for?” His furious, grinding tone left me utterly speechless. I tried twice to push him away, but he didn’t budge. The dog’s frantic barking was now loud enough to turn on the lights on several floors of the stairwell. Unwilling to alarm my parents, I finally conceded. Half an hour later. At a nearby twenty-four-hour coffee shop, Donovan ordered two black Americanos. He slid one, unsweetened and extra ice, toward me. “See, Amelia? I remember what you like.” I blinked, suppressing a bitter smile. Everyone who knew me, from my parents to my friends, knew I couldn’t stand bitterness. We only kept black coffee in the house because he liked it. The extra ice was simply my way of watering it down to make it palatable. In less than two days, the man had become surprisingly talkative. Before I could reply, he continued to ramble. “I apologize again for your birthday. I was swamped with work and mixed up the dates. I thought it was next month. But I already bought you the perfect gift.” He pulled a small, velvet box from his suit pocket. Seeing I made no move to open it, he pursed his lips and opened the box himself, revealing a pair of dazzling, expensive crystal drop earrings.

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The night of my birthday, I spent six hours baking a cake, waiting at home for Dean Lawson. He didn’t spare it a glance. “I’m buried in the lab tonight,” he said, already halfway out the door. “You should just eat it yourself.” I didn’t argue. I just ate the entire cake, slice by silent slice. In my midnight scroll, Dean’s post was glaringly conspicuous: a photo with his research assistant, Phoebe Carter, in the lab. She was holding a test tube; he was leaning over, recording data. The reflection in the polished window made it look like they were practically standing on top of each other. The caption stung: He says having me on the research path keeps him from feeling lonely. I didn’t give in to the familiar ache of insecurity and send a frantic, demanding text. Instead, I left a single word: “Teamwork.” My phone vibrated just as I was swallowing the last bite of frosting. “Don’t make a big deal out of this, Sky,” Dean’s voice was heavy with exhaustion. “Next time, for your birthday—” “Don’t bother.” I watched the rain streak the windowpane. “Research is important, Dean. I get it.” But there wouldn’t be a next time for us. 1 The rain was still falling when Dean pushed the door open. Usually, I’d be waiting in the entryway with a dry towel. This time, I stayed curled on the sofa, flipping through a design magazine. “Why didn’t you meet me?” Water dripped from his hair, staining the polished wood floor with dark circles. I turned a page. “I was busy.” He shrugged off his soaked jacket, his voice tired. “Can you warm up some milk for me?” Any other day, I would have been on my feet immediately. Now, I simply lifted my own mug. “I can’t be bothered. Get it yourself.” He suddenly grabbed my wrist. “Is this about your birthday?” I pulled my arm away, the ceramic cup base clicking lightly against the coffee table. “The project is at a critical stage,” he rubbed his temple. “Skylar, I honestly don’t have the energy to coddle you right now.” “Research is important, I get it,” I cut him off, echoing his earlier words. The rain hammered against the glass, just like the torrential night a year ago. I was in the sterile hospital corridor, listening to him comfort Phoebe on the phone: “Whatever happens, I’m here for you, don’t be scared.” Meanwhile, I had signed my own consent form for an emergency appendectomy. Dean’s eyes swept over my face, searching for a flicker of the old neediness, before he sighed, exhausted. “Sky, why are you doing this to me? Do you have to be this way?” I met his gaze calmly. “You’re overthinking it.” Silence thickened the air. He abruptly pulled a small, velvet box from his briefcase and tossed it onto the coffee table. “Here. Happy Birthday.” Inside lay a necklace, the pendant slightly askew, as if it had been jammed in there as an afterthought. It was a laughable contrast to the exquisitely wrapped Van Cleef & Arpels necklace Phoebe had flaunted on her birthday post last month. “Thanks.” I closed the box, my voice as neutral as if I were commenting on the weather. Dean stood up sharply. “That’s it?” He opened his hands. “Where’s my present?” “Oh, I forgot.” I pulled out my phone. “I’ll Venmo you. You can buy something for yourself.” His expression was a mix of shock and utter bewilderment. It was our thing. Every year, without fail, we exchanged gifts. For five years, I had insisted on it, even when he forgot mine. Last year, when his travel schedule made him miss my birthday, I flew across the country just to surprise him with a gift at midnight. After sending the money, I stood up, went to the closet, and changed my clothes. I slipped on a pair of high heels, ready to walk out the door. Dean called out, irritated. “It’s late, and it’s pouring. Where are you going?” “Dean,” I paused, pulling on my coat. “Do you know what the funniest part of all this is?” He looked utterly lost. “You always complained that I controlled you too much,” I opened the front door. “Now that I’ve stopped controlling you, you’re angrier than ever. And now you’re trying to control me.” With that, I closed the door behind me, ignoring his frustrated yell. The night air was a shock to my lungs, carrying a forgotten scent of freedom. Ever since I got together with Dean, I’d pushed away every late dinner and night out, based on his casual comment that he “preferred I was home early.” My colleagues and friends eventually stopped calling me, assuming I was the dutiful, boring wife whose husband kept a tight leash. Now, I was finally reclaiming those lost nights. The bar was loud, vibrant. My best friend, Maya, slapped my shoulder, laughing. “I thought you were going to be a perfect Stepford wife forever!” I threw back the rest of my cocktail. “Consider me back on the roster, Maya. Every time.” The years with Dean had narrowed my world until he was the only point in it: canceled gatherings, abandoned hobbies, alienated friends. Looking back, it all felt like a tragic joke. My phone screen glowed, the notification that Dean had rejected my Venmo transfer a harsh white light in the dark bar. It was two in the morning when I got back to the apartment. Dean was sitting in the dark, the end of his cigarette glowing in the shadows. I paused, momentarily disoriented, thinking I’d walked into the wrong house. “You finally decided to come home?” He crushed the cigarette and stood up. The smell of stale alcohol made him grimace. “You’ve been drinking? Stop playing this indifferent game. If you’re jealous, just say so.” I leaned against the entryway wall and chuckled softly. I was instantly reminded of the time three years ago when he’d come home late from a work dinner, and I had waited up until sunrise, only to be met with: “God, can’t you just leave me alone?” My head was spinning. I swayed slightly and braced myself on a dining chair. Dean’s nostrils flared, and a flicker of disgust crossed his eyes. “I hate the smell of alcohol. You know that.” He flicked on the overhead light. “And Phoebe and I are nothing. Are you really going to resort to self-destruction to get my attention?” I propped my head up with my hand and smiled languidly. “I was happy… so I had a few drinks.” He stared into my glazed eyes, his knuckles white. “Are you honestly going out drinking to spite me? I don’t have the time for this, Skylar. You’re a married woman. You have a husband. Can you please act your age and your station?” I nodded dismissively. He suddenly raised his voice. “Skylar, pay attention! My patience is limited! Don’t think I’m going to chase you forever!” My temple started throbbing, a deep, miserable headache settling in from the alcohol. I waved a hand. “Think whatever you want. I’m tired.” Dean suddenly knocked the glass on the table over, and the sharp sound of shattering glass exploded in the silence. “It’s always this! Every time we have a conflict, you put on this uncaring act! Do you even care about my feelings at all?” I bent down to avoid the glass shards, wincing as my lower back hit the corner of the table. He reached out to pull me up, but I sidestepped his touch. The instant I locked the bedroom door, I could hear his quick, agitated pacing in the living room. That night, I curled up on the edge of the bed, listening to the occasional, heavy sigh from the living room. I slept without dreaming. When the morning light finally cut through the blinds, I opened the door. Dean was slumped on the sofa, a dark shadow under his eyes, his face etched with exhaustion. He watched me silently as I walked past him, grabbed my car keys, and walked out. Just as I closed the door, I heard the sound of a mug being thrown against the wall. I stood outside the company building, clutching the printout of my resignation letter. The glass facade reflected the glare of the morning sun, almost blinding me. It was the same intense, burning sensation I felt three years ago when I gave up my secure job back home and dove headfirst into this new city just to be with Dean. My director slid the contract renewal across the table. “You’re our best Creative Director. Are you absolutely sure you won’t reconsider?” I looked at the impressive salary, my fingers brushing against the faint outline of a yellowed acceptance letter hidden in my purse—the offer from Pratt Institute in New York that I had locked away in a drawer years ago. Three days ago, I received my acceptance letter from a prestigious art program in London. The blue screen glow reflected on my face. I remembered Dean, twirling his pen, his face bored, saying, “Developing locally is more stable.” It hit me then: some dreams weren’t crushed by the passage of time. They were quietly buried by love. As I cleaned out my desk, Maya leaned in. “I heard you’re going to the UK? What about Dean? Are you two going to do long-distance?” I turned the framed photo of us face down on the desk, the embraced figures dissolving into shadow. “No long-distance. Because soon, he won’t be my husband anymore.” I returned to the apartment late that night. The motion-sensor light in the entryway flickered on. Dean was standing in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting his tie. The silver-gray suit made his features look especially handsome and sharp. A beautifully wrapped gift box rested by his feet, tied with a precise black ribbon—identical packaging to the one he had given Phoebe on her birthday last year. “I have a client dinner tonight,” he said, not turning around. His fingers were flying across his phone screen, and a soft, gentle curve played on his lips—a look I realized I’d never once seen directed at me. When a sweet, playful laugh came through the phone’s speaker, he unconsciously bit his lower lip, his eyes crinkling in a way that made him look like a stranger. He was smiling right up until the moment he noticed me staring at him. Then, the expression vanished. He was generous with Phoebe, attentive and gentle, but he couldn’t spare a single, real smile for me. His face darkened when I finally looked away. He didn’t say anything, just dropped his gaze in pure, unadulterated annoyance. As he efficiently changed his shoes, I thought about our first date, how nervous he was, clutching a bouquet of roses so tightly he crumpled the wrapping paper. Now he was composed, mature, and his newfound tenderness belonged to someone else. I knew the drill: he was starting the cold war. In our marriage, it always happened when Phoebe was involved. Before, I would always back down, trying to win him over. I would bring him food through rain and sun, even if he didn’t respond to my texts. Now, I simply watched him turn and leave. The security door’s soft clunk made a framed picture hanging near the entryway fall and shatter. I knelt to pick up the pieces, and found myself laughing. I opened my laptop to search for rental information in New York and brought up my saved list of must-try restaurants. Moonlight poured through the window, illuminating the plan I’d been working on. Those shelved dreams and futures were finally ready to begin growing again. Later, scrolling on the chaise lounge, I saw Phoebe’s Instagram post: It’s true what they say. When you’re with someone who’s truly your equal, you just shine. The accompanying photo was a mirror selfie of her in her Master’s gown, leaning into Dean. She was holding a bouquet of roses. The top comment, from Dean’s friend Blake, read: Congrats, little sister! Looks like old Dean finally got himself a worthy partner! haha! Scrolling down, Dean’s entire circle—colleagues and friends—had left comments, a stream of rose and heart emojis. Dean’s inner circle had always been cool toward me, subtly implying that a Bachelor’s degree graduate like me wasn’t a match for an academic star like him. They thought I lacked Phoebe’s higher education, her youth, and her ambition. In their eyes, I was just the tedious first wife, a stepping stone on his path to real happiness. I pulled a self-deprecating smile as I read Dean’s reply to the thread. He had written: Future guidance, little sister. Please. The layers of subtle affection in those words felt like a pinprick to my heart. Then Blake’s reply popped up: Maybe send that privately? Don’t want a certain someone seeing it and getting all dramatic. You know how sensitive she is. I remembered the times I had cautiously asked Dean to maintain distance from Phoebe. She had chased him once; now he was her mentor and colleague. His friends had instantly jumped to his defense, calling me possessive and paranoid. Dean would simply frown and tell me I was too sensitive, that I lacked trust. This time, I felt no urge for a hysterical fight. I simply closed the app and put on an old movie. As the familiar plot unfolded, I drifted into sleep. I was woken up violently in the middle of the night. Dean was standing over the bed, his face contorted in anger. A mixture of his cologne and alcohol fumes hit me. “Skylar, I was out entertaining clients all night. You didn’t send a single text? You didn’t check in? Look at other wives—they’re picking their husbands up, asking how their day was. And you? You always look like this—half-dead and completely disinterested!” I stared at him, bewildered. Why was he so agitated? I remembered when I used to ask him why he was late. He’d ice me out, saying, “We’re married, but I’m not a criminal you can check up on. Stop being so suffocating.” Now that I wasn’t asking, he was furious at my lack of concern. I suppressed the urge to push back, my voice measured. “I figured you were out with friends. I didn’t want to bother you with calls. And since you and Phoebe are close, I figured there was nothing to worry about.” Dean’s eyes flickered, clearly surprised by the calm way I brought up Phoebe. After a moment, his tone softened. “I was at Phoebe’s graduation party tonight. That post was just encouragement. Nothing else. Don’t let your mind wander.” I started to speak, but he rushed to elaborate: “What? You think I shouldn’t have gone? I’ve known Phoebe for four or five years. Even if she chased me back then, we’re just pure colleagues and friends now. I can’t exactly skip a friend’s party.” I nodded slowly. “I understand. I’m not angry. It’s late. You should get some rest.” Dean stared at me, his gaze searching, desperate to find a hint of displeasure or a hidden agenda in my expression. Finally, he reached out, trying to cup my shoulder. I subtly shifted, avoiding his touch. “I’ve been having some trouble sleeping lately. Could you sleep in the guest room tonight?” Dean’s eyelashes fluttered violently. He hadn’t expected me to dodge him. In the past, if he so much as raised his hand, I would instinctively lean into his embrace. His face turned as dark as a storm cloud. He spun around and slammed the master bedroom door, the frame rattling with the force. Once his footsteps completely vanished, I sank quickly into sleep. When you stop obsessing over someone else’s emotions, even sleep becomes light and easy.

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My best friend found out I had infinite life and a ridiculous amount of money. So, she hired a master of the dark arts to kill me and send me straight to hell, planning to steal my perfect fate. On the rooftop of a skyscraper, I cried my eyes out: “Please don’t kill me! I’ll give you all my money!” I’m terrified of dying. Really. Because my ex-husband—who happens to rule the underworld—told me when I dumped him: “If I ever see you again, I’m throwing you into a pot of boiling oil and slicing you into a thousand pieces…” 1 “Sophie, we’ve known each other for ten years. I’ve always been good to you. Please, just let me go…” “I’ll give you everything! Every cent! Just please!” I knelt on the cold concrete of the rooftop, dignity gone, practically banging my head on the ground. Sophie sneered, lifting my chin with the tip of her stiletto. “I don’t just want your money, Jane. I want your eternal life.” “Aren’t we besties? What’s yours is mine. If you really cared about me, you’d give it all to me.” She winked at the man beside her, dressed in traditional Taoist robes. The Master grabbed my hair and dragged me to the edge. It was a 33-story drop. Directly below where I’d land, they had prepared a ritual array. If I fell and died there, their plan would work. I wouldn’t even get a chance to reincarnate. Sophie didn’t need to worry about me coming back as a vengeful ghost. She planned to destroy me completely. The cold wind slapped my face. I struggled, trying to pull back. Sophie’s greed had been ignited the moment she learned my secret. She rushed forward and helped the Master kick me off the ledge. As I fell, the rushing air blurred my senses. THUD. A massive sound exploded in my ears. My body smashed into a bloody pulp. When I regained consciousness, I was a soul in the underworld. Two minor Reapers stood beside me, holding a thumb-thick soul-locking chain. The other end was attached to my neck. Thick fog surrounded us. Agonized screams pierced the air from up ahead. I knew this place. The entrance to Hell. Thanks to my damn ex-husband, I’d been here before. When I tried to leave him, he dragged me here, eyes red with rage, just to scare me. He didn’t actually throw me in back then. But now, I was about to be obliterated here. I struggled, refusing to move. “I died unjustly! I haven’t done anything wrong!” Seeing me resist, the Reaper with the little mustache pulled a barbed whip from his belt and lashed me hard. Pain seared through my soul. I collapsed, unable even to scream. “Listen up. Doesn’t matter who you were. You’re in our hands now. You’re done.” Rather than go straight to hell, I decided to gamble. Maybe my ex-husband still had some feelings for me? A chance at reincarnation was better than having my soul scattered. Trembling, I said, “I know your King, Hades! I want to see him…” The two Reapers exchanged a look. Crack! Another lash on my back. A crack appeared in my soul. I couldn’t speak anymore. Mustache spat on me. “You think you’re worthy to say Lord Hades’ name? I don’t know how you know it, but shut up and save yourself some pain.” Powerless, I was dragged forward like a dead dog. The other Reaper looked nervous. “What if she’s telling the truth? Could we get in trouble…?” Mustache scoffed. “Scared of what? The Taoist said this broad isn’t in the Book of Life and Death. Some occult tricks probably taught her the name. Don’t be a coward. Since she’s off the books, we take the money and do the job. Hurry up, before things get complicated.” I understood now. They were colluding with Sophie and the Taoist. Corrupt Reapers taking bribes! Seeing the towering Gates of Hell, terror gripped my soul. I wouldn’t stop shaking. The Reapers chanted, and the gates slowly creaked open. My heart sank. Suddenly, a voice echoed from the fog: “Is this a new arrival? Processed properly?” It was Black Impermanence! He knew me! I stared intensely at the figure emerging from the mist, opening my mouth to scream, “Blackie…” A Reaper’s hand clamped over my mouth instantly, dragging me aside. I watched desperately as Mustache intercepted Black Impermanence. Mustache pulled out a pack of cigarettes, smiling ingratiatingly. “Brother Black, what brings you here? Try this, good stuff from the mortal world.” Black Impermanence dusted off his robes, looking annoyed. “Cut the crap. I asked you, was that soul processed?” Mustache gulped guiltily. “Of… of course! Would we dare break the rules? You and Sister White are always so busy, take a break. Have a smoke.” Black Impermanence took the cigarette and lit it, saying nothing. The fog was too thick; he couldn’t see my face. Terrified of missing my chance, I bit down hard on the hand covering my mouth. The Reaper yelped and let go. I bolted toward Black Impermanence but was kicked to the ground. The Reaper’s foot stomped on my face, grinding my head into the dirt. Sand filled my mouth. I couldn’t spit it out or make a sound. But the commotion caught Black Impermanence’s attention. He took two steps closer. “What’s going on?” The Reaper who I bit pressed down harder, almost crushing my skull. “Nothing, sir. Just a unruly ghost struggling at the end. None of the ones sent here are good people. Don’t dirty your eyes.” Black Impermanence stopped. “Be careful. These souls were wicked in life. Don’t make mistakes. Send her in.” Watching him turn and disappear into the fog, my heart died. Mustache bowed and scraped as Black Impermanence left, then turned and kicked me viciously. Still not satisfied, he whipped me until my soul was littered with wounds, unrecognizable. Finally, he grabbed my chin. “Bitch, you almost ruined everything. Don’t worry, once we’re inside, I’ll take care of you personally!” Like a rag doll, I was thrown into the First Level of Hell. The Hell of a Thousand Needles. Countless torture racks stretched as far as the eye could see. Every single one held a soul, pierced with thousands of needles like a human hedgehog. Here, souls didn’t dissipate yet, so the screams were endless. I gasped, gathering my last bit of strength to stutter out one sentence: “I really know… Hades. If you do this… he won’t forgive you…” It was mostly a bluff. Hades probably didn’t care if I lived or died. He really didn’t want to see me again. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have given me eternal life, leaving me to wander the mortal world alone, ageless and deathless. He was just afraid I’d die and come back to the underworld to annoy him… Stepping through the gate, the Reapers weren’t afraid of me causing trouble anymore. Mustache patted my face mockingly. “You got quite an imagination. Watched too many soap operas? You think you can dream about Lord Hades?” His slap knocked my head to the side. I retched, spitting out a mouthful of yin energy. My soul felt a little more transparent. I was strapped to a rack. Mustache grinned, picking up a soul-severing needle as long as my forearm. “Hang in there. Seventeen more levels waiting for you. Let’s take our time.” He aimed the needle at my thigh. “Down here, even the hardest bones turn soft for me.” The needle sank half an inch into my soul. The sharp, piercing pain made my entire being shudder uncontrollably. “AHHH—” Just then, someone ran over. “Hold it!” The needle was pulled out. I gasped, trying to focus my eyes. It was the Manager of this level, Wong. When Hades was threatening me back then, Wong had been there, advising him: “Lord Hades, the Little Lady is just young. No need to be so angry, don’t hurt her.” Hope reignited. I prayed he remembered me after all these years. “Manager Wong… it’s me… help me…” After the torture on the road, I was exhausted, my voice raspy. But I’m sure Wong heard me. He stared at me, squinting. Then his eyes widened in horror. He recognized me. Before I could relax, he looked away quickly, pretending not to know me. “Orders from above. They want to watch this woman scatter into nothingness personally. They’re almost here. Wait a bit.” I was stunned. Wong was in on it too! Corrupt to the core! Hope extinguished again. I laughed bitterly. Hades, oh Hades. This is the underworld you rule? Your subordinates are deceiving you, acting like lawless tyrants. But I was surprised Sophie dared to come here. Was she brave or cowardly? Brave enough to come to the land of the dead. Cowardly enough that she needed to see me obliterated to feel safe spending my money and using my lifespan. Soon, Sophie and the Taoist arrived. They had temporarily abandoned their physical bodies to come here as souls. At first, Sophie was scared, clinging to the Taoist. seeing how friendly the Taoist was with the Reapers, she got bold again. After all, she was the VIP client. She picked up a needle from a Reaper and walked over excitedly. “Jane, thank you. If not for you, I’d never know the joys of being rich. Money really makes the devil push the millstone. With money, I can even tour Hell.” “You’ve lived enough. I’ll take over the rest of your years. Go in peace, so I can have peace.” I looked at her coldly, voice hoarse. “Was I not good to you?” A redundant question. If she had a conscience, she wouldn’t be here. Sophie laughed like she heard a joke. “Hahaha… You think you were good to me? I was your maid! Wearing your hand-me-downs, always your sidekick. You really think that was kindness?” I didn’t argue. Proof that you can’t feed a wolf and expect it to be a dog. When she met me, it was snowing. She was wearing a thin shirt. She came from a poor village, couldn’t find a job at the end of the year. I took her in. I didn’t need a maid. I was used to being alone. I gave her the job out of pity. I treated her as a friend. Whatever she asked for, I gave. Her salary was way above market rate. Gradually, she stopped acting like a maid and started demanding things. Maybe I indulged her too much. She started thinking she was my equal, or could replace me. My mistake was trusting her with my secret. My silence only made her crazier. “Nothing to say? You know it’s true! You never saw me as a friend. Die!” She aimed the needle at my heart. She really wanted me gone immediately. The Reapers seemed to think this was improper but didn’t stop her. I was leaking more and more yin energy. My soul was turning translucent, my mind foggy. Sophie kept stabbing me, especially ruining my face. In a trance, I thought I saw Hades walking toward me. Still so handsome. More handsome than any man I’d seen in a hundred years. Black robes embroidered with cloud patterns, symbolizing supreme power. Ink-black hair, sharp, deep features. A face you’d fall for instantly. Hallucination? Must be… He doesn’t want to see me. But why were the Reapers kneeling? “Lord Hades, why are you here personally?” Wong was panicking, shaking like a leaf on the ground. Taking bribes from the living was a taboo. Allowing the living to roam Hell freely was a capital crime. Caught red-handed, he was doomed. The Taoist turned pale, dragging Sophie away from me and kneeling. Hades’ gaze swept over everyone, imposing and terrifying. The Eunuch behind him screeched, “Audacious! If Lord Hades hadn’t come today, who knows what you bold scoundrels would have done!” The two Reapers buried their heads lower, not daring to breathe. I wanted to speak, but my mind was chaos, the pain too sharp. Would he recognize me? And then? Save me, or throw me in the oil pot and slice me up like he promised? Honestly, even if he didn’t, I was about to dissipate anyway… Finally, Hades spoke, voice laced with ice. “Wong, I entrusted the First Level to you. Is this how you govern?” Wong banged his head on the floor faster than I begged Sophie. “I was wrong, I was wrong… those two Reapers brought the living here! I didn’t know! I was just about to chase them out before you came!” The two Reapers, hearing Wong throw them under the bus, were pissed. Mustache retorted, “This is your turf! Living people entering is your negligence! Don’t bite us!” Wong gritted his teeth. “You found the way to extort the living! I was dragged into this!” I got it. Hades came because he caught wind of their corruption. I was just collateral. Right now, I was an invisible bystander. The Taoist and Sophie were the ones in the storm. Watching them turn on each other, Hades scoffed. “Enough. Since they’re here, the two living ones don’t need to go back. Detain them for trial. As for you lot… reincarnate into the Animal Realm. Never to be human again!” Hearing this, Wong collapsed, face gray. The Reapers slumped too. Sophie finally realized she wasn’t going back to the living world. She freaked out. “My lifespan isn’t up! Hell has rules too, right?!” She couldn’t bear to lose the life she stole from me, or the money. The Taoist tried to grab her, scared she’d drag him down further. She shook him off, screaming. “I want to go back! Send me back!” The Taoist didn’t dare use magic in front of Hades. He closed his eyes and played dead. Sophie grabbed his collar. “What are you doing?! I paid you a million! Send me back now!”

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I’d crashed this world, set on seducing the heartbroken secondary male lead and saving him from himself. My ‘fertility cheat code’ had worked: I got him to break the nine-generation streak of single sons in the Harrington line with twins. Five years into our marriage, what started as a calculated move had blossomed into real, terrifying love. I’d successfully farmed my husband’s affection to a perfect 100%. But the moment I made the choice to stay—to trade my old life for this one, permanent reality—the captions appeared. [OMG, Liam is so devoted to our Sera (Female Main Character) Baby!] [Can you believe he’s willing to sacrifice his own marriage—and his wife’s body—just to help Sera have the baby she desperately wants?] [Well, his wife, Scarlett, deserves it.] [She clearly knew our Sera Baby was miserable and heartbroken over not having a child, but she kept flaunting her ‘good-fertility’ body, putting the spotlight on herself and the Harrington/Callaway families.] [Now she’s getting what she wanted—let her have babies till she drops!] [Anyway, in the end, our Sera Baby gets to painlessly walk away with one of her kids, and then she’ll be pampered to heaven by the Male Lead.] I was frozen in disbelief. It wasn’t until after I ran the results of the at-home amniocentesis that I finally broke. “System, I don’t want to stay anymore.” “My chosen way out is a clean break: three lives lost during the birth.” 1 [Host, are you absolutely sure you want to proceed with this?] [The diagnostics show your emotional metric for the Male Second, Liam Harrington, has also reached 100%.] [System detects hesitation in your voice. This may not be your authentic desire.] [Are you truly prepared to leave Liam and never see him again?] The chilling, mechanical voice cut through my feigned calm, making tears stream down my face and pool onto the printed results of the at-home amniocentesis—results that definitively ruled out Liam as the father. The thought of leaving Liam, of never seeing him again, was a sharp, searing pain in my chest. I ached with it. But the cruel commentary from the captions and the damning proof clutched in my hand told me the same thing: I had to let go. No matter how much it hurt. If Liam Harrington could so comfortably use my loyalty, my body, and the life of my unborn child to solve his ‘first love’s’ problems—then I, in turn, would use my death to shred his perfect, fake ending. I could have accepted that he loved someone else in the past. But I couldn’t accept that his past was more important than our future. “I’m sure. Proceed with the exit.” Even if the choice ripped me apart. In response, the System’s light flickered faintly. The monotone voice sounded once more. [Intent confirmed. Commencing withdrawal protocol.] [Host’s remaining lifespan in this world: Adjusted from eighty years to 28 days.] To ensure a plausible death, the System began recalibrating my physical status. It felt like the System was instantly siphoning the marrow from my bones, leaving me weightless and too weak to even stand. The simple act of lifting my arm to toss the paternity test report into the hospital trash can exhausted every reserve of strength I had. As the crushing fatigue hit, I tried to leave the room. But my vision tunneled, and my body pitched backward, out of my control. In the ensuing haze, muffled shouts exploded around me. The sharp scent of antiseptic and sterile air made me feel like I was sinking and resurfacing in a deep, dark ocean. Only when Liam’s name was shouted, and a hand gently grasped my wrist, did the vertigo finally stabilize. Just like always. No matter what catastrophe found me, he was always there, arriving on cue. Now, his familiar scent enveloped me, his entire focus consumed by pure, unfiltered panic. The surrounding nurses and doctors murmured amongst themselves, their tone thick with unmistakable envy. “Mr. Harrington is so devoted to his wife. He got the call and rushed over immediately, didn’t even bother with a coat.” “I know! He’s been guarding her bedside for three days straight. Hasn’t moved an inch.” “True love, honestly.” Their fervent praise made me remember. Five years of marriage. Liam always, always put me first. When I had early-pregnancy spotting, he canceled an international conference and stayed in my hospital room for three days and three nights. Once, during my first trimester, when I craved the legendary biscuits and gravy from that diner on the Southside, he’d driven two hours in a torrential downpour to get them. These fragments of warmth broke my heart all over again. For a split second, I wanted to rip my eyes open and demand an answer. If you cared about me so much, Liam, then why did you plot against me? Why did you betray me for her? But I couldn’t open my eyes. The captions were mercilessly floating across my vision. [The Male Second is only ever the deeply devoted Male Second for the FMC.] [Even married, he will never turn her down.] Their cynicism stunned me into silence. And it made me remember. Liam and I were not equals. I was the transmigrator. He was the deeply devoted, brilliant Male Second from the book, whose life had been ruined by the angst of loving the Female Main Character (FMC) without hope of return. So, when I learned I needed to ‘capture’ him to ‘save’ him, I’d spent my energy trying to push the original hero and heroine together. And when Liam was drugged, I’d offered myself up—one single, perfect night that resulted in conception. My ‘good-fertility’ broke the Harrington family’s lineage curse with twins. Knowing he was finally going to be a father, he married me instantly. He made a solemn vow: he would put the past behind him. In those five years, our marriage of convenience became a love story. I’d achieved 100% on his devotion metric. But just as I’d decided to trade my system-bound fate for a lifetime with him, the captions showed me the true, brutal reality. I was nine months pregnant with our second child. A child who was actually his cousin’s, Rhys Callaway’s. The reason? Liam couldn’t bear to see Seraphina Bellweather—the actual FMC—suffer any more social consequences for not being able to conceive. He chose to sacrifice me. At the time, I refused to believe it. The man who always had eyes only for me at every gala, who never even glanced at Seraphina, couldn’t possibly be planning such a thing. But after I sneakily conducted the amniocentesis and saw the truth—that the child in my belly shared none of his DNA—I knew. The captions were real. And between me and her, he had chosen Seraphina. A wave of self-pity washed over me, and I reached out to the System again. “Does Liam actually love me?” I wasn’t sure anymore. But the System was cold and firm. [The metrics are undeniable.] [Liam’s devotion is currently at 100%. If the Host were to die, he would not survive you.] Hearing that, a bitter, hollow laugh escaped me. One hundred percent. Does a number equate to love? If he loved me, how could he hurt me? I wanted to scream the question at the System. But then, I snapped my eyes open. Sensing Liam nearby, I turned my head, not wanting him to see my panicked, tear-stained face. But my field of vision was empty. Only a low murmur of conversation drifted in from outside the door. “Liam, the doctor just told me Scarlett’s vitals are terrible. She’s too frail. He suggested terminating the pregnancy, or it could kill her…” “Maybe we should just forget the plan. It was selfish of me to ask. As long as Scarlett is safe, I can go back to being the ‘barren’ one, the sister-in-law everyone whispers about. It doesn’t matter.” Seraphina’s voice was wet with sobs. She sounded genuinely distraught at the thought of my death being on her conscience. She even made a show of trying to take off the fake belly she’d strapped on. But on the other side of the door, Liam’s silence stretched, then broke with a shocking finality. “The plan stays in motion.” “I’ve already secured the best medical team to monitor Scarlett twenty-four-seven. She won’t die.” “You’ve suffered in silence for three years, Sera. I won’t send you back into that deep pit of despair just when you finally have hope.” Liam’s tone was gentle, reassuring Seraphina. He had completely forgotten that while she had shed a few tears, his wife of five years was now lying on a gurney, her life hanging by the very thread he had knowingly pulled.

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I was using the trauma shears to cut through the male patient’s clothing during the rescue when it happened. My fiancé, Dean Miller, took a video of me tending to the wounds and posted it online with a caption that made my blood run cold: “I know you were saving a life, but doesn’t the patient’s privacy matter?” “And your hand was right there the whole time. It makes me, your fiancé, incredibly uncomfortable.” The video went viral, igniting a social media firestorm. The hospital’s choice was to placate the public. I was demoted, stripped of my entire year-end bonus, and given a severe reprimand. To see my years of diligence and life-saving work branded with the disgusting label of “indecency” flipped a switch inside me. Fine. I would quit caring. I wouldn’t save anyone. Suddenly, the whole hospital sat up and took notice. 1 “Sienna, this whole thing should be a lesson for you. We’re about to get married. Even as a doctor, you need to uphold your feminine propriety!” I looked at him, silently taking in the man I was supposed to marry. “Are you finished?” Dean froze. “What… what kind of attitude is that?” he stammered, his face twisting in offense. “Don’t you realize you were wrong?” “Whatever you say.” As those three words left my mouth, I felt something inside me shatter completely. Dean’s face instantly flushed crimson, as if I had subjected him to a profound insult. “Fine! ‘Whatever I say!’ Sienna Reed, we are done!” “The wedding is off!” He yelled the last words, snatched his phone off the table, and stormed out. Dr. Vivian Shaw, my Department Head, frowned, tapping her pen on the desk. “Look what you’ve done! You’ve completely infuriated Dean!” “To settle the public disturbance, you will write a deep, thorough self-criticism.” “You will read it aloud at next week’s all-staff meeting, admitting your unprofessional conduct.” I looked at her without responding. Her eyes flickered away for a second, then hardened back into the Department Head’s usual veneer of authority. “This is an order, Sienna. And it’s your final chance.” The next day, the hospital’s internal network and public bulletin boards simultaneously posted my disciplinary notice. The language was scathing: “Unprofessional medical procedures,” “Lack of sufficient humanistic care for the patient,” and “Dr. Sienna Reed will be demoted and docked her annual performance bonus, serving as a warning to all staff.” Every word felt like a public execution. Maya, an intern, secretly messaged me: “Sienna, we all believe you were just saving a life. But… you should probably just swallow it for now. Dr. Shaw is furious.” I switched off my phone. I knew the drill. Dr. Shaw’s niece, Camille Price, who just got her degree abroad, had joined the staff last week. Shaw had been eager to install her in my Chief Resident role. Dean’s reckless stunt gave her the perfect, undeniable excuse. I returned to my desk, silently opening my computer. I meticulously organized and printed out all the patient histories, surgical notes, and post-op follow-up plans for my critical patients. Then, I formatted the work computer’s personal drive, wiping clean years of personal research data and paper drafts. A week later, at the all-staff meeting. Dr. Shaw stood on the stage, her voice booming: “…Given Dr. Sienna Reed’s unprofessional conduct, the hospital has decided to revoke her Chief Resident position.” The room was silent. “Now, let us give a warm round of applause to the new addition to our Cardiothoracic Unit, Dr. Camille Price, who holds a Master’s degree from abroad!” A young woman in a crisp, brand-new white coat, her hair exquisitely styled, stood up and gave the room a reserved nod. Dr. Shaw looked at her with satisfaction and announced, “Starting today, Dr. Price will formally take over Dr. Reed’s duties.” I sat in the corner, my face expressionless.

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