Category: English

My sister was frail, but incredibly rebellious. To make her obedient without physical punishment, I became her “control sample.” She liked wearing heavy makeup and staying out late, so Mom made me walk through dangerous neighborhoods at night in a miniskirt. When she saw me come home disheveled and covered in bruises, she was too terrified to hang out with delinquents ever again. When she wanted to drink while pregnant, Mom forced ten cases of beer down my throat when I was eight months along. She watched me hemorrhage and lose my baby. Terrified, she didn’t touch a drop of alcohol for the rest of her pregnancy. She successfully gave birth to a healthy, fair-skinned baby boy. By her bedside, Mom held her hand: “If you had kept drinking, you would have ended up like your sister. Not only did she lose the baby, but she can never have children again.” My sister looked at me with gratitude: “Thank you, Terra. Otherwise, I would have ended up like you.” “Don’t mention it.” I wrapped a cord around Mom’s neck and stabbed a needle into her shoulder: “Let big sister teach you one final lesson—” “What happens when you abuse a child for twenty-seven years.” 1 Blood splattered onto my sister’s face. She screamed. I tightened the cord around Mom’s neck, dragging her backward step by step. My sister fell off the bed, but her body, weak from childbirth, couldn’t possibly catch up to me. By the time she cried and summoned the relatives, I was long gone. While everyone was in a panic, a livestream suddenly went viral online. On screen, I sharpened a machete against a whetstone. Schwing. Schwing. Behind me, Mom was tied tightly to a chair, looking at me with pure terror. [?? Isn’t this Mrs. Chen who went missing recently? Why is she here? Tied up by her own daughter!] [Holy sh*t, livestreaming a matricide?] “Terra!” In another split-screen livestream, my sister Chloe appeared: “Terra, what are you doing! Stop!” I admired the gleaming edge of the machete and gave the camera a cold stare. “Sister! I’m begging you!” Thud! She knelt on the floor. Her postpartum body was frail and trembling: “Mom raised us for over twenty years. Even if she wasn’t perfect, she worked hard! Whatever you’re unhappy about, take it out on me! Please, let her go!” The comments exploded: [WTF are you crazy! That’s your own mother! What kind of grudge is this?] [Killing your family on livestream? This is evil! Lock her up! She must have the violence gene!] The police sent a warning in the chat: [We are tracking your location. Surrender now, and there is still a chance for leniency.] I laughed: “Feel free to track.” [??? So arrogant! Lock her up forever!] [Just execute her when you find her, she’s too dangerous.] I didn’t speak. I just turned to look at my mother. She was trembling: “Terra, surrender quickly. Mom will write a letter of forgiveness for you.” [Boohoo, a mother’s love knows no bounds.] [If anyone else said it I wouldn’t believe it, but a mom really would forgive her daughter.] [Terra is a monster!] I smiled: “No need.” The machete dragged on the floor, sparking against the concrete as I approached Mom. [!! Stop! Don’t hurt your mom!] [Ahhh where are the police! Stop her!] “Sis!” Chloe’s voice tore through the screen. The machete rested against Mom’s neck. She shuddered: “Terra, are you really going to kill Mommy?” I looked down at her: “Tell me where Noah is.” Mom froze. 2 It wasn’t just Mom. Everyone watching the livestream froze. Tears streamed down Chloe’s face: “Sis, Noah is dead!” “He’s not!” I whipped my head around, eyes bulging with rage. The machete trembled in my hand. I gritted my teeth: “Noah isn’t dead. I know he isn’t dead!” “Terra! I know you’re hurting from the miscarriage, we all are! But you have to move on!” My father’s angry voice came from Chloe’s stream. I laughed. I looked at Mom: “Mom, you know whether my baby really died or not, don’t you?” Mom’s eyes darted away. I looked at the camera: “Everyone! I didn’t start this livestream to kill my family. I did it to find my son, whom my mother hid from me!” [?? What is she saying?] [Sounds like she had a miscarriage but thinks the baby is still alive?] I stared dead into the lens: “You may not know this, but my ‘miscarriage’ wasn’t an accident. It was because my sister insisted on drinking while pregnant. So my mother—” “To teach her a lesson about the dangers, forced ten cases of beer down my throat!” [??? Wait, is this English?] [I understand the words, but the sentence makes no sense.] [A mom forced alcohol on her older daughter just to show the younger one what happens? No way.] [Holy sh*t if this is true I’m gonna lose it!] I smiled at Mom: “Right, Mom?” “Nonsense!” Mom panicked: “You did it to yourself! No one could stop you! Why would I force you to drink and kill my own grandson?” [Yeah… I think the mom is right. Parents can have favorites, but no mom would do that.] [I agree. I have two daughters. Even if I’m biased sometimes, they’re both my kids.] [Seems like Terra had a mental break after the miscarriage and hallucinated that her mom caused it.] [Definitely. Normal people don’t livestream torturing their parents!] I laughed. I knelt in front of Mom: “Of course I know why you did it. “I’ve been Chloe’s control sample for over twenty years. Now my Noah has to be the control sample for Chloe’s baby, right?” “What are you talking about!” Mom scolded harshly. But I could see her breathing had become erratic. That was the nervousness of being exposed. I pressed my hand on her knee: “Mom, why do you treat me like this? Am I not your daughter?” “You’re crazy!” Mom turned her head away. I chuckled bitterly. Stood up. My eyes turned cold: “I know the police are tracing my location. Don’t worry, you won’t find me. “But I promise, as soon as you find my Noah, I will surrender. “If not…” I pointed the machete at Mom: “Every ten minutes, I take a piece of her!” [? She’s going to torture her??] [She’s insane!] Ignoring the frantic chat and Chloe’s screaming, I started the timer. The police had no choice but to investigate. A team questioned Chloe and her husband about Noah. Without exception, they all said, “He was stillborn.” Dad wiped his tears: “If Terra hadn’t insisted on drinking, Noah wouldn’t have died in the womb! Now the baby is gone, and she blames her mother!” I laughed bitterly. Stared at the timer. “Ten minutes are up.” I stood. Chloe threw herself at the camera: “Sis! Don’t do it! I know you’re just threatening us, that’s our mom! Don’t worry, when you come out, I’ll help you look for Noah, okay?” I stood behind Mom. Grabbed her ear. The blade fell. Mom screamed in agony. I held up her ear to the camera. In front of Chloe’s horrified eyes. I let go. The flesh hit the table with a sickening thud. Chloe’s eyes rolled back, and she fainted into her husband, Dr. Lucas’s, arms. Lucas was furious. He strode to the camera and slammed a document against the lens: “Terra, wake up!” It was… Noah’s death certificate. 3 I stared at the report, unable to speak for a long time. Lucas panted heavily: “The hospital issued the death certificate, stamped and verified! What is there to doubt!” The comments scrolled wildly: [Confirmed, Terra is really crazy!] [With witnesses and evidence, it really seems like a mental break.] [Boohoo, poor mom, suffering for nothing.] “Terra!” Lucas stared at me through the screen. Hope in his eyes. I printed out the death certificate he uploaded. Turned around, and restarted the timer. “Terra!!” Lucas roared at the camera like a madman. He looked like he wanted to reach through the screen and strangle me. I just sat in the chair, watching the countdown calmly. “Crazy, you are truly crazy!” Lucas paced in circles. Then pointed at the camera: “What will make you believe? Noah’s ashes are buried! If you don’t believe the death certificate, what will you believe!” “I don’t disbelieve death certificates!” I stared coldly at the screen: “I just don’t believe the one you gave me.” He froze. I stood up, hands on the table: “Dr. Lucas, it would be one thing if someone else signed this certificate. But the signature is yours.” His face went pale. I smiled sarcastically: “All these years, when Mom made me be Chloe’s control sample, you never had a problem with it. “You even actively told Mom about your wife’s bad habits, encouraging Mom to experiment on me so your wife would learn!” Lucas avoided my gaze. I leaned into the camera, smiling: “You just wanted your son to learn lessons painlessly too, didn’t you? “Lucas, let me tell you. Impossible! “My child will never be a control sample for yours!” “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Lucas’s breathing quickened. I sat back, leaning against the chair: “Don’t know? Fine. “You signed the paper saying the baby was stillborn. Do you dare let the doctors and nurses who delivered him confront you?” “I!” Lucas choked. Couldn’t say a word. The comments immediately sensed something wrong: [Something’s fishy. Is the death certificate fake?] [If it’s real, why can’t he speak? Did the baby survive?] [No way, did they really try to use someone else’s kid as a lesson for their own? That’s evil!] The police questioning them changed their expressions: “Sir, we need you to cooperate with the investigation.” “No! Wait, don’t believe her, I didn’t forge it, really!” Lucas panicked. The police remained calm: “We will investigate your colleagues, including everyone present at the birth. Don’t worry, we won’t wrongfully accuse you.” “W-what?” Lucas turned white. Chloe rushed up: “No need to investigate, officers! My sister is talking nonsense! You should be finding her location, not suspecting innocent people!” [Suspicious. Why are the couple so anxious?] [Their attitude changed too fast. Feels like they’re hiding something.] [Did they really hide Terra’s baby!] The netizens could see it, and the police saw it even clearer. With one minute left on the timer. The police officer darkened his face: “Mr. Lucas, this is a matter of life and death. If you really hid the child’s status, confessing now can earn you leniency. “And spare Mrs. Chen more suffering.” “I, I…” Lucas was breaking. “The child is dead!” The door was pushed open. A man looked at the police, calm and composed: “Officers, please don’t believe Terra’s one-sided story.” I stood up: “Sean!” He looked over: “Terra, stop this.” 4 I knew this wouldn’t be easy. But I never thought the one to stop me would be my husband. “Why are you here?” My fists clenched tight. His expression was cold: “To stop you from making a bigger mistake.” “Noah didn’t die!” “He died!” In three years of marriage, this was the first time he yelled at me. The comments were full of question marks: [?? What’s happening?] [Her own husband is testifying against her?] [But Terra didn’t seem like she was lying? Is Sean siding with outsiders? That’s his own son!] “No, everyone. Terra is lying.” Sean faced the comments, sighing lightly: “My wife… she has persecution mania.” I froze. The chat filled with question marks. “After we lost the baby, she developed postpartum depression. It evolved into this. She insists the baby is alive, even hallucinating that she is Chloe’s control sample. “As her husband, I understand and my heart breaks for her.” He looked at me, eyes gentle like they used to be, the eyes that made me feel cared for: “Terra, stop it. We can have another child.” “I’m not crazy!” My eyes turned red: “You know Noah isn’t dead! You know better than anyone! Why frame me!” “Noah is dead!” A report was slammed in front of the camera. The bold title read: [AUTOPSY REPORT]

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After getting laid off, I excitedly texted my mom that I was coming home for a while. But on the flight back to my hometown, I scrolled past a trending thread on Reddit: “AITA for locking out a distant relative who got fired and wants to mooch off my family?” The top comments were brutal: “1. Demand her severance pay as rent. 2. Change the locks to show her who’s boss. 3. Mock her until she leaves on her own.” I smirked, thankful that my parents would never treat me like that. Besides, I bought the house they lived in. No one could kick me out. But a second later, a text from my mom popped up: “Transfer your severance package to me for safekeeping.” I froze. Acting on a strange instinct, I replied: “I didn’t get any severance.” I suddenly remembered what I had forgotten to tell them. My company actually gave me a $50,000 severance package. And on top of that, I bought a lottery ticket on a whim. I won 5 million dollars. My mom went silent for a long time. I started to panic, wanting to share the good news to break the tension. I sent: “Mom, actually…” The response was a red exclamation mark. Message Not Delivered.

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My husband, Chuck Helberg, died quietly in his study, a heartfelt suicide note beside him. The letter began with “My dearest Audrey.” My name is Scarlett Davies. 1 At seven in the morning, the alarm didn’t ring. I opened my eyes, a strange sense of unease settling over me. The space beside me was empty. On Chuck’s side, the duvet was neatly folded, the pillow squared precisely. This wasn’t right; he never got up early enough to make the bed. “Chuck?” No reply. I sat up. The bedroom was terribly silent. Curtains drawn, letting in only a thin slice of light. Thirty years in this old house, every crack and crevice was familiar, but today, that familiarity held a strange chill. I got out of bed and pushed open the bedroom door. The living room was also empty. The kitchen was deserted, the bathroom door ajar, the light off inside. “Chuck Helberg?” My voice echoed through the living room, unanswered. A wave of panic rose within me. Not fear, but that pure intuition – something was wrong, terribly wrong. Then I saw the study door. It was slightly ajar, leaving a narrow gap. Our study, Chuck called it his “sanctuary.” I rarely went in; it was his space. He said he needed to write, to think, to be alone. For thirty-three years of marriage, I respected this habit. Everyone needs their own space, don’t they? I walked to the door, my hand on the doorknob. My heart lurched. I smelled it. Faint, but definitely there. The unmistakable scent of gas. “Chuck!” I pushed the door open violently. He sat in his desk chair, back to the door, head tilted slightly to one side. A natural posture, as if he were asleep. But on the desk, a small gas burner lay, its tube disconnected, the valve open. The windows were tightly shut. My legs gave way, and I clutched the doorframe. “Chuck… Chuck Helberg!” He didn’t move. I shuffled closer, my feet heavy as lead. Rounding the desk, I saw his face. Calm, too calm. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly purple, but his expression was relaxed, even hinting at… relief? My trembling hand reached for his breath. Nothing. His neck, cold. His wrist, cold. I collapsed to the floor, my head buzzing. Dead. Chuck Helberg was dead. He had taken his own life. In our study, with gas. While I slept in the next room, he came here, closed the door, and opened the valve. Why? I looked at him, this man with whom I had spent the greater part of my life. Sixty-two years old, his hair mostly gray but neatly combed. Today, he wore the gray sweater I had bought him last year, dark trousers. Dressed as if to meet a guest, not to commit suicide. Then I saw something tucked in his arms. A letter, in a plain white envelope, unsealed, a corner of the paper peeking out. I pulled it out, my hands shaking uncontrollably. The letter unfolded, revealing his familiar handwriting. Chuck’s penmanship had always been beautiful, strong and vigorous, upright like the man himself. But today, the words felt sharp, cutting. 【My dearest Audrey】 My name is Scarlett Davies. Who is Audrey? I read on, word by word, each like an ice pick stabbing my heart. 【My dearest Audrey, I have kept a lifelong promise, ensuring our child walks proudly in the world.】 【Now, our son is successful in his career, and our grandson is on the way. I have no more worries.】 【Life and death separate us, true love remains out of reach. I can finally escape this unhappy marriage.】 Signed: Chuck Helberg. Date: Yesterday. I stared at those lines, reading them again and again. I knew every word, but put together, I didn’t understand. My dearest Audrey—not me. True love—not me. The unhappy marriage that plagued him—mine. Thirty-three years. Thirty-three years of marriage. Our son, Nathan, was thirty-two. Last month, he called to say his wife was pregnant. Chuck had held the phone, his hand trembling, his voice choked. “Good, good, I’m going to be a grandfather.” I thought he was happy. Now, looking at this letter, I understood. It was a mission accomplished. Keeping a lifelong promise, ensuring our child walks proudly in the world. Our child. Our son, Nathan, was his and Audrey’s child? Then what about me? Scarlett Davies, in these thirty-three years of marriage, what was I? I looked up at Chuck. He sat there, peaceful, calm, even somewhat dignified. Dead, but he had died where he belonged. The letter made it clear: no more worries, finally free. I climbed to my feet, my legs still trembling. I went to the phone and dialed our son’s number. It rang three times, then connected. “Mom? So early, is something wrong?” Nathan’s voice was thick with sleep. He was in New York City, two thousand miles away. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. “Mom?” “Your father…” I heard my own voice, dry and raspy, “Your father is dead.” Silence on the other end. A long, deathly silence. “Mom, what did you say?” “Your father,” I said, enunciating each word, “is dead. He killed himself. In the study.” Another silence. Then I heard a hurried breath. “I’m coming back immediately. Now, right now. Mom, did you call the police? The ambulance?” “Yes.” I hadn’t, but I knew I should. “Just come home quickly.” After hanging up, I truly called 911. Then I sat on the living room sofa, waiting. The letter was still clutched in my hand, the paper crumpled. The police arrived, then the paramedics. Photos, questions, examination. I moved like a puppet, answering whatever was asked. Finally, Chuck’s body was carried away. A police officer approached, a middle-aged man with a gentle expression. “My condolences. The suicide note… could we see it?” I handed him the letter. He read it, frowned, glanced at me, then at the letter, then back at me. “This…” “It’s not me,” I said. “Audrey isn’t me. My name is Scarlett Davies.” The officer nodded, saying no more. Perhaps he had seen stranger things. In the face of death, no absurdity was truly absurd. They left, and the house was empty again. I sat on the sofa, looking at the open study door. That door, Chuck had closed it last night, ending his life inside. And I, in the next room, had slept through the entire night. Blissfully unaware. 2 Our son arrived that evening. His flight was delayed; it was already eleven when he walked in. His face was tired, his eyes red. “Mom.” He hugged me, very tightly. It was then I realized I was trembling too. “What happened? How could Dad…” He released me, looking towards the study. “What did the police say?” “Suicide. Very clear. There’s a note.” I walked to the coffee table and picked up the letter. “See for yourself.” Nathan took the letter and opened it. I watched his face, trying to discern something there. Surprise? Confusion? Or… something else? He read slowly, his lips pressed tightly together. Then he looked up, his eyes full of bewilderment. “Who is Audrey?” “I’d like to know too,” I said. We looked at each other, mother and son for thirty years, suddenly like strangers. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? Neither of us knew. “Mom,” his voice was raspy, “this letter… is Dad…” “Confused?” I finished for him. “Delirious? Made a mistake?” He nodded, then shook his head. “But this handwriting, it’s Dad’s. I recognize it.” Yes, we both recognized it. The strokes, the strength, it was Chuck Helberg. He had written our names for over thirty years, on every birthday card, every holiday greeting. There was no mistaking it. “Did your father have any siblings?” I asked. “Cousins, anyone named Audrey?” “Dad was an only child, you know that.” I knew. Chuck’s parents died young; he had no close relatives. When we married, he was alone. He didn’t have many friends, just a few old colleagues he occasionally met. He never mentioned an Audrey. “Mom,” Nathan sat down, wiping his face, “Has Dad been… acting strangely lately?” I thought back. Last week, he went to his hometown, he said to visit his parents’ graves. He was gone for three days, and seemed perfectly normal upon his return. The day before yesterday, we went to the mall together to look at cribs for our unborn grandson. He was quite happy, chatting with the sales clerk for a long time. Yesterday, he woke early and made breakfast. Fried eggs, porridge, side dishes. Just like always. After eating, he said he was going to the study to write something. I said fine, then I went to the supermarket for groceries. When I came back, he was in the study, the door closed. I didn’t disturb him. In the evening, I made dinner and called him. He came out, ate, watched TV, then at around nine he said he was tired and went to bed. I said fine, I’d watch this episode. Everything was normal. “No,” I said. “Everything was normal.” “Then this letter…” Nathan looked at the lines again. “Ensuring our child walks proudly in the world – is this referring to me?” “Who else?” I looked at his face, a face that resembled mine by sixty percent. “You are my son. I carried you for ten months.” “But he said ‘our child,’” Nathan pointed at the letter, “his and this Audrey’s…” “You are not.” I cut him off, my voice a little sharp. “Nathan, you are my son. I gave birth to you. At City General Hospital, in the maternity ward, delivered by Dr. Lewis. Your father waited outside the delivery room all night. You weighed seven pounds eight ounces when you were born, and you cried very loudly. I remember all of this, clearly.” Nathan fell silent. He looked down at the letter for a long time. “Mom,” he looked up, tears in his eyes, “Then why did Dad write this?” I didn’t know. That night, neither of us slept. Nathan was in his old room, I was in the master bedroom. Chuck’s things were still there; his pajamas draped over the chair, his reading glasses and a half-read book on the nightstand. I picked up the book; it was One Hundred Years of Solitude. He had been reading it lately, saying he was old enough now to finally understand it. I opened it, and a bookmark fell out. It was one Nathan had made in elementary school, a piece of cardboard with a wobbly drawing of a family of three. On the back, in Chuck’s handwriting: My son Nathan, aged eight. My son. My heart constricted. The next day, funeral arrangements had to be made. Nathan went to take care of it, and I stayed home to tidy up. The police said the study was temporarily off-limits, pending procedures. So I tidied other areas. Chuck didn’t have many belongings. He was frugal; he had only a few clothes, but many books. I started with the wardrobe, taking out clothes one by one, folding them. In the bottom drawer, I felt a hard cover. I pulled it out; it was an old photo album. A plastic cover, its edges worn white. I opened it. The first page held our wedding photo. Chuck and I, taken in 1988. I wore a red dress, he a white shirt. Both of us young, smiling shyly. Below the photo, handwritten: Scarlett and Chuck, New Wedding Memento. I turned the pages. Nathan’s hundred-day celebration, his first birthday, starting kindergarten, elementary school graduation. Always the three of us. A standard family album. I flipped to the last few pages, which were empty. But on one page, something was tucked inside. I pulled it out: a small, black-and-white photo, its edges yellowed. It showed a young woman with two long braids, wearing a floral blouse, smiling sweetly. On the back, faded but still legible: Audrey, Spring 1975. 1975. That was before I met Chuck. Where was he then? In his hometown, or had he already moved to the city? He never mentioned it. I stared at the photo. Audrey. A very delicate-looking girl, with large eyes and dimples when she smiled. She looked to be in her early twenties, perhaps even younger. Who was she? I turned the photo over and over, finding no other information beyond that line of text. The photo itself was ordinary, like one taken at a photo studio, with a fake scenic backdrop. “Mom.” I gasped, almost dropping the photo. Nathan stood at the doorway, looking at what was in my hand. “What’s that?” I handed it to him. He took it, looked at the front, then flipped it over. “Audrey?” He looked up at me. “Is this…” “Found it in your father’s album,” I said. “Tucked in the back.” Nathan sat down, examining it closely. “1975… Dad would have been twenty-three that year. Working as a teacher in his hometown.” “How do you know?” “Dad mentioned it once,” Nathan said. “He went back to his village after high school, taught at the elementary school for two years, then passed the college entrance exam and left.” I hadn’t known any of this. Chuck rarely spoke of his past. When asked, he’d simply say, “Nothing worth telling, it’s all in the past.” “This Audrey,” Nathan pointed at the photo, “could she have been Dad’s…” “Sweetheart,” I finished. The room fell silent. Sweetheart. First love. Or, more than just first love. “But even if he had one,” Nathan said, “what does it have to do with this letter? ‘My dearest Audrey’ – Dad wouldn’t address just anyone like that. And he said ‘our child’…” He looked at the photo, then at me, his eyes complex. “Mom,” his voice was very soft, “Should I… get a DNA test?” I felt like I’d been slapped; my face burned. “What did you say?” “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he said quickly. “But this letter… this photo… Dad must have had a reason for writing those words. If he thought I was his and this Audrey’s child, then maybe…” “You are not.” I stood up, my voice trembling. “Nathan, you are my son. I gave birth to you. You want a test? Fine, do it. But now, your father’s body is barely cold, and you want to do this?” He fell silent, lowering his head. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he murmured. “I’m confused. I just… want to understand.” We both wanted to understand. But how? Ask Chuck? He was dead, unable to answer. “Let’s take care of the funeral first,” I said. “Other matters, later.” Nathan nodded, returning the photo to me. I clutched the small paper, feeling as if it were burning hot. 3 The funeral was set for three days later. Simple, with few attendees. A few of Chuck’s old colleagues came, a few neighbors. At the ceremony, I stood at the very front, looking at his portrait. The photo was taken last year, in the park, he was wearing that gray sweater, smiling gently. The officiant read the eulogy, describing Chuck Helberg as a diligent and upright man, a good husband, a good father. Listening, I felt like laughing. A good husband? His suicide note said he was unhappy in this marriage. A good father? Before his death, he was thinking of another woman’s child. I clenched my hands, my nails digging into my palms. After it ended, one of Nathan’s distant aunts came over and took my hand. “Scarlett, my condolences. Chuck’s passing was so sudden; you must take care of yourself.” I nodded, unable to speak. “By the way,” the aunt lowered her voice, “did Chuck leave any instructions before he passed? He has an old house in his hometown, you know that, right?” I paused. An old house? Chuck’s hometown did have a house, but it had been neglected after his parents died. He said it wasn’t worth anything and didn’t bother with it. “Why bring that up suddenly?” “I just heard,” the aunt’s eyes darted around, “a while ago, someone apparently went to see that house. They said Chuck sent them. I thought you knew.” I didn’t know. Chuck hadn’t told me. “Who went?” “That, I’m not sure about.” The aunt patted my hand. “I’m just worrying needlessly. Don’t overthink it, just take care of yourself first.” She left, and I stood there. The old house? Chuck sent someone to see the old house? “Mom,” Nathan came over, “It’s time to go home.” On the way back, I kept thinking. The old house, Audrey, 1975. What could these fragments piece together? Once home, I told Nathan: “I want to go to your father’s hometown.” “Now? But the funeral just…” “Now,” I said. “I’ll take the high-speed train, round trip in one day. Are you coming?” Nathan looked at me, then nodded. “Yes. I’ll drive.” 4 Chuck Helberg’s hometown was in a neighboring state, a three-hour drive away. It was a small town; it had developed a bit over the years, but the old part of town remained much the same. Nathan, relying on his memory, found the old street. The old house was at the end of the street, a small, single-story home with its own yard. The door was locked, the lock rusted solid. A neighbor, hearing the commotion, opened her door. It was an old woman, who squinted at us for a long time. “Who are you looking for?” “Auntie,” I said, “This is Chuck Helberg’s house; I’m his wife. We’ve come back to take a look.” The old woman uttered an “Oh,” scrutinizing me. “Chuck’s family? He hasn’t been back in years. A while ago, someone did come, said Chuck sent him, and went in with a key.” “What kind of person?” “A man, in his forties, I suppose, wearing glasses, very scholarly.” The old woman thought for a moment. “Said he was Chuck’s friend, came to see if the house needed repairs.” “He went inside?” “Yes, he stayed for about an hour. He even asked me a few questions, like who used to live here, and if anyone had ever inquired about the house.” “What did you tell him?” “What could I tell him? Chuck’s parents passed away so many years ago; the house has been empty. Though, before…” The old woman paused. “Before, there was a woman who came, many years ago, asking about Chuck. I told her Chuck had moved to the city and was married, and she left.” My heart quickened a beat. “What kind of woman?” “That must have been thirty years ago,” the old woman recalled. “Very delicate-looking, dressed simply, spoke softly. Said she was Chuck’s old classmate, just passing by, thought she’d check in.” “What was her name?” “She didn’t say. I asked, she didn’t say, just left.” The old woman looked at me, then at Nathan. “Are you Chuck’s family? How is he? Haven’t seen him in ages.” “He…” My throat tightened. “He passed away. A few days ago.” The old woman gasped, repeatedly saying “What a pity.” She added, “Chuck was a good boy, just had a hard life. If it hadn’t been for his family’s troubles back then, he and his sweetheart…” “Sweetheart?” Nathan pressed. “Auntie, are you saying my father used to have a sweetheart?” The old woman, realizing her slip, waved her hand. “Oh, that’s ancient history, why bring it up? He’s gone now.” “Auntie,” I stepped forward, taking her hand. “Please tell me, this is very important to me. Chuck left a letter mentioning someone named Audrey. Was it her?” The old woman looked at me, her gaze complex. After a moment, she sighed. “Audrey… Yes, that was the girl. Audrey Sterling. She and Chuck grew up together, and they were very fond of each other. Later, Chuck’s family fell on hard times. His father passed away, his mother was ill, and the family was deep in debt. Audrey’s family thought Chuck was too poor and wouldn’t agree to the marriage. They forced Audrey to marry someone from out of town. I heard she didn’t have a good life; her husband abused her, and within a few years…” “Within a few years, what?” “She was gone,” the old woman whispered. “They said she died of illness, but some said she was heartbroken and took something. Chuck was already at university by then. When he found out, he came back and sat by Audrey’s grave all day. After that, he never mentioned her again.” I released her hand, my body growing cold. Audrey Sterling. Dead. She had died many years ago. “Then did she…” I heard my voice tremble. “Did she have a child?” “A child?” The old woman thought for a moment. “I think I heard she had one, but it was given away not long after it was born. The family Audrey married into didn’t acknowledge it, saying she had been unfaithful, and the child wasn’t theirs. What a tragedy.” Given away. A child. I looked at Nathan. His face was ashen. “Auntie,” his voice was dry, “That child… boy or girl? When was it born?” “That, I’m not sure about. It’s all hearsay, a mix of truth and rumor, who knows.” The old woman sighed. “They were all tragic figures. Chuck later married you, and we all rejoiced when we heard you had a good life. He finally found some happiness.” Happiness? I managed a twisted smile, but no real smile came. “Auntie,” I said, “Can we go inside and look around?” The old woman went back inside for a hammer, then helped us smash open the rusted lock. The door opened, releasing a musty odor. The house was dim inside, furniture covered with cloths, a thick layer of dust on the floor. Nathan and I walked in, using our phone flashlights. It was a small house, one living room, one bedroom, the kitchen in a corner. Chuck had grown up here until he was eighteen, then left for university, met me, married, had a child, and lived for thirty-three years. Until three days ago, when he died. I walked slowly through the living room, looking at the dust-covered objects. Old tables, old chairs, faded remnants of New Year prints on the wall. In the bedroom, a wooden bed, an old-fashioned wardrobe. I pulled open the wardrobe door. It was empty, save for a few old clothes hanging inside. I reached in, and in the deepest part of the closet, I felt a small wooden box. I pulled it out and opened it. Inside were some odds and ends: a few vintage pins, an old fountain pen, some old paper bills. And a letter, its envelope yellowed. I pulled it out, my hand trembling fiercely. It was Chuck Helberg’s handwriting, but younger, less developed. The date was June 1975. 【Audrey: Greetings. I received your letter. Knowing you are well, I am relieved. You said your parents have brought up that marriage again. Don’t worry, when I return for summer break, I will talk to them. Though I, Chuck Helberg, am poor now, I am working hard. I will soon take the college entrance exam, get into university, secure a job, and then I can support you. Audrey, believe in me. In this life, I want only you. If you marry another, I will remain unmarried my entire life. Wait for me.】 The letter was short, ending abruptly. No signature, but I knew it was him. June 1975, before he even took the college entrance exam, Audrey’s family was already pressuring her to marry. I folded the letter and put it back. There was also a photo in the box, a picture of Chuck and Audrey together. They stood by a river, both young, smiling brightly. Chuck had his arm around Audrey’s shoulder; she leaned against him, holding a bouquet of wildflowers. On the back of the photo, it read: With Audrey, Summer 1974. A year later, Audrey married. Another year, she died. I handed the photo to Nathan. He looked at it, silent for a long time. “So,” his voice was very soft, “this Audrey was Dad’s first love. She died. Left a child, who was given away. Dad thought that child was me.” “Or,” I looked at the young Chuck in the photo, “he wished it was you.” “Why?” “Because you are his son,” I said. “But in his heart, he always held Audrey. So he treated you as Audrey’s child, so he could convince himself that his marriage, this lifetime, had meaning – that he raised his and Audrey’s child.” “But I was born to you!” Nathan’s voice rose. “Mom, I’m your son! How could he… how could he do this to you?” I didn’t answer. I walked to the window, pushed it open, and let the wind blow in. Dust danced in the light. “Your father,” I said, “lived a lifetime of heartache.” “But does that excuse how he treated you?” Nathan came to my side. “Mom, he spent thirty-three years with you, and in the end, he left a letter saying his true love was someone else, saying this marriage was unhappy. What did he see you as?” I shook my head. I didn’t know. I thought we were husband and wife, partners, family. But it turned out that in his heart, I was a shackles, an unhappiness, thirty years he had to endure. “I’m going to find that child,” Nathan suddenly said. “What?” “Audrey’s child. If they’re still alive, they should be around my age. I want to find him and ask for clarity. Maybe Dad had contact with him all these years; maybe Dad’s suicide note was meant for him.” “What if you find him?” “I don’t know.” Nathan wiped his face. “But I want to understand. Mom, don’t you?” I did. I wanted to know what I had truly lived through for thirty-three years. My presumed home, my presumed marriage, my presumed lifelong companionship—how much of it was real? “Find him,” I said. 5 It was dark by the time we returned to the city. Nathan dropped me off at home, saying he’d investigate and let me know if he found anything. I entered the house alone, turned on the lights, and looked at the empty rooms. Every piece of furniture here, I chose. The paintings on the walls, he and I selected together. The kitchen tiles, I insisted on that color. Thirty-three years, this home, everywhere bore my mark. Yet Chuck said he was unhappy. I walked into the study. The police had lifted the seal; everything was still in its place. On the desk, One Hundred Years of Solitude lay open. I walked over and looked at the page. It was about Colonel Aureliano Buendía returning home after years of war, finding everything changed beyond recognition. Chuck had underlined a sentence in pencil: “He thought of his dead wife, of the life he had never truly possessed.” I traced the line with my finger. The life he had never truly possessed. Was he thinking of Audrey? Thinking of the what-if – what if Audrey hadn’t died, what if he had been with her, what kind of life would that have been? The phone rang. It was Nathan. “Mom, I found something,” his voice was urgent. “I asked a friend to check the civil registry system. Around 1976, a boy was sent to the county orphanage, his mother named Audrey Sterling. Records show the child was adopted three months later by a pair of teachers named Henderson.” “What happened after that?” “That’s where it cut off. Archives weren’t complete back then, only that much. But my friend said he could dig deeper, see if the Henderson couple ever moved, or if the child’s name was changed.” “How long will that take?” “Hard to say, maybe a few days.” He paused. “Mom, I also asked Dad’s old colleagues. One, a Mr. Evans, said Dad indeed asked him for a favor a while ago.” “What favor?” “Dad asked him to help find someone named Ethan Henderson. Said he was an old friend, lost touch for years, wanted to reconnect.” Ethan Henderson. I hadn’t heard that name before. “Did Mr. Evans find him?” “Yes. Ethan Henderson is now in a neighboring city, runs a small bookstore. Dad got his address and phone number.” Nathan said, “Mom, do you think this Ethan Henderson could be the child Audrey’s family adopted?” I didn’t know. But it was too much of a coincidence. “Do you have the address?” “Yes. Mr. Evans gave it to me.” Nathan said, “I’m going over tomorrow. Mom, are you coming?” I thought about it. “Yes.” “Okay, I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.” After hanging up, I sat in the study, looking at the chair Chuck used to sit in. He had sat right here, opened the gas, and written that letter. The letter said he had fulfilled his promise, ensuring “our child” walked proudly in the world. If Nathan wasn’t that child, then who was he talking about? If Nathan was, then who was I?

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What’s it like having a face that just screams “mean girl”? I volunteer at a soup kitchen, and people spread rumors I’m trying to snag a rich kid. I help a lost child, and I’m accused of kidnapping. Even helping an old lady recycle bottles, I get doxed online for “littering.” My reputation precedes me, making me unemployable right out of college. So, I hung up a shingle and started my own business: specializing in shutting down holiday guilt trips. On opening day, Julian Carter, a university professor, knocked on my door: “My mom is too nice. All our relatives have borrowed her retirement savings. I need a ruthless wife to lay down the law.” “Harper Lee, six figures. Are you in?” I slapped the table, eyes gleaming: “I’m in! I guarantee they’ll cough up every last penny!” 1 I applied a perfect coat of ruby red lipstick in the rearview mirror, flicking the ends up. “Professor Carter, let’s be clear: I’m in this for the money, not morality.” “Once we step inside, I’m your fiancée. Except for your mother, I don’t give a damn about anyone’s feelings. If they get a heart attack, the medical bills are on you.” Julian adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Ms. Lee, that’s exactly what I need.” His voice was exhausted. “My mom is soft-hearted. After my dad passed, the relatives never stopped coming. This year, my Aunt Betty and her family of five moved in a week before Christmas, treating my home like a free resort.” “I… I have no other choice.” “As long as you can get rid of them and protect my mom, I’ll hand you the sledgehammer if you want to tear the house down.” The car pulled into an upscale gated community. Even through the window, I could hear the raucous noise coming from the Carter family’s standalone villa. “Mary! These cherries aren’t sweet! Turn up the heat; if my grandson catches a cold, can you afford to pay for it?” The foyer was a disaster zone. The imported rug was covered in sunflower seed shells and muddy footprints. A heavyset woman sat cross-legged on the sofa, spitting shells onto the floor. Next to her, a chubby little boy was scribbling with markers on a landscape painting on the wall. It was Julian’s father’s relic, incredibly valuable. Julian’s mother, Mrs. Carter, wearing an apron and holding a mop, voice trembling: “Aunt Betty, you can’t draw on that painting…” “So what if he draws on a piece of paper!” Aunt Betty rolled her eyes, scattering shells onto the freshly mopped floor. “My Timmy likes it, you should be honored!” “Julian is so rich, why would he care about a broken painting? Mary, it’s this stinginess of yours that drove your husband to his grave!” Mrs. Carter’s eyes were red rimmed, her hands shaking as she gripped the mop. Julian’s face was ashen. I reached out and stopped him. I tossed my faux fur coat over my shoulder and clicked my four-inch heels over to the sofa, looking down at Aunt Betty. “Showing up empty-handed is one thing, but bringing your own trash? Julian, these are your relatives? They look like refugees, and they smell like sour milk.” Aunt Betty froze, sunflower seed shells falling onto her shirt. “Who are you? It’s none of your business, outsider!” I laughed coldly, linking my arm through Julian’s and pressing myself against him. “Who am I?” “I’m his fiancée. The mistress of this house.” Mrs. Carter looked at me in shock. Aunt Betty’s jowls quivered with rage. She sprang from the sofa, pointing a finger at my nose. “You little tramp! Who are you calling refugees!” Slap. I swatted her hand away, eyes icy. “Point that again, and I’ll snap it off.” “Want to stay here? Fine.” “Carpet cleaning fee: two thousand. The painting on the wall: eight hundred thousand.” “Cash or card?” Aunt Betty backed away in fear, looking at Julian. “Julian! Look at this shrew you brought home! She’s trying to kill your own aunt!” Julian pushed up his glasses and sighed. “Aunt Betty, Harper has a bad temper. She handles all the money in the house.” “I can’t do anything. If I don’t listen to her, she beats me too.” Aunt Betty clearly hadn’t expected Julian to be so spineless. Her usual tactics for manipulating the Carter mother and son weren’t working today. “Fine! Julian, you’re a real man now! Bringing home a tigress to oppress your elders!” Aunt Betty’s eyes darted around, and she flopped back onto the sofa, slapping her thighs and wailing dryly. “My poor brother! Look at the widow and orphan you left behind, now being ridden roughshod over by an outsider!” Little Chubby Timmy joined in the commotion, grabbing a marker and throwing it at Mrs. Carter. “Bad woman! Don’t bully my grandma! I want KFC!” The marker hit Mrs. Carter on the forehead, instantly raising a red welt. She clutched her head, instinctively apologizing: “Timmy, don’t be mad, Auntie will go buy it…” I grabbed Mrs. Carter. “Mom, you sit down.” I pressed her back onto the sofa, turned to stare at the brat, and smiled at him. Timmy was scared and burrowed into Aunt Betty’s arms. “Want KFC?” Timmy emboldened himself and yelled: “Yes! A family bucket! Two big burgers!” “Sure.” I pulled a thick red envelope from my bag. Aunt Betty stopped wailing, her eyes glued to it. “My niece-in-law is so sensible.” She immediately put on a smiling face and reached out to grab it. “Julian is a big professor, he earns a lot. A small red envelope wouldn’t be presentable.” I twisted my wrist, dodging her dirty hand. “What’s the rush, Aunt Betty? This is for the child.” I squatted down, waving the red envelope in front of Timmy. “Say something nice, and it’s yours.” Timmy stared at the thickness of the red envelope, drool practically dripping. He shouted at the top of his lungs: “Hello, sister-in-law! Sister-in-law is so pretty!” “Good boy.” I stuffed the red envelope into his hands. Timmy tore it open and dumped it out. Rustle rustle—— A pile of colorful waste paper fell to the floor. Expired KFC coupons, and a few supermarket flyers. The room went dead silent. “Waaah——!” Timmy reacted, his crying shaking the roof. He laid on the floor rolling and kicking. “Liar! Big liar! I want red money!” Aunt Betty’s face turned purple with rage. She jumped up, pointing a trembling finger at my nose. “What is the meaning of this? Playing us with waste paper? Do you think we’re beggars?” I stood up slowly, dusting off my hands. “Aunt Betty, that’s not right. The child wanted KFC, these coupons are the thought that counts.” “I heard you when I came in, saying Julian earns a lot.” I sneered, looking at Julian. “Professor Carter, didn’t you tell Aunt Betty?” “Your salary card is with me. You have to apply to me for fifty bucks for cigarettes.” My gaze swept over them. “Every penny in this house is mine.” “If I want to give waste paper, I give waste paper. If I want to give air, I give air.” “Not a single dime leaves this house without my nod!” Aunt Betty gasped for air, turning to yell at Mrs. Carter. “Mary! Are you just going to watch this shrew bully your own family?” “This red envelope must be given today! One dollar less, and this Christmas is canceled!” “And the three thousand I lost playing cards, you make it up to me!” Mrs. Carter flinched in fear, looking at Julian. Just as Julian was about to speak, I sat down on the expensive solid wood coffee table, crossing my legs. “Canceled? Good!” “I didn’t want to celebrate anyway. Let’s settle accounts.” “Carpet cleaning fee, the painting on the wall, and the hit on Mom’s forehead.” “Emotional damage and medical expenses, let’s round it up to a hundred thousand.” “No money?” My eyes went cold. I grabbed the crystal ashtray and smashed it on the floor. Crash! Glass exploded. Timmy’s crying choked in his throat. “No money, then leave this brat here to work off the debt. Our house happens to need a toilet scrubber.” The room was dead silent. The shards of the crystal ashtray glinted coldly, one piece landing right by Aunt Betty’s foot. She shivered in fright. “You… you wouldn’t dare! This is a society under rule of law!” Aunt Betty yelled, her voice strong but her insides weak, her throat trembling. “Rule of law?” I smiled, pulling out my phone and opening the calculator. “Aunt Betty knows the law, so let’s go by the law.” “Trespassing, damaging property, disturbing the peace, intentional injury.” I didn’t look back. “Julian, call the police. I happen to know Chief King in this district, they’ll be here fast.” Hearing “police,” Aunt Betty’s face turned pale. “Don’t, don’t, don’t! Why call the police on family!” She immediately put on a smile, changing faces faster than flipping a page. “Julian’s wife, Aunt Betty was just joking with you.” “This child is ignorant, I’ll beat him later.” As she spoke, she gave Timmy two light pats on the butt. Timmy was about to wail but was glared back by her. Aunt Betty forcibly changed the subject: “Um… Mary, is dinner ready? I’m hungry.” Just as Mrs. Carter was about to get up, I pressed down on her shoulder. “Hungry?” I glanced at the coffee table piled high with fruit shells. “Ate so many cherries, and you’re still hungry?” “Since you’re hungry, eat something filling.” I ordered Julian: “Go cook a few packs of instant noodles. Don’t use the flavor packets, they’re expensive.” Aunt Betty’s face turned green: “Instant noodles for Christmas dinner?” I shrugged: “Don’t want to eat? Then starve.” Dinner. Aunt Betty’s family of five sat around the table, slurping plain noodles in clear broth. Their eyes looked ready to swallow me whole. Julian, Mrs. Carter, and I sat at a small side table, eating luxurious takeout. Abalone risotto, braised pork belly, boiled shrimp. The aroma filled the entire room. Timmy drooled with greed, reaching out to grab a shrimp. Smack! I hit the back of his hand hard with my chopsticks. “Ah!” “No manners,” I said coldly. Aunt Betty slammed her chopsticks onto the table. “Not eating!” Her eyes darted around, landing on Mrs. Carter, finding a way to turn the tables. “Mary, after dinner, the old rule, play a couple of hands of cards?” “It’s Christmas, let’s liven things up.” Hearing “play cards,” Mrs. Carter’s face instantly turned pale. She whispered an excuse: “Aunt Betty, I… I’m not feeling well, let’s not play.” “Oh, not feeling well?” Aunt Betty picked her teeth, speaking sarcastically. “You were pretty energetic when eating abalone! Afraid of losing money?” “Julian earns so much, and you care about this little bit of money?” “Play with your elders. If you don’t play, it’s unfilial!” Julian was about to stand up in anger, but I kicked him under the table. I wiped my mouth and stood up slowly. “Mom’s not feeling well, she really can’t stay up late.” I paused. “Aunt Betty is right. It’s no fun without playing a couple of hands during Christmas.” I walked over to the card table, pulled out a chair, and sat down grandly. “I’ll play for Mom.” “How big do you want to play?” Aunt Betty exchanged a greedy look with two other relatives. “Sure, niece-in-law has elegance. Let’s play.” “Our family is poor, can’t play too big. Three-card brag, ten-dollar ante, no limit.” Julian leaned in, whispering: “Harper, they cheat…” I gave him a look. “Don’t worry.” “When it comes to being crazy, I’m a professional.” The game began. Mrs. Carter stood nervously behind me, hands clasped together. Aunt Betty shuffled the cards, looking at me like a fat sheep. “Niece-in-law, show the money first? Save you from denying the debt if you lose.” I pulled a black card from my bag and slapped it on the table. “Fifty thousand.” “If you have the skill, take it all.” I lit a cigarette, smoke curling. I stared at Aunt Betty’s greedy face, blowing a smoke ring. “If you lose and can’t pay.” “I have a bad temper. I’ll chop off hands.” At the card table, Aunt Betty’s triangular eyes gleamed, exchanging glances with Second Cousin. I laughed, playing idly with a shard of crystal glass, seemingly indifferent. “Aunt Betty, this money is hot. Careful you have the life to take it but not the life to spend it.” For the first few hands, I deliberately let them win. A few thousand dollars quickly went into Aunt Betty’s pocket. The flab on her face jiggled with laughter: “Oh my, niece-in-law, your card skills are no good! Young people just can’t keep their cool.” Mrs. Carter was sweating with anxiety behind me. Julian stopped her, pushed up his glasses, his gaze fixed on the card table. “Again.” I slapped the black card on the table. “Ante doubled, one thousand.” Aunt Betty went crazy with joy: “Call! Of course I call!” This hand, she got three Kings. Her breathing turned heavy, eyeballs red, certain I had nothing. She brought this deck of cards; they were marked. “Niece-in-law, don’t call this hand. Save yourself from losing your family fortune,” she advised hypocritically, hands pressing down tight on her chips. I blew out a smoke ring: “I’m just stubborn.” “I’m all in.” I pushed all the cash in front of me, along with that fifty-thousand-dollar card, into the center of the table. “Eighty thousand here.” I stared at her. “Aunt Betty, dare to call?” Aunt Betty was stunned. The money in her hands added up to only a few thousand. She looked at the three Kings in her hand, a winning hand. Greed swallowed reason. “Call! I call!” She slammed the table, face turning liver-colored. “I don’t have that much cash…” “No money?” My eyes swept over her. “No money is easy.” I pulled out prepared A4 paper and an inkpad from my bag. “Aunt Betty’s old house in the city, the ancestral home grandpa left, market value eighty or ninety thousand.” I slapped the paper in front of her: “Sign, press your fingerprint, the house as collateral. Win, eighty thousand is yours. Lose, the house belongs to Mom.” Aunt Betty hesitated for a second. That was her lifeblood. She looked down at her cards, three Kings. Unless I had three Aces, she couldn’t lose. Second Cousin had just discarded two Aces! This hand was a sure win!

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Before the company’s annual holiday party, we had a raffle. I won the grand prize three times in a row: “Dinner with the CEO.” I immediately traded this “garbage” to a supplier. In exchange for two crates of premium King Crab. The HR manager, Jenny, looked at me with heartbreak: “Riley, do you even want to advance in your career? Do you want to make money?!” I comforted her: “Even corporate slaves have principles. I can’t earn dirty money that makes me ‘unhappy’.” Jenny looked behind me, eyes wide with horror: “C… C…” Me: “See? As long as you understand!” I turned around and locked eyes with the CEO, Ethan Sterling. 1 It wasn’t just him. Standing behind him were the stiff-backed General Manager, the Vice President, and a row of department heads who didn’t dare breathe… Awkwardness washed over me. I didn’t know how much of that conversation they heard. Trying to hide the evidence, I subtly used my foot to kick the styrofoam box of King Crab further under the table. But the box was huge. It got stuck halfway, one corner still stubbornly exposed. I squeezed out a professional smile: “G… Good afternoon, leaders!” Ethan didn’t speak. He just nodded at me, his expression indifferent. His reaction was so flat it gave me the creeps. Did he… not hear me just now? He didn’t get angry. But his executive assistant glanced over the desk and frowned at the styrofoam box by my feet. Clearly thinking fresh seafood didn’t belong in the office. Before the assistant could scold me, the silent Ethan suddenly spoke. His voice was low and magnetic, emotionless: “You won?” My scalp tingled. I nodded: “Yeah!” Ethan raised an eyebrow. His gaze circled my face before landing slowly on the two boxes: “Is that… your prize?” I could feel my manager, Mr. King’s murderous gaze burning a hole in my back. But there was no hiding it now. “No.” I took a deep breath and answered honestly: “I traded for it. King Crab.” Ethan didn’t let me off the hook. He pressed on: “What was your original prize?” I shrank back, my voice getting smaller: “Um, a coupon for… dinner with…” “Oh?” Ethan’s tone lifted. “How many?” I held up three fingers, gesturing shakily: “Th… three.” The silence in the room was deafening. Behind him, the GM and VP gasped. They looked at me like I was a warrior about to be executed. Trading three “Dinner with the CEO” coupons for crab? Whose feral child escaped the asylum?! The assistant frowned deeper, about to speak. But Ethan suddenly twitched the corner of his mouth. He took a step forward, looked down at my precious crab boxes, and said with a mix of disbelief and disdain: “Three tickets, and you only got two boxes?” I froze, instinctively replying: “Huh? These are top-tier female crabs, full of roe, really expensive…” Ethan’s lips seemed to hook up for a split second before flattening again. A look of “you can do better” flashed in his eyes. Finally, he gave me a cool glance and delivered his verdict: “A bit little.” Leaving those three words behind, he put one hand in his pocket and walked away with his long legs, not looking back as the crowd swarmed after him. 2 The entourage left in a grand procession. But the atmosphere got weirder. Trying to ease the tension, I turned to the pale-faced Jenny: “When he said ‘a bit little,’ did he mean I should go ask for two more boxes?” Jenny looked at me like I was insane and dropped one sentence: “Tuck your tail and hide tonight!” I honestly couldn’t tell if “a bit little” meant what I thought it meant. Just as I was debating whether to text him to test the waters, someone knocked on my cubicle wall. “Riley, come to my office.” Mr. King stood in the aisle, holding his thermos. His slightly puffy eyes looked at me with “pity.” In the office, Mr. King took a slow sip of tea, spat out a leaf, and sighed deeply. “Riley, I’m so disappointed in you.” He shook his head, speaking earnestly: “It’s good for young people to have personality, but you can’t be brainless. You think joking with the boss in public makes you special? In the boss’s eyes, that’s disrespectful. That’s lacking boundaries.” I retorted: “I wasn’t joking, and he wasn’t mad.” “Not mad?!” Mr. King raised his voice, interrupting me with a “you’re so naive” look: “A man of his status wouldn’t argue with a junior employee on the spot! That’s called class! But just because he didn’t explode doesn’t mean it’s over.” “Didn’t he say ‘a bit little’? He’s pointing at me, saying the people I manage are shallow and unpresentable.” He put down his cup, leaned forward, and looked serious: “You caused me huge trouble, but as your direct supervisor, I can’t watch you ruin your future over this.” “Just now, to save you, I swallowed my pride and begged Admin to get you a seat at the main table for tonight’s gala.” I froze, instinctively rejecting: “What? Main table? Can I not go…” Sit with Ethan? I can’t eat freely then. Torture! And Admin is weird. Usually, they make Mr. King wait three days for a reimbursement. Why are they so nice now? Giving a seat at the big boss table? Seeing my attitude, Mr. King frowned, looking heartbroken at my “inability to be helped”: “Why are you so ungrateful? Half the company would kill to show their face at the main table! I risked my old face to get you this chance to redeem yourself, and you don’t want it?” He stood up, patted my shoulder, and gave me a speech that gave me goosebumps: “Comrade Riley, the workplace isn’t your home. If you mess up, show the right attitude!” “Tonight, sit next to the boss. Be smart. Pour wine, make toasts. Find a chance to sincerely apologize and smooth over the crab incident.” “As long as the boss drinks your toast, this page is turned. Understand?” Looking at Mr. King, moved to tears by his own generosity, I swallowed my refusal. Fine. Admin already changed the seating. Refusing now is useless. 3 The gala started with festive excitement, but I felt like I was in a different dimension. I stiffly sat at the very end of the main table. Ethan sat at the head. Three VPs separated us. The VPs were laughing nervously, trying to please him, but his expression remained impassive. He toyed with his wine glass, his eyes occasionally drifting to the plate of boiled shrimp in front of me that no one dared touch. I pretended not to notice, counting the peanuts on my plate. What are you looking at?! Want me to peel shrimp for you? Keep dreaming. Just as I was about to sneak a bite of cold appetizers to pad my stomach, Mr. King at the next table started winking at me furiously. He was like a human LED screen, broadcasting on loop: Go! Toast! Do you want to get fired? I played blind. Mr. King got anxious. During a quiet moment, he suddenly stood up with his glass, shouting loudly: “Chairman Sterling! Riley was insensible today. She’s young and impulsive, and she offended you. She’s thin-skinned, but she regrets it deeply.” Every eye in the room focused on us. I almost choked on a peanut. Mr. King gave me no chance to react. He took charge, smiling fawningly: “Riley, why are you spacing out? Hurry up and toast the Chairman, apologize to him!” Great. He put me on the spot. Under everyone’s gaze, I took a deep breath, picked up my glass, and stood up helplessly. “Ch… Chairman Sterling.” I looked at Ethan, trying to look sincere: “I was immature today. I toast this to you. Please… drink as you wish.” Ethan looked up at the glass I extended. His brow furrowed visibly. “Manager King.” Ethan didn’t take my glass. Instead, he slammed his own cup heavily onto the table. Thud. The sound made Mr. King flinch. Ethan, who had just been clinking glasses with the VPs, looked straight at Mr. King and lied without blinking: “I’m allergic to alcohol.” 4 At this point, even an idiot could see Ethan was unhappy. Very, very unhappy. Ethan didn’t wait for Mr. King to react. He threw his napkin on the table. “Carry on.” He dropped a cold command to the GM and walked out. In that moment, Mr. King, who hadn’t even drunk yet, turned dark red. He turned around trembling, popping two heart pills, afraid he’d pass out. Once he caught his breath, he pointed a shaking finger at me, too angry to speak, and stormed off. Watching his furious back, I sighed internally. I really wanted to tell him: Old King, is it possible he just didn’t want me to drink? But I didn’t dare. I was afraid if I said it, Mr. King would have a stroke on the spot. 5 The gala ended late. When I got home, Ethan pulled me into a “deep exchange” of marital affection, leaving me severely sleep-deprived. Passing the pantry, I remembered he probably skipped breakfast, so I grabbed him an iced Americano and a whole wheat sandwich. Coincidentally, Mr. King saw this as he walked in. Watching the assistant take the coffee from me, he wore a gratified smile that said, “I knew you were ambitious.” I ignored him and went to my desk. Just as I settled down to slack off and write a proposal, my phone buzzed. “Bring me lunch later, and a coffee.” Seeing the message from “Manager King,” my brain short-circuited. I replied: “Are you talking to me?” Instant reply: “Who else? You’re the freest in the group.” I laughed in anger. I had the most cases in the group, and he called me free? Ethan didn’t even order me around like this. Who did he think he was? I typed furiously: “Can’t do it. I’m here to do planning, not be your maid!” He didn’t expect the usually submissive sheep to fight back. He exploded, tone rude: “Didn’t you bring it for the Chairman? What, my rank isn’t high enough to order you?” I took a deep breath, deciding to help regulate Mr. King’s blood pressure: “That’s my husband. What, you want to join our marriage?” Silence. I looked up through the glass partition. Mr. King stared at his phone for a full ten seconds, head tilted. He slowly took off his glasses, rubbed his temples, and gave me a look that was incredibly complex and heavy. Then he waved me over: “Riley, come to the small conference room.”

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Do you know how miserable it was for a family without a son in a traditional, tight-knit rural community? At community meetings, my dad had no right to speak. At Thanksgiving dinner, my mom wasn’t allowed at the main table. Even when inheriting property, we only got the dilapidated, leaky old farmhouse. Until I was five, and my mom got pregnant again… 01 When my mom had me, she lost a lot of blood and almost didn’t make it. For years after, she didn’t get pregnant again. The local midwife said she likely damaged her body and wouldn’t have any more children. When we divided the family property with my uncle, I was four. My dad was very angry: “I paid for half the materials and put in the labor to build the new house. Why do I only get the old farmhouse?” My aunt, nursing my cousin, said dismissively: “You don’t have a son, what do you need such a big house for?” “Look at us, we have three boys. They’ll need a place to live when they get married!” My grandma chimed in: “Girls are meant to be married off anyway. You’ll have to rely on your nephews to take care of you in your old age!” My dad’s spirit broke instantly. It sounds ridiculous now, doesn’t it? But the idea that nephews were “real family” and daughters belonged to “other families” was very common back then. My dad came out of the living room and sat on a big rock in the yard, his head hanging low. The moonlight was bright, casting a deep, dark shadow beside him. I walked over and hugged his neck from behind: “Daddy, I’ll take care of you and Mommy when you’re old.” He patted my hand, his voice choking: “Okay, Lily is such a good girl.” In the end, we still moved into the old farmhouse. The family’s old tractor and farming equipment were all given to my uncle. We only got a rickety old manual thresher. The night we moved in, my mom tried many times but couldn’t get the old wood stove to light. This house was built by my great-grandfather. It had mud-brick walls and a thatched roof. Because it had been empty for so long, the dampness inside wouldn’t dissipate anytime soon. After using up a whole box of matches, my mom suddenly covered her face, her shoulders shaking continuously. My dad poured the water he fetched into a cracked bucket and walked silently to her side. My mom hugged his waist and burst out crying. That night, I slept on a bed in the north room. The cold wind pierced me from all directions through the cracks. I curled up in the stiff, old quilt, praying silently: Please let Mommy have a little brother. That way, she and Daddy probably wouldn’t be so sad anymore. Perhaps God heard my prayer. My mom soon got pregnant. 02 The women in the community all said that since my mom’s belly was pointy and she craved sour food, it must be a boy. My dad kept saying a boy or a girl was the same to him, but at dinner, he told my mom: “John invited me to go work in Texas next year. He says there are more opportunities there.” “I’ll work for a few years, save some money, and we’ll build a nice two-story house. Otherwise, he won’t be able to find a wife in the future.” My grandma brought over two laying hens and instructed me: “Lily, the eggs are for the little brother in Mommy’s tummy. You can’t be greedy, understand?” The gossiping women in the neighborhood asked me: “Lily, do you want a little brother or a little sister?” I answered without hesitation: “A little brother!” The women laughed out loud: “If you have a little brother, your parents won’t love you anymore.” I got anxious: “No way! I’ll always be Mommy and Daddy’s precious.” The women laughed even louder, completely oblivious to how terrifying those words were for a four or five-year-old child. The day came, and my mom went into labor. She was in pain all day without giving birth. Before dawn the next day, my grandma went to the local butcher and bought a large piece of fatty pork and a huge pork bone. By the time she returned with the meat. My mom had given birth. It was a little sister! My grandma stood in the yard holding that bag of meat. The midwife called out to her: “Come in and see your granddaughter, she’s so fair and chubby!” “I’m not looking. My oldest’s boys are still waiting for me to make breakfast!” She left the bone behind and took all the meat with her. Times were hard then, meat was scarce. Every household loved fatty meat, so bones were sold cheap. I went into the room to see my sister. She was wrinkled, her face red like a little old man, completely different from the “fair and chubby” the midwife described. My mom lay weakly on the bed, staring at the thatched roof, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes. My dad smoked his cigarette: “Don’t cry, since she’s here, she’s here.” My mom gave birth right during the autumn harvest. My grandparents were busy at my uncle’s farm, and my dad was busy harvesting our crops too. My mom stayed in bed for three days before getting up to cook for us. Because of this, she developed a chronic condition; her whole body would ache whenever it rained. That year during Thanksgiving, my two aunts from the city also came back for dinner. My aunt was playing cards with them while my sister cried from hunger. My mom was in the smoky kitchen preparing the Thanksgiving dinner with my grandma. After a busy afternoon, it was finally ready. My mom found a moment to go nurse my sister. When she finished, she found there was no seat for her at the table. My dad and my older cousin were about to get up, but my grandma stopped them: “Why make it so complicated? We’ll just eat in the kitchen.” 03 It was too much bullying. I pulled at my parents, wanting to go home. My mom held my endlessly crying sister with one hand and patted my head with the other: “What does a child know? Just eat.” That night, as we left my uncle’s house, my aunt smiled and twisted the knife in my mom’s heart: “Sister-in-law, honestly, you have it much easier than I do.” “You don’t know how exhausting it is to raise three boys.” There was no moonlight that night. Every house was brightly lit. The dim yellow light spilled over the muddy country road. I softly asked my parents why we had to endure this. My dad’s tone was irritated: “What do you know, you’re just a kid.” My mom’s face was steeped in shadows: “Who asked me to be unable to bear a son.” Ah. They didn’t believe I would take care of them in their old age. My dad didn’t go to work in Texas. Because he didn’t have a son, there was no need to build a new house. We just got by day by day. People say country folks are simple, but when they twist the knife, they are more ruthless than anyone. I don’t know when it started, but my dad got a nickname: “Mule Smith”. A mule is a hybrid of a horse and a donkey. It cannot reproduce. When the community was raising funds to repair the local church, someone laughed and suggested: “Let’s skip the Mule’s family. They don’t have a son. Making him pay would be too much bullying.” My dad stayed silent. My mom only dared to choke back complaints at home, but put on a smiling face outside, never daring to argue back. I couldn’t change them, I could only make myself stronger. They called my dad “Mule Smith,” so I cursed their whole family as mules. When my cousins bullied me and my sister, I used my teeth to bite and my feet to kick. Even if my face was bruised and swollen, I had to tear a piece of flesh off them. My grandma took away the chicks our family just hatched, saying she would raise them for us. As she raised them, they became my uncle’s. I chased them all the way out and snatched them back. My aunt tied her cow near our vegetable patch, and it ate a whole patch of newly sprouted spinach clean. She hypocritically said it wasn’t on purpose. I opened the gate to her vegetable garden and let all the chickens in. They pecked her whole garden of vegetables away. She was so angry she stood with her hands on her hips, cursing my mother. I cursed back at her: “If you dare to eat our vegetables again, I’ll take a scythe and cut down all the crops in your field.” Gradually, I became notorious in the community. Those aunts and older women always advised me: “You don’t have a brother. If you have such a big temper, when you get married, there won’t be anyone to back you up.” My mom also sighed looking at me: “Just like this, it’s not even certain she can get married!” But Mom. I am only… Protecting you, protecting this family. In the blink of an eye, it was time for my sister to go to preschool. That day, two major events occurred that affected my life. 04 First, on my sister’s first day of preschool, the teacher taught counting. After only three times, my sister could count from one to a hundred. The substitute teacher, who was from our community, praised her to my mom: “Your Chloe is much smarter than Lily.” Second, an older relative in our extended family was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Back then, there was no good medical insurance. For people in rural areas, getting cancer was basically a death sentence. However, unexpectedly, his daughter, who had gone to community college and was working in the city, took him to the hospital. They removed half his stomach. He survived, and even chatted eloquently with people in the community about interesting things during his hospital stay in the city. That day, returning from that relative’s house, my mom grabbed my dad, who was about to go play poker: “David, Chloe is so smart. If we just cultivate her well, she won’t be worse than a son!” With conviction, my parents were revitalized. At heart, they treated me and my sister the same. But from that day on, my sister received more favoritism. If there was only one drumstick, it definitely belonged to her. If she didn’t want to eat breakfast at home, my mom would give her fifty cents to buy a muffin. I only got that kind of treatment when I was sick. Every Christmas, my sister would definitely get a new outfit. While I always wore the hand-me-downs my two aunts brought back from the city. During the busy harvest seasons, my sister didn’t have to go to the fields. My mom said: “Your hands are for writing. These chores aren’t for you.” “Chloe, you must study hard and bring honor to our family.” My sister was indeed very smart. She was always first in her class and got certificates every semester. The certificates back then held much more weight than they do now. I have to say, studying relies heavily on natural talent. I had to work several times harder than my sister. I went to bed at eleven and woke up at five every day. On the way riding my bike to school, I would memorize ten vocabulary words. On weekends, I went to the mountains to cut bamboo, pick mushrooms, and gather wild berries. I saved the money from selling them to buy extra workbooks. Back then, the school had row latrines. Once, I took a math test paper while squatting in the toilet. By the time I solved the problem, my legs were numb, and I almost stepped into the pile of waste. I always adhered to the idea that “the clumsy bird catches the worm by starting early,” but the results were not obvious. Although I didn’t want to admit it, I was just an ordinary person in the crowd. The background extra in a TV show, the passerby A in a novel, the “who was that again” at a class reunion. My mom kept nagging in my ear: “Lily, you’re the older sister. You must protect your sister, support your sister.” You don’t need to repeatedly remind me, Mom. From the moment my sister was born, I have been protecting her. Soon a few years passed, and I took the high school entrance exams. The scores hadn’t come out yet when my friend Sarah from the community invited me to work in a factory in the city. Her face was full of longing: “In the factory, you can earn eight hundred a month!” “I could buy pretty dresses, and I want to get my hair permed.” The midsummer heat was brutal. My aunt sat under the big maple tree fanning herself and said to my mom: “Lily can go make money to pay for Chloe’s tuition. You two will have it much easier.” My mom smiled: “Yes, it all depends on Chloe now.” I stalled as long as I could, finally reaching the day the scores were released. It was a scorching summer, but my hands and feet were as cold as ice. Even though I had given it my all, I was still nine points short of the cutoff for the top high school. Just nine points… If I had worked a little harder, if I had done a few more practice tests, if I had carefully checked every exam… Would my life have been different? The admission letter for a vocational high school was sent home. That night, under the dim yellow light, my mom sighed looking at the letter: “Lily, hardly anyone from this vocational school gets into a good college each year.” “Chloe is in fifth grade this year. Your dad and I want to send her to the middle school in town next year, but that’s a big expense…” “If both of you study together, your dad and I… sigh…” The incandescent bulb had a bad connection, making a “sizzle sizzle” sound, like a saw repeatedly cutting the bottom of my heart. My parents looked at me silently, waiting for me to say: “Never mind, I won’t go.” 05 My sister, innocent and naive: “If sister wants to go to high school, she should go. I can just go to the middle school in the community, it’s the same.” My dad scolded her: “What do you know? Can the community school be the same as the one in town?” After a long silence, I clenched my fists and spoke: “Then I won’t go to high school.” “The homeroom teacher said with my grades, if I go to community college, tuition will be waived.” I practically begged, “Mom, Dad, when I graduate from community college, I will definitely earn back the money spent these three years.” Looking back at that period now, I can understand my parents’ choice. The family’s resources were limited, so they had to supply the one who had a better chance of succeeding. An ordinary girl like me was destined to be given up on. But if I had the chance to travel back in time, I would definitely throw a tantrum, kneel and beg, do everything in my power to go to high school. My grandma and aunt both scolded me: “Why can’t you be more considerate of your parents? The other girls in the community have all gone to work. Your grades aren’t even good, what’s the point of continuing to study!” The women in the community also advised my parents: “Community colleges don’t guarantee jobs anymore. It’s useless to go. If it were a son, that’s one thing, but a daughter? Why spend so much money on her!” “Let her go to work early and build you a house. You never know when your mud-brick house is going to collapse.” Before school started, my mom gave me living expenses and repeatedly reminded me: “It’s not easy for us to support you. You must spend frugally.” The community college was in the city, and the cost of living was completely different from the countryside. Two hundred dollars a month was barely enough for food. The internet was starting to boom then, and I signed up for Facebook. Chatting with Sarah on Facebook, she said: “The work on the assembly line isn’t meant for humans. 12 hours a day, only four days off a month. If you don’t finish your quota, they dock your pay.” “Facing those parts every day, I’m going crazy.” “Lily, it’s better to study. There’s a foreign company across from our factory. Those white-collar workers wearing heels and lipstick sitting in offices, they have it so easy.” Korean dramas were popular then, so I chose Business Korean as my major. I set a goal for myself: I must get into a foreign company, I must work in a cubicle. Although I wasn’t as desperate as in middle school, I didn’t slack off either. I worked hard. When my roommates went to the internet cafe, it was all to play games or watch shows. I usually went to look up information or practice pronunciation along with Korean dramas. I got up punctually at six every day, ran, ate breakfast, studied by myself, and then went to class. When there were no classes, apart from doing part-time jobs, I basically spent my time in the library. I read a lot of books. I was young then and didn’t know how to discern and choose well. So I just swallowed everything whole, cramming it all in. The atmosphere at our school wasn’t good; not many people studied. Boys and girls all dyed their hair in trendy, edgy styles. Girls wore heavy smoky makeup that obscured their eyes; boys wore earrings and smoked. Some of the bolder ones hugged, kissed, and groped in the cafeteria. As long as there were no pregnancies, the teachers didn’t care at all. To save on travel expenses, I didn’t go home normally. Every time I called my mom, she would always remind me repeatedly: “Don’t cause trouble at school. Spend your money frugally. It’s not easy for your dad and me to make money.” I rarely bought new clothes, always rotating the same two bras, and didn’t touch cosmetics. Going out with my roommates, even spending two dollars on the cheapest lemonade made me feel guilty. Yes. My mom’s reminders made me feel guilty for every penny I spent. Many years later, when I could make money myself, the first thing I did when shopping was check the price tag. Even if I could completely afford that piece of clothing, I still lacked the underlying confidence. Poverty had been firmly etched into my bones. I spent a very, very long time slowly wearing away its brand. But, perhaps I will be affected by it for the rest of my life. An upperclassman named Ryan, who was very handsome, liked me. He pursued me for over two months, buying me food every day and waiting downstairs. 06 My roommates all advised me to go out with him. “He’s so handsome, and I heard his family is quite well-off.” “He’s not bad to you, give it a try.” … I refused. Smoking, drinking, fighting—in the eyes of a fifteen or sixteen-year-old girl, there’s a wild kind of handsomeness. But I didn’t like it. About a month later, Ryan got a new girlfriend, who actually turned out to be a senior from the neighboring state university. He paraded around with her, and many guys praised him for his skills. He even made a point to show off in front of me. During our late-night dorm chats, my roommates were indignant. “It hasn’t been that long, and he’s already moved on to someone else.” “I don’t think that girl is all that. She’s three or four years older than us, and not as pretty as you, Lily.” … After a round of condemnation, the dorm president said softly: “But she’s from the state university, a real university student.” For a moment, the dorm was dead silent. We already understood then: there was long an invisible chasm dividing us from them. Because of the reverence for academic degrees, those guys all envied Ryan, because he crossed that chasm and held the hand of someone on the other side. That senior seemed to never have class, following Ryan around our school every day. My sister passed the entrance exam for the junior high in the county seat. My parents rented a small place there to accompany her. This caused a huge uproar in the community. My grandma stamped her cane and cursed: “She’s a girl! You put in so much effort, just to spend money for another family!” “If you have that money, help out your own nephews. Don’t end up with no one to mourn you when you die.” The villagers also mocked them overtly and covertly. Saying my parents might as well just adopt a son-in-law to live with them. My mom held onto her pride, telling my sister she must succeed. She also told me: “You must study hard too. When you start interning, the burden on me and your dad will lighten a bit.” Opportunities in the small county seat were scarce back then. My parents pushed a cart selling street food, often getting chased away by city management. The money they earned was barely enough for the family’s expenses. Community college was a two-year program. During the summer after the first year, internships started. The school arranged for everyone to go to assembly lines. I refused. Along with a few classmates who usually stuck together to study, we decided to find jobs ourselves. These past two years, my grades were always at the top. I also participated in several competitions and won awards. I had leverage. I bought myself a set of professional clothes and had a roommate do my makeup. The weather was great that day. When I left, the sky was filled with a radiant sunrise. It was a good omen. I brought my resume, full of confidence and hope, to attend an interview at a foreign company. Surprisingly, I ran into that senior from the state university. She was also among the interviewees. I felt a moment of panic but quickly calmed down. She skipped classes every day, spending her time in internet cafes or bars. While I had been studying seriously all along. While waiting, I went over my Korean self-introduction in my mind again and again. Striving to be flawless. Finally, the interviewer appeared. She quickly scanned the collected resumes, then divided them into left and right piles. “Jessica, John, Sarah, Lily…” She called my name. I quickly stood up, ready for battle. However, the HR manager’s next words were like a bucket of ice water poured over my head.

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I woke up from amnesia, and the doctor asked me: “Which one is your current boyfriend?” I tentatively pointed to the one on the left. The doctor’s face darkened: “Current. Boyfriend.” I pointed to the one on the right. The doctor gritted his teeth: “Current. Boy. Friend.” I hesitated, then finally pointed shakily to the one in the middle. The doctor took off his mask and smiled eerily: “Great job. “Babe, turns out besides me, you were dating three others.” I planned to jump out the window and run. But a bullet comment flashed before my eyes: [The vicious female lead is finally going offline. Jump quickly so you can be caught by the fourth yandere male lead, locked in a dark room, and tortured to death.] Oh no. But I already jumped… 1 I was obsessed with watching that cute “steamed carrot Mickey Mouse tissue box cat” online. Didn’t watch where I was going. Accidentally missed a step and tumbled down the stairs. Good news: No major injuries. Bad news: Amnesia. Forgot who my boyfriend was. When the nurse told me to call family to pick me up. I opened my contacts. Only four people. One was saved as a wrench emoji. I guessed it was a repairman. Pass. The other three were more impressive. Saved as: Hubby 1, Hubby 2, Hubby 3. Checked the area codes. Weird. Did my boyfriends have phone numbers from three different states? Whatever. Just pick one and try. I called Hubby 1. Picked up instantly. Tone very cold. “What is it?” What’s with this attitude? Is this an ex-boyfriend I forgot to rename? No wonder I have a Hubby 2. Hung up! Calling Hubby 2! Don’t know what Hubby 2 was doing. Didn’t pick up instantly. Waited thirty seconds. Just as I was about to hang up and call Hubby 3. He picked up. Voice similar to Hubby 1, both deep. But his tone was more sarcastic: “Finally answering the phone? “Speak. Who was that man who answered your phone? “Didn’t you say you cut ties with them? Only me left?” How do I answer that? What man? I don’t know. Hung up quickly. Next one. Called Hubby 3, didn’t pick up. But he sent a text: [Awake? I’m coming right now.] [Hungry?] I breathed a sigh of relief. Looks like Hubby 3 is my real hubby! The others. Are just bad romances to be discarded. Blocking them all later! From now on, I will be a devoted, pure girl! [Kiss kiss Hubby, can you bring me an ice cream black tea changed to green tea base with two extra scoops of ice cream and no sugar later?] Instant reply: [Yes.] 2 Thinking about getting the bubble tea I craved soon. I was in a great mood. Sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed playing with my phone. This was a single room with great lighting. 2 PM. Winter sun poured in, covering half the bed, making me feel lazy and warm. Stretched. Suddenly realized. I seemed to have forgotten what my boyfriend looked like. What if he’s ugly? After all, girls in love wear rose-colored glasses. While I’m still in this “sober” phase. Better check the photo album. If he’s really ugly, I’m running away. … However. I scrolled through the album for nearly half an hour. Not a single photo of a man. Over 10,000 photos. 5,000 selfies. 2,000 random cats and dogs on the street. The remaining 3,000. All different food photos. Holy sh*t. Self-obsessed much? Narcissism is a bit extreme. Forget it. I guess with my taste. I wouldn’t date an ugly guy anyway. “Tanya.” “Eh, who’s calling me?” I stretched my neck to look at the door. A tall, thin male doctor walked in. He wore a mask, revealing only clean, handsome eyes. He asked some basic questions. Headache? Any discomfort? He continued: “How is your memory recovery? “If the situation is still not ideal, we may need to consider other treatment plans.” Instantly. Images from countless movies flashed uncontrollably through my mind. Electroshock, forced hypnosis, even craniotomy… Various terrifying treatments played in a loop. Scared, I waved my hands frantically, speaking faster: “Recovered, recovered, Doctor. “Really! “I remember everything. Feel great!” “Really? What’s my name?” I glanced at his name tag: “Dr. Zhou, what about it?” The doctor’s gaze paused on my face, expression serious. I stared back. Heart tightened. Does my body have some major issue? Is he afraid I can’t take it? I clutched my chest, heartbroken: “It’s okay, Doctor. “Just say it. My mental fortitude is strong, I can take it.” After a long while. He pursed his lips and finally spoke: “We’ll do a checkup later. If no issues, you can leave.” Tch. Just that small thing. Why act so scary! Bad man! 3 The doctor left. About an hour later. He returned, followed by two men. The man on the left wore a dark suit. Tall figure, cold face. Rimless glasses perched on a high nose bridge. Eyes behind the lenses sharp and distant. Thin lips pursed tight. Radiating a “strangers keep away” low pressure. The other one. Looked like a race car driver. Red and black racing suit, zipper casually open to the chest, revealing a black tight T-shirt underneath. Hair messy and wild. Under the bangs, a pair of narrow, upward-slanting eyes stared at me dead on. Jawline tight, looking like he could bite me to death any second. I froze, looking at the doctor in confusion. What’s this for? The doctor’s face didn’t change, tone flat as he asked me: “Which one is your current boyfriend?” Hate this. I hated multiple-choice questions since I was a kid. How would I know? I tentatively pointed to the one on the left. But the doctor repeated: “Current boyfriend.” Huh?? Not right? I thought he looked husband material. Then it’s the one on the right. “Current boyfriend.” The doctor’s face darkened, repeating again: “Current boyfriend.” Ah? Could it be the one just now? He was just asking again to test if I really recovered my memory. Damn. What a cunning man. I pointed to the left one again. The doctor’s face looked even worse: “Current boyfriend.” Ah? Still not right? I get it. My current boyfriend isn’t in here at all! I’ll point at the air. The doctor laughed in anger. Voice gritted through teeth. “Current. Boy. Friend.” Not good. Looking at his expression. My current boyfriend should be in this room. So who is it? I scanned the three of them from left to right. Could it be… Could it be… I hesitated, then finally pointed shakily to him in the middle. The doctor took off his mask. Smiled eerily: “Great job. “Babe, turns out besides me, there are three others.” 4 My blood froze. Couldn’t believe my ears. There are only three men here. Where’s the other one? Waiting somewhere? Whatever. Run first. Feels like if these three team up, they’ll kill me. Didn’t have time to put on shoes. Climbed the window to run. This is the second floor. Jumping down shouldn’t kill me. I moved super fast. While the three were stunned. Half my butt was already out the window. A convertible was parked downstairs. Owner unknown. Keys still in the ignition. This is a getaway artifact. Heaven helps me! I jump! Just then. A bullet comment flashed before my eyes: [The vicious female lead is finally going offline. Jump quickly so you can be caught by the fourth yandere male lead, locked in a dark room, and tortured to death.] [Sigh, really want to see the day the vicious female lead gets revenge from four male leads. Who told her to do so much evil! If not for her, our sister would be living a happy life as the group favorite.] Wait. Why didn’t you say so earlier? I f*cking jumped already. 5 Wind whistled in my ears. I watched helplessly as I fell towards the convertible mid-air. Good news: Landed safely in the seat. Bad news: Caught. Wrist grabbed by a cold, strong hand. I turned back, meeting a man’s face that appeared out of nowhere. The man’s complexion was an unnatural pale. Right now, he was looking up at me with a fake smile. I wanted to open the door and flee, but his arms clamped me tight. “Caught you.” I looked up in despair. At the window upstairs, three faces appeared side by side. Dr. Zhou ran downstairs frantically. Suit guy frowned, eyes behind glasses cold. Racer guy cursed “f*ck.” Propped on the window frame, ready to jump. And the man holding me, Leo. Seemed not to see the chaos upstairs. He gently placed me in the passenger seat, leaning over to buckle my seatbelt. In the gap of leaning over. He mischievously bit my collarbone lightly. I shuddered in fear. “Let’s go home.” He started the engine. The convertible top closed slowly. Completely isolating the three gazes from upstairs that could almost burn through the roof. 6 I was taken to a bedroom carpeted with soft rugs, warm tones everywhere. “You liked it here best before.” Leo stood at the door, backlit, silhouette blurred. “Rest well, I’ll call you for dinner.” The door closed gently. Not locked. I tried the handle, it opened. Yo, guarding me so loosely? Then I can run. Holding my breath, tiptoeing downstairs. The main door was right there. Just the last step. I rushed forward excitedly. But crashed unprepared into a hard chest. Leo’s voice was nice. But the tone was eerily gentle. “No more running, Sister. “You said you’d stay with me until my sickness was cured.” I was confused: “What sickness? “I don’t know, bro, I have amnesia. “Let bygones be bygones, pretend nothing happened.” [I have a mouth, let me say it! Vicious female lead, to prevent Leo and the heroine from sparking, you pretended to be a psychologist, claiming you could cure Leo’s skin hunger.] [Afraid Leo would see through it, you spent months sleeplessly studying psychology and got a practicing license.] Holy crap. Self. With this dedication, what couldn’t you achieve? Did you have to focus on stealing men? Unexpectedly, Leo’s eyes reddened instantly. His tears fell like pearls. Help. Can’t stand men crying. What should I do now? “Don’t cry, cry again and we’re done.” My mouth was fast. Just thought of this scumbag line. Said it the next second. Resulting in Leo crying harder. He bit his lip hard. Red eyes glaring at me. Looking so wronged. I decided to take advantage of his breakdown. Open the door and slip. But he reacted faster. World spinning. I was swept up in a princess carry, firmly on his shoulder. I pounded his back: “What are you doing! Put me down!” Struggling: “What do you want! Let me go!” “No.” His voice muffled: “I’m having an episode, treat me.” Only then did I notice. For some reason, his whole body was trembling slightly. I took the chance to make demands: “Will you let me go after treatment?” He laughed self-deprecatingly. Eyelashes wet again with tears. Pitifully broken: “I knew it, you must like someone else. “Fine… I promise you.”

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My dad? He’s the quintessential villain, the kind of deranged secondary character you love to hate. He’d planned to drug the heroine, intending a classic kidnap-and-imprisonment scenario, but ended up being intercepted by a forgotten side character—a woman who secretly adored him. That woman, my mother, vanished overnight after I was born, leaving me on his doorstep. Naturally, my dad wanted to wring my neck. I’d often hear him loading a gun, muttering, “If it weren’t for this burden, Mina and I would be together! One day, I swear, I’m going to finish her off.” The next moment, I’d bat my big eyes, piping up in my baby voice, “Dada.” His menacing scowl would freeze solid. He’d grumble about me being bad luck, yet still make me the best formula, kicking a bodyguard when the water was too hot. His murderous intent never truly wavered. Until I was six. That’s when Mina, the heroine who’d been using my dad as a backup, finally showed up. “Just get rid of this bastard, and I’ll agree to be with you.” My dad was crouched on the floor, assembling a Lego castle for me. He didn’t even pause, just let out a dismissive scoff. “You? Don’t flatter yourself.” 1 The moment I woke up in this new body, things were dire. I realized I was an infant, dangled upside down in mid-air. The bodyguard holding me was on his knees, trembling. On the plush leather sofa in front of us sat a man. He was undeniably handsome, but in a darkly charismatic way, with eyes like shards of ice that could give you chills with a single glance. This was my dear, utterly unhinged father, Victor Howard. “Since that woman fled, this thing is useless. Dispose of it.” His voice was devoid of warmth, as if he were discussing a bag of trash. I was terrified, desperate to scream for help, but only whimpers and cries escaped my throat. It was then that the system, in its usual slow manner, finally came online and briefed me on the plot. Victor Howard. The story’s unhinged secondary villain, madly in love with the heroine, Mina Vance. Seeing Mina about to marry Ethan Thorne, the penniless hero with a brood of younger siblings, Victor spiraled into darkness. He prepared sedatives, chains, and a secluded room, planning one last, desperate act. But despite all his meticulous planning, he hadn’t accounted for being waylaid by Elara Miller, a forgotten side character who’d secretly harbored feelings for him. Elara was a ruthless one herself. Mimicking Mina’s style, she slept with Victor, then disappeared, only to drop me, still a newborn, at the gates of the Howard Estate a year later. Tucked into my swaddling was a note: “She’s yours. Get a DNA test if you don’t believe me.” The plot was so ludicrous it made my head throb. Before I could internally curse out the system’s entire lineage, Victor’s gaze swept over me. My crying made his brow furrow into a knot of annoyance. “Too noisy.” The kneeling bodyguard tentatively asked, “Mr. Howard, shall we… take care of the child now?” No! Please, no! I’d just gotten this new life, don’t cancel my account already! Seeing Victor about to nod, my survival instincts flared, and I choked back my cries. The system had told me I looked remarkably like Victor. Especially these eyes, a spitting image of his. Even a blind man could tell I was his biological child without a DNA test. So, I blinked furiously, tears welling in my eyes but not quite falling, my nose bright red, trying my hardest to be adorable. Sure enough, when Victor saw my eyes, he paused. The murderous intent in his gaze softened ever so slightly. After a long moment, I heard him scoff coldly: “Keep her for now.” “Once I find that woman, we’ll settle everything together.” My heart, which had been lodged in my throat, finally settled back into my chest. 2 “Keeping her” basically meant tossing me into a guest room and leaving me to my own devices. Victor’s grand estate was eerily quiet, not even a nanny in sight. I was a baby, for heaven’s sake! I had my pride, but more importantly, I needed to eat! No one paid me any mind, so I cried. From morning till night, until my throat was raw and I nearly fainted from hunger. Finally, Victor got fed up with my incessant wailing. He stomped in, face dark, and summoned a line of bodyguards. In a fit of exasperation, he hired eight nannies for me. Money really did solve everything. In less than two months, I transformed from a scrawny monkey into a plump, smiling little dumpling, happy to greet everyone. One day, Victor was passing by the nursery. My sharp eyes spotted him instantly. I don’t know where I found the courage, but I stretched out my two chubby little hands in his direction, giggling, wiggling in the nanny’s arms, desperate to get to him. The nanny, ever quick to please, quickly chimed in, “Look, Mr. Howard, how much the baby adores you!” “Who told you to call her ‘the baby’?” Victor shot back, his face stone cold. The nanny’s face went white, terrified she’d be thrown to the dogs the next second. Victor glanced at me. Just as everyone expected him to erupt, he took off his chilled overcoat, tossing it carelessly to a nearby aide. Then, he walked over and took me into his arms. It was the first time my father had held me. His posture was stiff, as if he were cradling a bomb. His chest was hard and unyielding, uncomfortable against me, but I didn’t dare move. I forced a wide smile, showing off my two tiny front teeth, and snuggled my head into his chest. In that instant, I felt Victor’s body tense. The scent of baby formula drifted into his nose. He didn’t even realize it, but the harsh lines on his face softened considerably. He frowned and asked the nanny, “Didn’t she eat today? She feels so light, all bones.” I glanced down at my arms, which looked like Michelin tires. Ah, the classic “you’re skinny because my dad thinks you’re skinny” syndrome. The nanny wiped a bead of cold sweat. “Mr. Howard, the child… well, eating too much can cause indigestion. Her current weight is perfectly healthy.” Victor grunted in response, then disdainfully handed me back to the nanny. He turned and walked away. Watching his distant, aloof figure, the nannies huddled together, whispering: “Does Mr. Howard like her or not?” “I doubt it. You know Mr. Howard’s temper. This child is just an accident. Who knows, she might be sent away any day.” “I heard the mother really messed with Mr. Howard. The fact he even let the child live is a miracle. Expecting fatherly affection is pushing it.” “Oh, poor thing. She’s so adorable…” My head ached from their chatter, so I simply closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. As long as he didn’t kill me, I could survive. Victor was already willing to hold me; that was the first step to victory. First, secure the powerful protector. 3 My progress was faster than I’d anticipated. One day, Victor, for reasons unknown, decided to personally feed me. He held the bottle, gravely attempting to shove it into my mouth. I stared in horror at the temperature indicator on the bottle: 70 degrees Celsius! Dad, are you trying to scald me to death so you can inherit my diapers? I shook my head violently, but he’d put a woolen hat on me, wrapping my head like a ball, making it impossible to move. I tried to push his hand away, but my hands were tightly swaddled. My eyes were wide as saucers, but Victor, mistaking it for coquettishness, curved his lips into what he thought was a gentle, yet chilling, smile. “Good girl, drink up.” Good girl, my ass! I frantically called for the system in my mind. Just as disaster was about to strike, the doorbell rang. A woman’s voice drifted in: “Victor, it’s me.” Mina Vance. The heroine who had driven Victor to madness. They hadn’t seen each other since their last falling out. Victor’s hand twitched, nearly dropping the bottle. He shoved it into the nearest nanny’s hand, his expression instantly darkening. The nanny, taking the bottle, winced as the heat seared her hand. She looked at me, and I looked at her. Our eyes met, a shared moment of narrowly averted catastrophe. The nanny whispered, “This poor child, without a mother, it’s truly sad.” Another nanny leaned in. “Miss Vance is here; Mr. Howard will definitely send the child away. We’ll all be out of a job.” “Shhh, quiet. We need to protect the baby.” My heart warmed at their words, but my ears were perked up, listening intently to the commotion outside. “Mr. Howard, this is the wedding invitation for Julian and me.” Mina’s voice sounded delicate, almost tearful. “I still hope for your blessing.” “Get out.” My dad was succinct, not even glancing at the invitation. Mina, undeterred,’s eyes immediately welled up. “Victor, you know I grew up without parents. I’ve always seen you as an older brother. For the most important moment of my life, I truly hope you can be there.” With that, she again offered the crimson invitation. Victor stared intensely at the card. His fists clenched, knuckles cracking, veins bulging on the back of his hand. It was clear he was holding back. Holding back from strangling Mina, or perhaps dismembering the man named Julian. Mina truly was ruthless. She knew Victor was unhinged, yet she was practically dancing on his landmines. Making him watch the woman he loved marry someone else? Wasn’t this just pushing him further into madness? According to the original plot, if Victor actually went to the wedding, he’d surely cause a fatality, leading to a grim ending behind bars. If he went to prison, my support system would collapse. My days of luxury and abundance had barely lasted a year! No, I absolutely couldn’t let my dad go to jail. I took a deep breath, gathered my energy, and spat out my pacifier. Under the nannies’ astonished gazes, I faced the living room and, with all my might, shouted: “Da…da!” “Dada…!” “Dada dada!!!” The living room fell into a deathly silence. The invitation slipped from Mina’s hand, hitting the floor with a soft thud. Victor abruptly turned his head. He didn’t even spare a glance for the aghast Mina, stumbling into the room. His amber eyes were filled with shock and panic. He rushed to me, his hands trembling. “You… what did you just call me?” I again extended my little arms, like lotus roots, struggling to reach his neck. This time, Victor didn’t hesitate, scooping me up. His movements were surprisingly fluid, almost painfully so. I hugged his neck, rubbing my face against his, deploying every trick in my tiny arsenal, smiling as sweetly as I possibly could. I kept calling out in his ear: “Da…da.” “Giggles, da…da…” The corners of Victor’s eyes reddened. He looked at me, his gaze complex and unreadable. Finally, he held me tight against his chest, his voice hoarse: “Daddy’s here.”

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While waiting for my prenatal scan, a girl bumped into me, sending me to the floor. A faint but clear red stain spread across my pants. Sharp pain shot through my stomach. I reached for my phone to call the police, but the girl, trembling like a frightened rabbit, begged, “Please, don’t call the police.” I stared at her, voice icy. “If something happens to my baby, who will take responsibility?” She hesitated, then said, “My boyfriend is a famous obstetrician here. He’ll take care of you. Let me call him.” The call connected immediately. From afar, I heard a man’s panicked, scolding voice. “I told you to use the family lane, but you refused. Don’t you know you’re fragile? The first trimester is critical.” “You can be mad at me, but not about our baby, okay? I’m coming now. Don’t cry. I’m here.” When the man in the white coat rushed toward us, full of worry, I realized—he was my own husband. The same one who had banned me from the family lane, calling it “causing trouble.” 1 The moment Marcus appeared, the pain in my stomach seemed to intensify, a dense, searing ache that brought tears to my eyes. Through a watery haze, I watched the man who had given me a tender good-morning kiss just hours ago. Now, his eyes saw no one but the girl on the floor, Laura. “Are you scared? Are you feeling sick? I told you to use the family access lane, but you wouldn’t listen. Now you see,” Marcus said, his tone sharp but his voice trembling with a thick undercurrent of worry. The hand he used to wipe away Laura’s tears was white-knuckled with tension. Laura looked up at him, her voice a soft whisper. “I didn’t want to cause you any trouble.” Marcus’s jaw clenched. “There’s nothing I want more than for you to rely on me, Laura. I fought to get to this position so that you could depend on me, so that I would be the first person you think of when you’re scared.” “I want to solve all your problems, you understand?” His words sucked the air from my lungs. I couldn’t even find the strength to prop myself up. Amid the gasps of the onlookers, my body went limp, and I slumped to the floor. I had heard Marcus say those things before, but they had been the exact opposite of what he was saying now. Early in my pregnancy, it was a high-risk situation. I was spotting every day, and getting an appointment with a good obstetrician was nearly impossible. One evening, I tried to coax Marcus, who had just gotten home. “I remember that senior doctors and professors have special access for their families. Honey, the check-ups are so exhausting. Could you apply for a spot for me?” At the time, Marcus had paused, his hands still on his scarf. He looked at me, his face a blank mask. “Vivienne, please, don’t make my life harder than it already is.” My hand, resting on his arm, froze. I looked up at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend how the loving husband I knew could say something so cruel. “I’m a senior consultant, yes,” he continued, “but if I make an exception for you, do you have any idea what the other patients, the ones you’re cutting in front of, will say? What my overworked colleagues will whisper behind my back?” “I’m up for a major promotion next year. Your casual request for ‘special treatment’ creates huge problems for me. I’m already exhausted from dealing with work and hospital politics.” “Vivienne, you used to be so understanding. How has being pregnant made you so selfish?” It felt like a physical blow to my heart. “I’m sorry,” I managed to say, my voice dry. “I was just so scared something would happen to the baby we’ve waited so long for.” Marcus and I had been married for five years. We’d gone through countless medications, endless tests, and finally conceived through IVF. After all that struggle, to finally have our baby, only to see blood every day… a deep, gnawing fear had taken root inside me. Now, Marcus’s words had made it bloom into full-blown terror. My breath hitched, and for a moment, I could barely see his face. He was still talking. “I’m an obstetrician, Vivienne. I know better than anyone if there’s a problem with the baby. Don’t be so dramatic.” It was only when he noticed how pale I’d become that he sighed, his voice softening into a placating tone. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to our child. Don’t you trust me? There, there, don’t cry.” So I swallowed my hurt. For every check-up, I obediently waited in line for two hours. I never even asked Marcus to come with me, afraid I would be a distraction from his important work. And this was my reward. To see him practically begging another woman to be a “trouble” to him. The family access he refused to get for me… he had been saving it for someone else all along. The man still fussing over Laura finally turned, his expression impatient. But the moment he saw the blood pooling beneath me, his pupils contracted. He reached out for me by pure reflex. With the last of my strength, I slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me!” I hissed. Then, my head lolled to the side, and the world went dark. Through the fog, I could hear Marcus’s frantic voice. “Vivienne, hold on! I’m going to save you, I promise.” “Massive hemorrhaging, high-risk miscarriage! Prep an operating room, now!” A nurse spoke up hesitantly. “Dr. Reid, you have that national medical conference to present at soon…” Marcus cut her off. “No one else can save this baby. I have to do the surgery myself. I’ll take full responsibility for missing the lecture.” My hands clenched together unconsciously. Tears streamed from my closed eyes, but a small part of me felt a sliver of relief. I let go, surrendering to the blackness. Thank God. Marcus still cared about our baby. With him here, I wouldn’t lose our little life. I don’t know how much time passed. My eyelids fluttered open. I was still in the operating room, the surgical light blinding me. 2 I’ve always had a low tolerance for anesthesia. Marcus knew this; he would never have let me wake up mid-procedure. A sharp, slicing pain radiated from my lower abdomen. A terrible premonition washed over me. I forced myself to sit up, my eyes falling on a stranger’s face. He was making the first incision on my belly. My world narrowed to a single point of terror. “Who are you?” I shrieked. “Why aren’t you Marcus? Where is he?” “Marcus said he would save my baby! He was going to skip his lecture to operate on me! Why is it you? You’re in the wrong room, right?” The other doctor, a Dr. Peterson, was startled by my sudden awakening. “Ms. Scott,” he said, recovering quickly, “your condition is critical. If we don’t operate now, we might not be able to save your uterus.” “Right before you were brought in, a patient named Laura collapsed from shock. Dr. Reid is with her, stabilizing her pregnancy.” “Dr. Reid said her appointment was scheduled before yours. Even though you’re his wife, he can’t break the rules. But he’s been very responsible,” Dr. Peterson added quickly. “He specifically asked me to handle your surgery. I’m the only one here who can guarantee we save your uterus.” But I didn’t want my uterus. I wanted my baby. I could still feel a faint, fluttering heartbeat inside me. My baby hadn’t even had a chance to see the world. He had fought so hard to grow this big. I hadn’t even had the chance to call him by his nickname, Kicker. I couldn’t just let him die. Gritting my teeth, I shoved the doctor away. Clutching my bleeding abdomen, I ignored the searing pain and stumbled off the operating table. I staggered through the hallway, screaming Marcus’s name. “Marcus, come out! I’m begging you, save our baby! You promised you would protect him!” “Marcus, I’m not angry anymore! If you just save our baby, I’ll pretend today never happened! We waited so long for him! Last night, he kicked your hand, don’t you remember?” “Please, don’t be so cruel! I’m begging you, save him!” Staff and patients stared at me, whispering amongst themselves. “Is that woman crazy? Dr. Reid is in the middle of surgery.” “I think that’s his wife. But even so, she can’t just demand he abandon another patient to save her. So selfish.” I didn’t care about their scornful words. I just kept crying his name, a desperate, wounded sound. The bleeding, which had never really stopped, now flowed freely down my legs, leaving a gruesome trail of red in my wake. Dr. Peterson caught up to me, trying to support my swaying body. “Are you trying to kill yourself? It’s just a baby! You and Dr. Reid can have another one later!” I shoved him away with a stubborn fury. As long as there was a sliver of hope for my baby, I wouldn’t give up. Finally, I found him. He was in another operating room. He was focused, his expression grim as he worked. A spark of hope ignited in me. I pressed myself against the viewing window. “Marcus! Our baby is still alive! He’s still alive! Please, just this once, make an exception for me!” “I can’t lose him, Marcus. I really can’t.” When my hands grew too weak, I resorted to banging my head against the glass, praying he would see me. Marcus’s steady hand trembled. He slowly looked up, and his eyes met mine. I saw his body stiffen. I didn’t care. I poured all my remaining energy into my plea, begging him to choose me, just this once. But then, Laura, on the operating table, moaned and frowned in discomfort. Marcus’s gaze immediately snapped back to her. I saw the mask move as he spoke. A nurse came out and, without a word, injected a syringe into my arm. The last of my strength drained away, and I collapsed to the floor. The nurse spoke to Dr. Peterson, who was still standing behind me. “Dr. Reid said she has a low tolerance for anesthesia, so you need to increase the dosage. He said if the baby can’t be saved, it can’t be saved. Just make sure you save the uterus.” “His procedure is at a critical stage. If you can’t control your patient and she disturbs him again, he’ll make sure you fail your next performance review.” 3 The operating room doors swung shut again. My eyes were wide open, tears streaming silently down my face as I was pushed back inside, utterly defeated. I was conscious enough to feel the scalpel slice open my belly. I felt them remove the child, the one who was part of my own flesh and blood, from my womb. I saw them toss his tiny, silent body into a waste bin. My eyes followed that bin until it was wheeled away, disappearing from my sight forever. A wave of dizziness washed over me. The pain in my abdomen spread to my heart, a crushing agony that made it impossible to breathe. The stitching was quick. Dr. Peterson wiped the sweat from his brow. “We saved the uterus.” “Ms. Scott, don’t blame Dr. Reid. For him, the patient’s needs always come first.” “Besides, he’s never pulled strings at the hospital before, never asked for a VIP room. This time, he was very firm about getting one for his family. He does care about you. As his wife, you need to support his work.” Dr. Peterson chattered on, defending Marcus. I stared at the white light on the ceiling, my hands pressing down on my now-flat stomach in a gesture of self-punishment. A cold laugh escaped my lips. “So I should thank him?” Dr. Peterson fell silent and pushed open the door to a VIP room. “You should get some rest. Dr. Reid will be here to see you soon…” He didn’t finish his sentence. I turned my head and looked into the room. Marcus was there, cradling a sleeping Laura in his arms, gently wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “I know you’re a light sleeper,” he murmured. “I specifically requested this room for you. Don’t worry about anything else. I’m here. Our baby is going to be born healthy and strong.” Noticing the movement at the door, Marcus looked up and saw my ashen face. His lips tightened into a thin line. Dr. Peterson quickly pulled my gurney back, stammering an apology to Marcus. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Reid. I heard you requested a room for family, so I brought Ms. Scott here…” Even then, Marcus carefully settled Laura back onto the bed before he came out to face me. He even had the presence of mind to gently close the door, so she wouldn’t be disturbed. He rubbed his temples and dismissed Dr. Peterson. Then, he finally met my gaze. “Vivienne, Laura just had a major scare. She needs quiet to rest and keep the baby safe. I’ve already lost one child today. I can’t lose another.” “I know I’ve wronged you in this… Vivienne, the most important thing now is for you to recover…” SLAP! I struck him across the face with all my might. The extreme grief had paradoxically calmed me, freezing my emotions into a shard of ice. “How did you two meet?” Marcus turned his head to the side, closing his eyes for a moment before answering. “She was my student. Laura is a good girl. She knows we’re married, and she didn’t want me to hurt you by divorcing you. She was willing to be with me without any official status.” “When she found out you were pregnant, she kept telling me to go home and take care of you. She wouldn’t even let me accompany her to her own check-ups. I gave her the family access pass to make it up to her, but she never even used it.” “Laura has already been through enough. Take your anger out on me. She has nothing to do with this.” “Hahahaha.” I started laughing, a wild, broken sound that brought fresh tears to my eyes. So he had already considered divorcing me. The only reason my marriage was still intact was thanks to Laura’s “pity.” The way Marcus defended her, so openly and without shame, was another sharp, twisting knife in my already bleeding heart. I lunged at him like a wild animal, scratching and clawing. “Marcus, you bastard! I hope you rot in hell! You’re going to pay for what you did to my Kicker!” Marcus stepped forward, clamping a hand over my mouth. Then, he actually injected me with a sedative. “Vivienne, I will make this up to you. But the hospital can’t know about this. I’m up for promotion, remember?” “The hospital is short on beds. I’ve already requested one VIP room, I can’t break the rules and ask for another. Please, for my sake, just put up with a temporary bed in the hallway.” 4 “Don’t worry,” he added, his voice a low murmur. “I’ll come check on you constantly.” My body went limp on the gurney. I watched, helpless, as Marcus pushed me to a solitary, temporary bed at the end of the corridor. Passersby stared, pointing and whispering. “That’s the crazy woman from before. Screaming like she owns the place.” “Dr. Reid has the patience of a saint. He isn’t even angry, he’s taking care of her himself.” Despair washed over me, a tidal wave that drowned out everything else. The tears wouldn’t stop. Just as Marcus finished settling me in, the hospital director came rushing over. “Professor Reid, I’ve been looking everywhere for you! The officials from the national health board heard you missed the lecture to save a patient. They were incredibly impressed! They’ve agreed to wait for you to finish your surgery before you present.” “It’s going to be live-streamed nationwide. Never mind these patients, you need to come with me right now.” The man who had just promised to care for me dropped my hand without a second thought and hurried away. I dug my nails into my palm, using the sharp pain to claw back a sliver of strength. Leaning against the wall, I staggered after them. The lecture was clearly a major event. Several top figures in the medical community, faces I recognized from television, sat in the front row, looking at Marcus with approval. Marcus gave a solemn bow and spoke into the microphone, his image projected onto the live-stream feed. “My sincerest apologies. An emergency surgery delayed my presentation. But I have no regrets. A doctor’s duty is, first and foremost, to his patients.” A wave of applause and murmurs of praise filled the hall. “A true physician’s heart,” someone whispered. Marcus pushed his glasses up, hiding the smug smile that touched his lips, before clicking open his presentation. “The topic of my lecture today is the promotion of the extraperitoneal cesarean section.” But the image that appeared on the giant screen was not a medical diagram. It was a photo of him and Laura, naked in bed together. The color drained from Marcus’s face. I stood in the back, in the shadows, holding up my phone, which was playing a recording. My voice, amplified, rang through the hall. “Excuse me, Dr. Reid, but is your ‘physician’s heart’ reserved only for your mistress, Laura?”

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At seventeen, Blaine and I discovered we were living inside a sappy romance novel. He was the hero; I was just an extra. Blaine, furious, tore the book to shreds. “I don’t care about being that hero, and I certainly won’t fall for anyone else!” he declared to me. At twenty-two, just as the book had foretold, I was set to leave the country. Blaine ran his fingers through my hair, a promise in his voice. “When you come back, we’ll get married.” At twenty-seven, I returned. To attend Blaine’s wedding to the heroine. 1. An hour before the banquet was set to begin, I stood in the hotel lobby, lost in thought before the welcome sign. “Groom: Blaine Miller; Bride: Summer Ashton.” It felt like seventeen again. I’d pulled an unmarked book from a library shelf, only to see the cover proclaim: “Hero: Blaine Miller; Heroine: Summer Ashton.” It was like a Pandora’s Box, terrifying to open, impossible to ignore. “What’re you looking at?” Seventeen-year-old Blaine had appeared out of nowhere. He leaned over me, resting his head loosely on my shoulder. “What idiot used my name to write a novel?” He snatched the book, grumbling as he read. “What a dumb name, Summer Ashton. The person I like is clearly named Autumn Hayes!” “Autumn, where’s my Autumn…” His voice grew softer, more hesitant, as he flipped through the pages, until his face turned stark white. The book chronicled a romantic love story between Blaine, at twenty-two, and the heroine. Everything in it, except for the future, perfectly mirrored our reality. And his Autumn? Just a footnote in the background, a memory. “I don’t care about being that hero, and I certainly won’t fall for anyone else!” Blaine’s eyes burned red with anger as his hands trembled, tearing the book apart. “Autumn, don’t you believe it. That person… that’s definitely not me…” I said nothing. Seventeen-old Blaine held me close, choking back sobs and muttering defiantly, “I hate summer.” “Autumn, from now on, I’ll hate summer more than anything.” The boy’s choked cries faded under the growing din. I snapped back to reality, feeling the sunlight creeping onto my shoulder. Following the golden ray, I looked out the window, a sudden realization hitting me. It was summer. 2. “A wedding in the middle of summer? It’s sweltering.” A woman wiped her brow as she entered the hotel, complaining to her companion. “Did you check the calendar? Today isn’t a particularly auspicious day. What were the Millers thinking?” “Blaine’s just eager to get married, I guess. I heard he proposed to her five times before she finally said yes!” her companion said, proudly sharing the gossip. “The Millers have been planning this wedding for years, so once she agreed, they pulled it all together in seven days.” “Wow, Blaine must really love that Summer Ashton girl…” The woman’s exclamations drifted away with their footsteps. I couldn’t help but wonder. How much did the Blaine in the book love Summer? So much that, after knowing her for only six months, he began quietly planning every detail of their wedding. So much that, despite their mutual affection, he spent five years cautiously making his way into her world, held back by his own fear. This was a man known for his impatience, his bold and unrestrained nature. Yet, he loved her so much that he had completely forgotten… At seventeen, he’d picked up a torn piece of the shredded book. On a blank space, he childishly scrawled: “I, Blaine Miller, hereby warn every author who spins tales: First, Blaine Miller is not to be a hero; second, the only name Blaine Miller loves is Autumn Hayes; third…” “Unwavering by any will, Blaine Miller will forever, always, only love Autumn Hayes!” “Mom, what does this say?” A little girl stood before the welcome wall, pointing at a line of text. I followed her gaze, finally noticing the words: “With this grand ceremony, we invite you to witness our decision to walk hand-in-hand through life. — Blaine Miller & Summer Ashton” 3. Fifteen minutes had passed. I was still foolishly standing at the entrance, lacking the courage to take a single step. “Autumn.” A familiar voice suddenly called from behind me. I had just turned around when I was urgently pulled by the arm. “It really is you… Autumn, you’re finally back.” I was enveloped in a slender, fragrant embrace, a silent sob catching in my ear. A bitter taste filled my throat, and I managed to choke out, “…Aunt Carol.” Blaine’s mother let out a distressed sob, then quickly covered her mouth. “Yes, yes, I’m so sorry, Autumn…” After high school graduation, it was Blaine’s eighteenth birthday. He’d invited me to the Miller estate under the guise of celebrating. The moment we stepped through the door, we ran into his mother. “Mom, let me introduce you. This is your future daughter-in-law, Autumn Hayes.” Blaine’s arm was around my shoulder, his tone confident and proud. “Autumn, this is Mom, your future mother-in-law… Mmph!” I stood on my tiptoes to cover Blaine’s mouth just as Aunt Carol delivered a sharp flick to his forehead. Amidst Blaine’s yelp of pain, we both paused, then exchanged smiles. That was my first meeting with Aunt Carol. It set the tone for all our interactions thereafter — Blaine causing mischief, me trying to rein him in, and Aunt Carol cleaning up. In the end, we all laughed. On my twentieth birthday, Aunt Carol gave me the Miller family heirloom jade bracelet. She solemnly promised, “Autumn, if Blaine ever wrongs you, I’ll kick him out of the house and disown him!” Today, Aunt Carol was apologizing to me. I hugged her back, gently patting her on the back. All I could offer in return was a quiet, “Aunt Carol, it’s not your fault.” 4. Aunt Carol was the first to let go. “Autumn, this isn’t the place for catching up.” She quickly wiped her eyes, regaining her composure as a polite host. “It’s hot outside; come in and sit down.” I lowered my head, letting her take my hand, and unexpectedly found myself stepping into the banquet hall. After just two steps, Aunt Carol suddenly stopped, her voice tense. “Autumn, don’t misunderstand…” I looked up, puzzled, and instantly saw the wedding decorations. Golden wheat ears intertwined with sunflowers, set against various autumn-colored flowers, creating a romantic rustic scene. Scarecrows stood on either side, country-style bamboo baskets filled with fruits and vegetables, and a crescent moon hung above the stage… It was like a Van Gogh painting. Like stepping from summer directly into autumn. My breath hitched. “Autumn, don’t misunderstand, the wedding was arranged quickly, this setup was done by Blaine years ago, there wasn’t time to…” I gripped Aunt Carol’s hand tightly, interrupting her abruptly. “Aunt Carol, where is Blaine now?” “Autumn…” My gaze fixed on the tip of that moon on the stage, where a single, striking wheat ear blossomed. Perhaps a single grain of wheat had slipped from God’s palm, carried by the wind to this very spot? With a flicker of undeserved hope, I stubbornly asked again, “Aunt Carol, where is Blaine now?” Aunt Carol fell silent. After a long moment, she sighed. “He’s taking wedding photos with Summer… They’re in Room 1019.” I turned, and without a moment’s hesitation, ran out. In the blur of rapidly passing, noisy scenes, a strange illusion struck me. Seventeen-year-old Blaine was waiting for me. 5. But in truth, my entire story with Blaine began when I was sixteen. The first day of junior year, after class assignments were posted, I walked into the classroom early, instinctively heading for the front row. A wisp of osmanthus scent suddenly drifted into my nose, like an invisible pull. I deviated from my usual spot, choosing a window seat in the back, closer to the osmanthus tree. The classroom slowly filled with noise, but I buried my head in a book until a commotion beside me. Blaine dramatically slammed his backpack onto the desk. He wore a crisp white shirt, looking down at me, a casual eyebrow raised as he asked, “Hey, classmate, what’s your name?” His expression and tone were nonchalant, yet I sensed a hint of displeasure. Confused, I glanced at him. “Autumn Hayes.” Blaine scoffed. “I asked for your name, not your age.” “…” I lowered my head, ignoring him. My first impression of him was: this guy isn’t very bright. During introductions, I stood on stage and said, “My name is Autumn Hayes.” He leaned back in his chair, lounging in the audience, and asked, almost looking for a fight, “Which ‘Hayes’?” I looked at him again, expressionless. “Like a field of hay.” He feigned understanding, drawing out a long, “Ohhh~” I walked back to my seat, bewildered, only to see him suddenly extend his hand toward me. “Nice to meet you.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Hey, Miss Hay.” I tripped over the chair leg. And realized with a profound sense of despair: I was now desk-mates with a not-so-bright classmate. 6. Later, I learned that Blaine was the notorious troublemaker of our high school. The back-row window seat was unofficially his territory, and I had “stolen” it. When he asked for my name, his unspoken question was, “Hey, how dare you sit in my spot?” I thought it was incredibly childish. Perhaps because my parents worked abroad and I’d lived alone since freshman year, I was more mature than my peers, and quite reserved, with no friends. I wasn’t good at dealing with people like Blaine. He’d casually say to me, “Hey, Miss Hay, can I copy your homework?” He’d also, after playing basketball, walk through the crowded hallways directly to me. He’d smile and point to the untouched bottle of water in my hand, “Miss Hay, can I borrow a bottle of water? You don’t mind, right?” His demeanor and tone were laid-back, yet not presumptuous or rude. In fact, it was as if he considered himself exceptionally close to you. In my mind, I quietly categorized this trait as: bad boy charm. Until one day, I saw him reject a bottle of water offered by another girl on the sports field. His reason: “Sorry, but I never accept things from girls. Don’t want to cause any misunderstandings.” The girl was indignant. “But you took water from your desk-mate!” “That’s because I borrowed it from her,” Blaine said, tilting his head and smiling. “Besides, there’s no misunderstanding between us.” What did he mean? I froze a short distance away, experiencing a mental short circuit for the first time in my life. But the moment Blaine glanced sideways and saw me, his smile spread to the corners of his eyes. He walked toward me, step by deliberate step. “Miss Hay, are you wondering right now: Blaine seems to treat me a little specially?” He leaned slightly, hands on his knees, and peered up into my eyes. “No need to wonder.” His face glowed in the backlight as he declared, “Miss Hay, you are special.”

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