Category: English

1 For a decade, I’ve been GBC’s “News Queen,” yet my most frequent story is my husband’s latest affair. Tonight, paparazzi trapped him in his car with another. My phone rang nonstop—his mother demanding I protect the family name. Leaving the studio, I washed my face, forced a smile, and performed the usual damage control: pastries, calls, and checks. The paparazzi apologized to my face, but their whispers stabbed my back: “The great News Queen, still the woman everyone knows is cheated on.” He’s the man who once knelt publicly, declaring me his life’s love. He’s also the man whose mistresses now make me a citywide joke. After buying their silence, I texted him: “Give me 20% of the company stock, and you can have the Ashworth name back.” … Hank and I arrived home at almost the same time, his sports car pulling into the driveway moments after my town car. He saw me and his eyes narrowed into a lazy, charming smile. “What’s this? Angry, darling?” I didn’t bother to respond. I just pulled the divorce papers from my briefcase—papers I’d had drawn up months ago—and handed them to him. The smile evaporated from his face. He snatched the document, his knuckles white, and stormed out of the car. I followed him up the stone path. “Hank, when are you going to sign them?” He stopped dead, whirling around so fast I almost collided with him. His eyes were bloodshot with fury. “Claire, don’t you dare think you can scare me with a piece of paper. It won’t work.” He paced back and forth on the manicured lawn, his tailored suit seeming to constrict him. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, laced with that old, familiar manipulation. “Our son is seven years old. You can’t take him, you know that. Are you really willing to leave him?” Willing? Leo has been raised by Mrs. Ashworth, living in her wing of the mansion. He doesn’t call me “Mom.” He calls me “her” or “that woman.” He shows more affection to Hank’s flavor-of-the-week than he does to me, his own mother. He’s my flesh and blood. I could never understand why he hated me so much. Until I overheard him talking to his friends. “My dad married some nobody from the sticks. Why would I call her my mother? Calling her ‘her’ is already giving her too much credit.” The memory made a bitter laugh escape my lips. “He’s the designated Ashworth heir, Hank. Why wouldn’t I be willing to leave him in his rightful place?” My unyielding tone made his face darken into a thunderous mask. He grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron, his voice a low growl. “Claire! You don’t want a husband, you don’t want a son—what the hell do you want?” I ripped my arm free and threw my phone at him. It bounced off his chest and clattered onto the stone. “What do I want?” My voice was sharp, brittle. “Hank! You could have slept with anyone in New York City, but you had to choose my biggest rival at the network!” “The tabloids call me a saint for my patience, my colleagues call me a doormat. You’ve dragged my face through the mud, and now you’ve set it on fire!” Hank’s anger flared, but his eyes caught the phone screen, which had lit up with a crystal-clear photo of him in bed with Isabelle Vance. The fight went out of him. He sighed, a long, weary sound, and reached for me. I shoved him back, hard. That was the last straw. The charming facade shattered. “That’s enough, Claire!” he roared, his arm sweeping out and knocking over a porcelain vase on the entryway table. I stumbled backward, right into the shards. A sharp pain shot up my leg, and a moment later, a slick of crimson began to seep through the white fabric of my slacks. Hank’s eyes widened in shock. He started to reach for me, then hesitated, pulling his hand back as if burned. “My mother was right,” he seethed, his voice dripping with venom. “I’ve spoiled you. You’ve forgotten that this family’s name is Ashworth, not yours!” “You keep pushing, and I’ll have you thrown out of GBC. Don’t think I can’t do it.” He spun on his heel and stormed up the grand staircase. I stared after him, a dizzying wave of nostalgia washing over me. Everyone used to say Hank Ashworth was the kindest, most gentle man in New York society. And he was. When he loved you. When I was a scholarship kid at NYU, I was an outsider. The other students bullied me, poured soda on my textbooks, shredded my clothes. He appeared like a knight in shining armor, replacing everything, taking me under his wing. I was just a girl from the Midwest, completely lost in the big city. He was endlessly patient, coaching me, helping me lose my accent, teaching me the unspoken rules of his world. When I interned at GBC, he’d sit in the coffee shop across the street every single day, just waiting for me. The Ashworth family matriarch refused to approve our marriage. So he stood up to her in front of the entire board, forfeiting his trust fund just to be with me. Then he knelt on the pavement outside the GBC studios and proposed in front of the world. But that fairy tale lasted only two years. Then his true nature surfaced, and the affairs began. I tried to fight it at first. I screamed, I cried. In response, Mrs. Ashworth simply took my son away. As she left my room, she paused at the door, a cold smile on her face, and told me the truth. “Hank said the biggest benefit of marrying you was your background in journalism. You know how to handle a crisis. If you don’t learn to be obedient, you will never see your son again.” I questioned it, denied it, screamed until I was hoarse. It wasn’t until Hank himself admitted it that the fight finally left me. The Ashworth empire needed a First Lady who was an expert in damage control. “But you said you loved me!” I cried, my eyes raw. He cupped my face with those gentle hands, but his words were brutal. “I do love you, Claire. But I also love Lisa, and Amanda, and that dancer from the club…” It was then I understood. In his eyes, I was no different from a high-class call girl. I just had a more respectable title. A hollow laugh bubbled up from my chest. I tried to use the wall to pull myself up, but my hand slipped, and I fell back into the pile of broken porcelain. The pain made me gasp. My seven-year-old son, my Leo, just stood at the top of the stairs, watching me with cold disdain. “Grandma’s right,” he sneered. “You really are a useless waste of space.” I thought I had run out of tears years ago. But as I looked down at the blood on my leg, they came faster than the pain. I was about to tell him we were getting a divorce, that I was leaving. But then he shoved past me without a second glance, throwing himself into the arms of the woman who had just walked in. “Isabelle! You came to see me!” he squealed with delight. I smelled the familiar scent of gardenias before I even saw her face. My rival, Isabelle Vance. She’d stolen my assistant, poached my sources, and tried to take my time slot. Now, she was brazenly walking into my home to steal my son. Isabelle put on a show of mock sympathy. “Oh, Claire, I’m so sorry. Hank insisted I come over to see Leo.” The easy familiarity between them told me this wasn’t her first visit. Leo, impatient with the pretense, tugged her toward the stairs. His childish voice was laced with a poison that went straight for my heart. “Don’t talk to her, Izzy. You might catch her germs.” Isabelle shot me a triumphant smirk over her shoulder. Then, with a flick of her thumb, I knew she had just sent a video of this humiliating scene to the GBC staff group chat. A moment later, my phone began to buzz incessantly. I didn’t have to look. I could already imagine their pitying, mocking words. My son. The baby who used to gurgle with laughter in my arms, who would wipe away my tears with his chubby little hands. Now he called me useless. Dirty. And he called another woman… Mommy. I had endured seven years in the Ashworth cage. My reward was Hank’s brazen betrayal and my own son’s visceral disgust. Just then, a text from my family doctor back home lit up my screen. I’m so sorry for your loss. My mother was gone. My bloody fingers smeared streaks across my face as I tried to wipe away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. A strange, guilty sense of release mingled with my grief. My mom was gone. It was time for me to go, too. Sitting in the shadows of my bedroom, I pulled up a number I hadn’t called in years. I typed a single line: “Save me a spot.” The message had just sent when Hank burst into the room. He stared at me, his expression unreadable. “Isabelle is here. As the lady of the house, aren’t you going to entertain our guest?” I didn’t even look at him, my face a numb mask. “Sign the papers, and I’ll roll out the red carpet for your little whore.” “Claire!” Hank’s eyes blazed, his teeth gritted. “You’re that desperate to leave?” My gaze met his without flinching. “Yes.” He loosened his tie, a cold, humorless laugh escaping his lips. “Don’t forget, I made you the News Queen. I can just as easily break you.” “Go ahead.” Those two simple words shattered his composure. He lunged forward, grabbing me, pulling me so close I could feel the heat of his rage. His dark eyes were like burning coals. For seven years, I had seen every version of Hank Ashworth: the shrewd negotiator, the charismatic interviewee, the tender lover. But I had never seen this—this raw, uncontrolled fury. I let out a small, contemptuous laugh and slowly closed my eyes. His breathing grew ragged. I braced myself for a blow, but instead, he let me go, shoving me away. “You’ll regret this, Claire,” he said, his voice dropping to an icy whisper. “You just wait.” The punishment was swift and brutal. The next day, when I walked into the network head’s office, he threw a cup of scalding coffee at me. It missed, splashing against the wall behind me. “Claire! You’re finished!” he screamed, his face purple with rage. “GBC is terminating your contract, effective immediately! Isabelle Vance is taking over your evening news slot!” I had been expecting it. I calmly placed my employee ID on his desk. As I turned to leave, he grabbed my arm. “You think you can just walk out of here?” Before I could ask what he meant, the glass doors to the newsroom shattered inward. A mob of people surged in, led by a screaming woman who launched herself at me, her nails raking across my face. “You bitch! Some famous anchor! You’re nothing but a high-class whore!” she shrieked. “You seduced my husband during an interview! Hold her down! I’m going to kill her!” Hands grabbed my hair, tore at my blouse. The cold air hit my exposed skin, and I started to tremble uncontrollably. “I didn’t! It wasn’t me!” I choked out, but my denials only fueled their rage. A fist connected with my mouth, and I tasted blood. It dripped from the corner of my lip onto the pristine floor. Through the chaos, I could see my former colleagues crowded outside the office, watching the spectacle like it was a zoo exhibit. And there was Isabelle, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, a smug, satisfied smile playing on her lips. She sauntered over and knelt down, her face inches from mine. “My, my. Such a tough girl. Want to bet I can make you confess in five seconds?” I spat a mouthful of blood and saliva onto her perfectly made-up face. Her smile twisted into a snarl. She slapped me, hard, then pulled out her phone and dialed a number. A moment later, Hank’s voice echoed from the speaker, a thunderclap in my ringing ears. “Do you want your mother to have a proper burial?” My blood ran cold. “Then do what Isabelle says. Confess. Give her the position.” “Hank, do you know what she’s accusing me of—” My voice broke. “I don’t care,” he cut me off, his tone utterly indifferent. “Just do whatever Isabelle wants! All that matters is that she’s happy!” The world went silent. The phone slipped from Isabelle’s grasp. She grabbed my chin, her nails digging into my skin. “Well?” she whispered, her voice dripping with triumph. “Are you going to confess?” I thought of my mother’s body, lying in a morgue thousands of miles away, her final peace held hostage. I swallowed the blood pooling in my mouth and gave a ragged, broken laugh. “I confess… I confess.” “Not good enough! I want you to slap yourself while you say it!” I looked into Isabelle’s venomous eyes. My hand felt like it belonged to someone else as I raised it and began to strike my own face, over and over. “I’m cheap… I’m a slut… I seduced him…” The rest is a blur. Flashing lights, camera lenses shoved in my face, a cacophony of clicks and shouts. Hank didn’t just want to destroy my career; he wanted to obliterate my name, to erase me from the industry entirely. This was the same man who once stayed up all night with me, brewing coffee and cheering me on when I was struggling with a script. He had witnessed every step of my rise over the past seven years. And now, he was personally orchestrating my fall. I lay in bed, ignoring the hurricane of filth and vitriol online, and stared at the ceiling, a strange, empty smile on my face. The door creaked open. Leo stood there, holding a steaming pot. For the first time in years, he looked at me and said the word. “Mom.” A flicker of warmth stirred in my chest. I opened my mouth to speak. And then he lifted the pot and threw its contents at me. The searing heat of the scalding stew was an inferno against my skin, raising blisters in its wake. Leo clapped his hands, his eyes wide with glee. “Die! A bitch like you deserves to die!” I froze, staring at him in numb shock. My own mother had just been buried, and my own son wanted me dead. Hank walked in at that moment. He scolded Leo, telling him he shouldn’t have done that. Then, just like he used to, he opened the first-aid kit and began to expertly treat my burns. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t even look at him. He sighed, his beautiful, expressive eyes fixed on me. “Isabelle is pregnant, Claire. She can’t be under any stress. Let her have this. Once the baby is born, I promise I’ll get you your anchor position back.” He made his promise with such sincerity, as if he had nothing to do with the character assassination being broadcast on every channel. Whether he knew the full extent of it or not didn’t matter anymore. What I had lost, I would take back myself. For the next few days, I was a prisoner in my own home. Mrs. Ashworth would drift by to call me a useless burden and ask when I was finally going to get out of her house. I slammed the divorce papers down on the table in front of her. “The 20% stock transfer. Get your son to sign it, and I’m gone.” Before the matriarch could reply, Isabelle, who had just swept in, spoke up. “I’ll do it.” As the heiress to the Vance fortune, I knew she had the means to make it happen. The next day, two signed documents were placed in my hands: the divorce decree and the stock certificate. I had just forwarded them to my lawyer when Hank stormed in. He didn’t say a word. He just grabbed a fistful of my hair and started dragging me out of the room. “When did you become so vicious? I told you that baby is mine! How could you not spare it?” In the living room, Isabelle was collapsed on the sofa, covered in what looked like blood, clutching her stomach and wailing. When she saw me, her cries intensified. She slid to the floor and began banging her head on the marble, begging. “Claire, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have taken your job! I’ll never do it again! Please, don’t hurt my baby…” “I’m begging you! Do whatever you want to me!” Hank looked utterly devastated. He rushed to her side, gathering her in his arms. He turned to his bodyguards, his voice cold as ice. “The knife she used on Isabelle… I want her to feel the same pain.” The guards hesitated. “What are you waiting for? Do it!” Hank roared, then quickly turned his head away, as if he couldn’t bear to watch. They tied me to the bed like a rag doll. From across the room, wrapped in Hank’s protective embrace, Isabelle shot me a look of pure, triumphant malice. The bodyguard holding the knife was trembling, unable to bring himself to do it. A wild, hysterical laugh escaped my lips. With a sudden burst of strength, I lunged, snatching the knife from his hand. I locked eyes with Hank, saw the dawning horror on his face, and plunged it deep into my own stomach. Warm liquid gushed out, spattering my face. Through the red haze, my voice was a blade. “Hank, just as you wanted. You forced me to kill your son with my own hands!”

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The eighteenth time Damon Montgomery and I attempted to divorce, he failed to show up again. I stood outside the Registry Office, the same place it had always been, and received the customary text message. Emergency. Reschedule. I stared blankly at the red-highlighted countdown on my phone, the remaining days until we could file again. I simply couldn’t afford to waste any more time on this disastrous marriage. After a long moment, I pulled up the messaging app and calmly typed a few lines. She’s pregnant again, isn’t she? Damon, for the sake of your two children, just let me go. The nineteenth time, we finally succeeded. 1 Damon and I had once been madly in love. We had both dreamt of the perfect little family, a beautiful home, and one adorable baby. Now, the son he’d fathered with another woman was three years old, and still, he’d fought to keep me tied to him. A woman’s voice jolted me out of the memory. She gave me a sympathetic glance, unable to resist offering unsolicited advice. “Lydia, stop this. No matter how much you fight it, the child is here now. Deep down, Damon still loves you.” I didn’t reply, turning my back to her. The man in a crisp suit stood in the doorway, having overheard everything. He walked away the moment my gaze landed on him. Today was the day his son was officially inducted into the Montgomery family lineage. Halfway through the ceremony, the family elders paused, stymied by the name to be recorded as the mother. I had already warned them: my name was forbidden. In the awkward silence, someone gently advised Damon. “Damon, just choose someone else.” Damon’s eyes remained fixed on me, saying nothing. Everyone was watching my reaction. I finally spoke, my voice flat. “It’s fine. I have no objection.” I thought I heard a cold, self-mocking scoff from somewhere, but I didn’t look up to confirm. Savannah was called in. When the ritual was over, she turned to leave, but Damon stopped her. “Come here. Stand beside me.” Out of the corner of my eye, I felt his gaze probing my face, waiting for a crack in my composure. I kept my head down. But I still looked once. The woman leaned into his side, gripping the sleeve of his expensive jacket, her entire being focused on the child they shared. A familiar, dull ache settled in my chest, a residual pain that was more numbness than heartbreak. The ceremony ended, and as the last person in the room, I was the first to leave. Behind me, the little boy, Leo, skipped happily, holding Damon’s hand and Savannah’s other hand. The Montgomery seniors watched the trio—a perfect, complete family—with warm smiles. They looked so proud. Yet, they had once stood firmly by my side. I remembered when Savannah had just given birth. She knelt at the gates of the Montgomery estate for a full day and night, clutching the infant, and still they refused to let the child inside. They had sworn that as long as I lived, I would be their only daughter-in-law. I was glad I hadn’t believed them then. I stopped Damon as he approached. His expression was dark, shadowed. “The divorce papers tomorrow. Don’t forget.” My persistent demand for a divorce had clearly worn out his patience over the years. Everyone assumed I was just throwing a tantrum, unwilling to accept defeat. They thought three years of fighting was enough, that since the boy was three, what good would come of not forgiving him? But only I knew the truth: I was genuinely done wasting my time on him. The woman beside him instantly teared up. “Mrs. Montgomery, are you angry because of me? If I’ve done anything wrong, I apologize. Please, have some compassion for Damon and stop deliberately making things difficult for him.” Damon stared at me, then sneered. “She’s divorcing me. What right does she have to be angry?” My eyes finally felt the sting of dampness. The next second, I was abruptly shoved. The little boy, Leo, stood defensively in front of Savannah, hands on his hips, glaring at me with puffed cheeks. I landed hard on the marble floor. Looking down, I saw my palms were scraped raw. Damon instinctively took a step toward me. He was silent, but a flicker of emotion—concern? guilt?—crossed his eyes. A dry retching sound broke the tension. Savannah suddenly clutched her stomach and doubled over, her face pale. I rose slowly, clutching my stinging, scraped hands. I walked toward the exit. A stunned Damon did not follow. A low whisper drifted after me, reaching my ears as I left. “Do you think… she’s pregnant again?” 2 I opened the door to the house, and silence rushed out to greet me. It was empty and cold. I had dismissed the house staff six months ago. My body was throbbing, a deep ache pulsing behind my eyes. My hand shook as I fumbled in my purse for the pill bottle. I dumped a handful into my palm—I didn’t count—and swallowed them quickly with a dry throat. I lay on the cold hardwood floor, tears slowly tracing a path down my temples. Lydia. How did you let your life become this? The endless, sightless marriage had left my spirit exhausted, utterly lifeless. Now, even my body seemed to be giving out. The lock clicked. I tried to struggle to my feet, but I was too weak. No one ever comes here but me. A bitter laugh was still on my lips when the door swung open. Damon stepped inside, backlit by the evening sun. He stood motionless, watching me, not speaking. I managed to sit up, carefully tucking the pill bottle into my bag. Even if he saw it, he wouldn’t care. Just as I thought, Damon bypassed me entirely, settling languidly onto the sofa. “I don’t believe we’re divorced yet, Ms. Montgomery. Are you saying there’s nothing of mine left in this house?” I had mailed all his clothes to the penthouse he’d bought for Savannah months ago. It had been so long since he’d come home; wracked with pain, I could no longer remember when. Seeing me still sitting on the floor, the man roughly hauled me into his arms. He leaned in close, his voice a low, ragged growl. “Lydia. Speak to me.” His eyes, beneath the dark fringe of his lashes, had that tiny, beautiful teardrop mole I used to love. I turned my head away. “Your things aren’t lost. They’re at your other house.” Damon exploded. He gripped my shoulders so tightly his fingers dug into my flesh, his eyes completely red. “Three years! It’s been three damn years! What do you need to finally forgive me? Can’t you see I regret it? Can’t you see I’m suffering every day just like you?” He took my hand and placed it over his wildly beating heart, his voice raw with pleading. “Lydia, can’t we just go back to the way things were?” I pushed back, but he didn’t budge. I just stared at him, my eyes empty with a quiet sense of finality. Finally, Damon shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. He gradually released my arms. I rubbed my bruised shoulders and picked up the steak knife from the coffee table, turning it over in my fingers. “Then divorce me, Damon. We both can be free.” Damon slumped to the floor, laughing wildly. “You want a divorce? Never. I’ll keep you trapped here. I’ll make you watch me live a happy life for the rest of yours.” I tightened my grip on the knife. Slowly, deliberately, I brought the tip to my pale, exposed throat. Unfortunately, he won’t be able to trap me for my entire life. Damon’s pupils constricted. Without hesitation, he grabbed the blade with his bare hand. His five fingers were trembling. In the silent, terrifying standoff, he was the one who surrendered first. “Fine. I’ll divorce you.” The tall man struggled to stand, swaying as if he might collapse. Before he did, a small woman rushed in and braced him. Savannah. She was weeping, her lashes heavy with tears. “I didn’t follow you. I just—you come home so often with fresh cuts and bruises. I was worried.” Damon rested his head weakly against her shoulder, closing his eyes. “I won’t come here anymore. Never again.” I watched the empty, wide-open doorway. Damon was gone. Memories rushed up, pushed down, only to surge up again, blurring my vision. Someone once said that love alone can’t guarantee a happy ending. Damon and I never believed it. Now, we both knew better. 3 Savannah, of course, told Damon’s parents about our dramatic confrontation. They arrived while I was eating dinner. My throat, still visible despite my efforts, showed the faint red line from the knife. Damon’s mother kept her silence, but his father asked, with a show of concern: “Why are you eating so little?” It’s true. When did my appetite shrink to this? “Because I’m going to die soon.” Damon’s father froze, assuming I was being difficult again. His face hardened. “Lydia, is that how you talk to your elders? You weren’t like this before. You’ve become so difficult to be around. No wonder Damon avoids coming home. Who would want to stay with you for long?” I was unmoved, slowly chewing my food. I couldn’t seem to swallow it. Damon’s mother, a woman of high society, grew visibly angry at my lack of reaction. She pushed her plate aside and slid a check across the table. “We came here to ask you to divorce Damon. You saw Savannah today; she’s pregnant again. She’s several months along, and it’s a girl.” The pain started again. A wave of nausea. How strange. Why does it hurt every time they mention Damon? “We’re divorcing tomorrow.” Damon’s mother scoffed. “You and Damon have been fighting this for three years. When has it ever worked? You refused a good life and insisted on this drama. If you had just accepted my grandson sooner, it wouldn’t have come to this.” I looked up, meeting her eyes. “Are you suggesting I should have accepted his child with another woman, and watched him lie to me, over and over, all for the sake of that child?” My clear, unwavering gaze unnerved her. The cruel words died in her throat. She only muttered: “We were on your side. You wouldn’t have lost anything.” I tossed the check back onto the table, stood up, and motioned them out. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow, Damon and I will be done.” 4 On the day of the divorce, I woke up early and dressed with care. After all, this would be the last divorce of my life. I arrived early. The Town Hall had just opened. The people milling around were all couples, some happy, some clearly miserable. I was the only one sitting alone on the steps, counting the ants on the sidewalk. The morning passed. Damon didn’t show. He’d broken his promise again. I checked my phone. One minute ago, he had sent the text. Emergency. Reschedule. I stared at the seven simple words. I scrolled up through our previous attempts. All eighteen messages were identical, down to the punctuation. I sat back down, propped my chin in my hands, and drifted into a daze. If the divorce failed today, Damon’s mother would suspect I was the one refusing to let him go. I didn’t want to die with the reputation of a woman still clinging to her cheating husband. After a long time, I took out my phone and calmly typed the lines that had worked the day before. She’s pregnant again, isn’t she? Damon, for the sake of your two children, just let me go. He didn’t reply, but I decided to wait. To pass the time, I counted the ants again. I realized there were only a few of them, and I finished counting quickly. They have more time left than I do. The smile on my face froze. It was only now, truly, that I realized I was actually going to die soon. Just as the Town Hall was closing, Damon emerged from a car parked some distance away. His polished leather shoes appeared in my line of sight. I looked up. The afternoon sun made my eyes sting slightly. I rose slowly and brushed the dust from my clothes. “Let’s go inside.” Damon didn’t move. He grabbed my arm, his eyes radiating a cold intensity. “Are you really sure you want to divorce me?” For a fleeting second, I heard another question, long ago. “Lydia, are you really sure you want to marry me?” I pulled my hand free and walked up the steps before him. “Yes. I’m sure.” The answer was the same, but the path was leading to a completely different ending. 5 The nineteenth time, we finally succeeded. When we walked out, Savannah was waiting by the door with their son. The boy saw me and spat toward me. “Dead woman, get lost! Stop bothering my dad! If you don’t leave, I’ll hit you!” Before he could touch me, Damon slapped him across the face. Damon didn’t hold back. The boy’s cheek immediately swelled, and a trickle of blood appeared at his mouth. Savannah began to sob, distraught, but Damon remained impassive. He gripped the boy’s head and spoke with a fierce, brutal intensity. “If I ever hear you insult her again, you’re out. Go as far away as you can.” The boy hid in Savannah’s arms, wailing, refusing to apologize. “They said I’m a bastard, not Dad’s real son, that’s why you won’t let us live with Grandpa and Grandma! They also said Mom is a homewrecker, a vixen everyone hates! Mom always cries in secret and lies to me that she just got sand in her eyes!” The boy wiped his tears with the back of his hand and pointed a furious finger at me. “If it weren’t for you, Dad would love me and Mom! Why don’t you just die!” I wasn’t angry. I just felt a sudden, deep disgust for the little boy. He was Damon’s son, all right. His words cut just as deep. I turned my back, quickly swallowing a few more pills in secret. Damon saw the movement and seized my wrist. “What are you taking?”

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My husband and his identical twin brother were in an accident out of town. One dead, one injured. When the news reached us, my sister-in-law was already red-eyed from crying. When I saw my husband walk through the door, alive, the knot of terror in my chest finally loosened. I started toward him, but he stopped and handed me the urn he was carrying. “Ava, I’m so sorry. The hospital… they got it wrong. It was Michael who died.” Beside me, my sister-in-law’s sobs hitched to a stop. I pressed my lips together, suppressed a smile, and dutifully clutched the urn to my chest and began to wail. 1 Michael had come home prepared for my questions, my disbelief. He never expected me to accept his death so easily. After all, the initial report had said that Matthew, his twin brother, was the one who hadn’t made it. Now, hearing me cry out his name with such heart-wrenching grief, Michael looked visibly unnerved. He made a show of steadying me, and I seized the opportunity, my fingers digging into his arm. A thick bandage was wrapped around his forearm. He’d really gone through the trouble. To get rid of the prominent birthmark that so clearly distinguished him from Matthew, he’d carved away his own flesh. My nails sank into the muscle beneath the bandage. Michael flinched in pain, but when he met my tear-filled eyes, he didn’t dare pull away. He just offered a dry, hollow comfort. “Ava, please, try to be strong. Michael… Michael wouldn’t want to see you this devastated.” I wiped away a tear. “You’re right. I need to pull myself together.” After all, from this day forward, I, Ava, was a widow. My in-laws passed away years ago, and my husband was “newly deceased.” That meant if I wanted to get rid of the baby in my belly, I didn’t need to tell a single soul. 2 People always said the two brothers were impossible to tell apart. Michael probably thought impersonating his brother would be child’s play. He was wrong. Even after removing the birthmark, even after mimicking Matthew’s every mannerism, there were subconscious habits that would always betray him. Besides, I was his wife. We’d shared a life, a bed. I knew the moment he walked through that door that the man who came back was my husband. I could recognize him. In this life, and the last. Unfortunately, in my previous life, I couldn’t for the life of me understand why Michael would pretend to be his brother. So I’d stubbornly insisted to everyone that he was, in fact, Michael. He vehemently denied it. His sister-in-law, Amy, called me a shameless homewrecker, accusing me of coveting her man the moment mine was in the ground. But they both knew the truth. They both knew the one who survived was Michael. The way people looked at me slowly shifted from pity to disgust. They thought I’d lost my mind, unable to accept my husband’s death. Michael’s constant denials sent me spiraling into despair. It wasn’t until I discovered I was pregnant that a flicker of hope reignited within me. 3 I thought, if I just had this baby, Michael would have to acknowledge his own child. He couldn’t possibly deny who he was then. And during my pregnancy, Michael did seem to soften. He stopped pushing me away. He even started coming over to take care of me. He still wouldn’t admit he was Michael, but I took it as a sign that things were getting better. I gave birth to a boy. Michael was ecstatic. For a split second, he forgot his act and blurted out, “You did so well, Ava!” Exhausted from labor, I finally felt a wave of relief wash over me. He’d finally admitted it. A brother-in-law would never call me by my pet name. When I woke up again, the baby was gone. The first thing I saw was Michael’s grief-stricken face. He told me our son had suffered from sudden respiratory distress. The doctors tried, but they couldn’t save him. Once again, he uttered those hollow words. “Ava, please… try to be strong.” 4 I left the hospital. And I truly went mad. Michael moved to the city with Amy. I became the town crazy lady, the one everyone avoided. My days were spent sitting on a stone by the crossroads, staring into the distance. Whenever someone passed, I’d shout, “Michael’s back! Michael’s back!” Mischievous children would trail behind me, mimicking my cries in their high-pitched voices. “Michael’s dead! Michael’s long dead!” Hearing their laughter, I’d reflexively chase after them, screaming, “My baby! Where’s my baby!” They would scatter like birds. I lived in that hazy nightmare for years. Until one night, in a fit of madness, I ran out of the house and straight into the path of a passing car. By the time I was found, I was barely breathing. The townspeople had no choice but to call Michael, to tell him to come back and arrange the funeral for his “sister-in-law.” On my deathbed, I saw him one last time. Maybe it was guilt from seeing the wreck I’d become, or maybe he just figured a dying woman was no longer a threat. But at my bedside, Michael confessed everything. He told me it really was Matthew who had died in the crash. He just couldn’t bear to see Amy become a widow at such a young age, so he decided to take his brother’s place. The three of them had grown up together, and both brothers had fallen for Amy. When she chose Matthew, Michael had never gotten over it. The accident, while tragic, had presented him with a twisted opportunity to fix his lifelong regret. How laughable. He couldn’t stand to see his white moonlight in mourning, so he let me bear the agony of losing a husband? Then what were all his promises to me when we were dating, when we got married? Were they just him trying to convince himself to let Amy go? Just a way to numb his own pathetic pining? But the final blow, the one that shattered what was left of my soul, was when he told me my baby hadn’t died. Amy was too frail to have children of her own. So he had taken our son and given him to her to raise. He even had the audacity to explain, “I just thought it would be better for him to grow up in a complete, healthy family.” Was I supposed to thank them? Thank them for giving the child I bore a “complete home”? Michael thought I was delirious, that I couldn’t hear him. But in that final surge of life before death, my mind was terrifyingly clear. Tears of bitter regret slid from the corners of my eyes. I had wasted my short, miserable life on a man like this. I didn’t even have the strength to lift my hand and slap him. I just lay there, my heart full of hatred, and breathed my last. 5 “Ava, the most important thing right now is to arrange Michael’s funeral.” Michael’s voice pulled me back from the horrifying memories. I lifted my gaze to meet his, but his eyes darted away, unable to hold my stare. After a long moment, I finally spoke, enunciating each word with chilling precision. “You’re right, little brother.” “It’s time to let Michael rest in peace.” Since he wanted to be with Amy so desperately, he could spend the rest of his life as Matthew. 6 At the funeral, I was the picture of a heartbroken widow. My cries were so raw they moved everyone present. They thought I was mourning the dead Michael. In truth, I was mourning the woman I had been in my last life. Michael and I met in college. We fell in love, and our relationship had always been strong. We first saw each other in a small noodle shop behind campus. I’d ordered a bowl of soup but forgot to tell the owner to hold the green onions. As I was meticulously picking them out with my chopsticks, I felt a pair of eyes on me. I looked up and met a handsome face. His gaze was intense, and I quickly looked away, my cheeks burning. After a few more chance encounters on campus, he started pursuing me, and I quickly fell for his gentle, attentive nature. Picking the green onions out of my food became his habit, something he did without thinking every time we ate together. It wasn’t until my death in my last life that I learned this habit didn’t start with me. And I wasn’t the only one who didn’t eat green onions. Michael had confessed that the only reason he’d approached me in that noodle shop was because watching me pick out the onions reminded him of Amy. With Matthew and Amy together, he no longer had an excuse to do it for her, so he found a replacement to fill the void. Hilarious. You’d think he was the patron saint of picking out green onions. 7 Staring at the funeral money burning in the brazier, the flames licking at the paper, a fire of my own raged within me. On impulse, I stormed back into the house and returned with an armful of trinkets and keepsakes, dumping them all into the fire. When Michael realized what they were, he lunged forward to pull them out, but the intense heat forced him back. “Ava… what are you doing? Weren’t those all gifts from my brother?” The things I was burning were all the presents Michael had given me while we were dating. I had once treasured them as symbols of our love, keeping them safe in a box like precious jewels. Michael knew how much they meant to me, which is why he lost his composure when he saw me burning every last one. Faced with his frantic question, I sobbed. “That’s exactly why I have to burn them! They were from your brother! Keeping them will only make me think of him and break my heart all over again!” His anger deflated. “But you can’t burn all of them… at least keep one or two…” “He’s gone! What’s the point of keeping his things?” I cut him off. “Your brother is nothing but ash now. Do you really expect a few dead objects to replace a living, breathing person?” A nearby relative chimed in, trying to console him. “Matthew, just let her do it. Her heart is broken over Michael’s passing!” Michael’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but he said nothing. I watched his face, a mask of strained control, and thought to myself that the relative was wrong. My heart wasn’t the one that was broken. 8 Later in the service, I slipped away for some air, having run out of convincing tears. That’s when I overheard Michael and Amy talking. “Michael,” Amy said, her voice laced with insecurity, “if you’ve decided to take care of me for the rest of your life as Matthew, then why do you keep staring at Ava? Have you forgotten that you’re not her husband anymore?” Michael rushed to explain. “No, it’s not like that. I just saw how devastated she was, and I was worried she’d do something drastic.” Amy’s lip trembled. “But Matthew is the one who’s dead! Michael, I’m so scared. Please don’t leave me all alone. You know, if Matthew hadn’t confessed his feelings to me first, maybe we…” Seeing her tears, Michael pulled her into a comforting embrace, murmuring sweet nothings. Of course. Amy, the same woman who in my past life had called me a homewrecker without batting an eye, had known all along that the man who came back was Michael. But when he claimed to be Matthew, she didn’t correct him. She played along. Perhaps to her, it didn’t matter which brother she ended up with. Both of them were utterly devoted to her, after all. And who wants to be a young widow? It was Matthew I felt sorry for. Not only was his grave marked with the wrong name, but his woman was already whispering sweet nothings to his brother. I wondered if he was turning in his grave, a shining green halo over his head. I turned and walked away, my hand in my pocket, fingers tracing the thin edges of my household registration book. To make his lie official, Michael had used his own ID for the cremation. And I had already taken his death certificate to the county clerk’s office. My marital status had been officially changed. From “Married” to “Widowed.” 9 After the funeral, I went to the hospital in the city. In my last life, I didn’t realize I was pregnant until the morning sickness became undeniable. That child became my obsession. But until the day I died, I only ever saw him for that one fleeting moment after his birth. I’ll just have to accept that we were not fated to be mother and son. This time, I refused to let him become a chain binding me to Michael. After scheduling the procedure, I was about to leave the hospital when a voice called out behind me. “Ava?” I turned to see a figure in a white coat hurrying toward me. “It really is you!” “Ryan,” I smiled and nodded at him. “Professor.” “It’s been so long!” Ryan’s face lit up with genuine surprise. “What brings you to the hospital?” His eyes fell to the paperwork in my hand, and his expression shifted to one of understanding. “Oh! Congratulations!” I didn’t correct him, just offered a small smile in return. After a few minutes of catching up, I made to leave, but Ryan stopped me. “Hey, my shift is almost over. Wait for me, let’s grab dinner.” I was about to politely decline when he added, “My mom was just talking about you the other day.” Ryan’s mother. My college professor. My mentor, who had been furious with me for giving up a full scholarship to grad school to follow Michael back to this small town and get married. I hesitated for a moment, then stopped walking. Ryan and I sat down at a restaurant. He must have sensed my melancholy because he started recounting funny stories from our college days, trying to cheer me up. But with every story, I felt a growing wave of regret. The decision to marry Michael right after graduation felt more and more foolish. Noticing my darkening expression, Ryan trailed off, looking embarrassed. Seeing him scratch his head awkwardly, I couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. He breathed a sigh of relief. “There’s that smile. Pregnant women shouldn’t be frowning all day.” Just then, a sharp voice cut through the air. “Ava!”

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The company had a bizarre rule. The last person to leave at night had to shout: “I’m turning off the lights!” Then, they had to wait for ten minutes before they could actually flip the switch and go. If they didn’t, they would simply vanish. My sister, Skylar, had scoffed at the rule. Until one day, she worked until two in the morning, the only one left in the office. Anxious to get home, she flipped the switch and left immediately, skipping the ten-minute wait. She has been gone ever since. 1 My first day at DeepCode, Debbie from HR was leading me to the fingerprint scanner, her voice dropping to a serious, almost conspiratorial tone. “Listen up, Sloane. Your department burns the midnight oil a lot. You absolutely have to remember this: if you’re the last one out, you must shout, ‘I’m turning off the lights!’ Wait ten minutes, and only then turn them off and leave. Got it? Don’t, under any circumstances, just flip the switch and walk out. Never.” I placed my thumb on the screen, letting a slight, neutral smile touch my lips. “Why, Debbie? What is it, some kind of ghost or something?” Debbie froze. She stiffened as if a sudden shock had jolted her. She glanced around us with a complex expression, then leaned in, lowering her voice further. “Don’t ask. Just do it. Unless you want to disappear without a trace, follow the rules. I’m telling you this for your own good.” Most people would hear talk like that—supernatural nonsense—and just chuckle, dismissing it as office eccentricity. But I knew she was telling the truth. My sister, Skylar, had vanished two weeks ago. She’d mentioned the company’s strange rule in a text message, noting her firm position as a realist, a staunch materialist who didn’t believe in any of it. The night it happened, she texted me again. She was working late, the last one in the building. It was dark, she was exhausted, and she was desperate to go home. She didn’t want to wait the extra ten minutes. She flipped the switch. After that, the thread went silent. 2 My parents were practically incoherent with grief and fear over Sky. They called the police the next day. The surveillance footage was pulled immediately. The only problem? The feed from the moment Sky turned off the lights simply disappeared. No tampering, no corruption record—just a clean, unexplained gap. In the ten days since, the police had found zero trace of her life. No activity on her bank accounts, credit cards, or ID. Sky was gone, wiped clean, as if she had been erased from existence. My parents, broken and out of options, finally called me back to the States. I’m the older sister, the one they’d always viewed as the strange anomaly growing up, the one who was emotionally flat. This was the true measure of their desperation: accepting help from the child they never quite understood. I accepted. If the police couldn’t find a trace, the most logical step was to breach the system from the inside. I submitted my resume, aced the interviews, and smoothly entered the company, DeepCode. Since Debbie was clearly unwilling to talk, I decided to try others. Owen, a programmer in the Tech department, worked late every single day. For at least twenty nights a month, he was the one who turned off the lights last. He had to know something. As the new hire, I bought a round of coffees and pastries, casually settling down next to him. He was stiff and quiet, but polite. I slid a latte onto his desk, made a little small talk, then brought up the rule. “Hey, Owen. Debbie told me about the company’s ‘taboo.’ Is it real? I heard you’re the one who always closes up. Do you actually do the whole shout-and-wait thing? Every time?” Owen’s face instantly changed. His eyes fixed straight ahead, as if staring at something utterly terrifying. He mumbled, “I didn’t say anything, I didn’t say anything…” Suddenly, he started to tremble violently, clutching his left chest with his right hand, his knuckles white. His face turned ashen, a clammy sweat immediately beaded on his forehead. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but no sound came out. His body began to slide down the back of his chair, his eyes losing focus. Crap. He’s having a heart attack. I grabbed his shoulder and asked loudly, “Where’s your medicine? Your pills?” He was still desperately gripping his chest, but managed to shake his head. “It warned me. I can’t talk about it… absolutely can’t talk about it…” Before I could react further, Owen slipped into unconsciousness. The company called an ambulance and had him rushed to the hospital. That afternoon, Debbie brought the news: Owen was in bad shape and wouldn’t be returning to the office anytime soon. 3 Owen’s reaction was deeply unsettling. He definitely knew something. That weekend, I took some fruit to the hospital to visit him, but a nurse stopped me at the door. The patient needed complete rest and couldn’t be stimulated. I sat on a bench in the hallway, unsure of what to do next. “Sloane? Is that really you?” I looked up. It was Reid, a friend from my childhood. It turned out Reid was Owen’s attending physician. He told me Owen suffered from a congenital heart defect, a history of arterial switch surgery, and had an implanted cardioverter-defibrillator (ICD) installed. That’s why, despite the sudden arrhythmia, his heart had quickly returned to normal function. “Physically, all his vitals are fine,” Reid explained. “The strange thing is, he just won’t wake up.” I considered this. “Could it be a problem with his brain? Isn’t that what a persistent vegetative state is?” Reid shook his head. “It’s not quite like that. The head of Neurology ran high-resolution MRIs and EEGs. All brain functions are normal. But his neural activity is abnormally hyper-active. Further neuro-functional imaging shows a strong, functional neural inhibition in the key networks responsible for consciousness—especially between the Default Mode Network and the prefrontal cortex.” I stared at him, my expression blank. “English, please.” Reid paused, then gave an embarrassed laugh. “It means he can wake up. But his own brain is actively suppressing his wakefulness. Or, to put it another way, he is resisting consciousness.” I looked intently at Reid. What was Owen so afraid of that he refused to wake up? Before he collapsed, he’d whispered: “It warned me. I can’t talk about it…” What exactly was this “It”? Owen was terrified, terrified enough to trigger a near-fatal cardiac event. That meant he must have witnessed the consequences of breaking the rule. And if he witnessed the consequences, he must have made the same mistake as my sister. But why did my sister vanish completely, while Owen was still able to go back to work? What was the difference between them? 4 “Hey! Sloane? Hello?” Reid waved a hand in front of my face, noticing I was lost in thought. I focused on him. “Seriously, I can’t believe you’re back in the country, and that you ended up at DeepCode.” I tilted my head. “Why? You know the company?” Reid subtly raised an eyebrow. “Sort of. I know they have a really weird workplace taboo.” I nodded. “Yeah. My sister disappeared because of it. I’m investigating.” Reid’s eyes widened in shock. “What? Sky is missing?” I didn’t reply. He stared at me silently for a moment, then suddenly reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Sloane, something about this feels really off. I have a terrible gut feeling. You should stop looking into it.” I shook my head. “You know me. I’ve never been normal. I’m emotionally flat by nature; I didn’t fit in as a kid, and my parents barely tolerated me. Sky was the only one who was ever decent to me. I can’t just let her go.” I looked at Reid. “What is it? You’re a doctor. You’re not afraid of some cheesy urban legend, are you?” He froze for a moment. “What did you just say?” “I said you’re a doctor, why are you afraid of an urban legend? What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?” Reid’s brows knitted into a tight knot. He stood there, seemingly lost in his own head, until I finally tapped his shoulder, bringing him back to reality. “Sloane, I just remembered something. I have to go verify it. Wait for me. I promise I’ll bring Sky back.” My heart sank. “What did you find? I’m coming with you.” He gave me a strange look. “No. I have to go alone. Trust me.” Before I could protest, he stood up and walked away, pulling his hospital badge off his neck as he went. It was odd that Reid knew so much about my company. But seeing his determination, I didn’t stop him. What I didn’t expect was that the next day, when I called him, there was no answer. I rushed to Reid’s home. His mother looked confused. “He hasn’t been home. He must be pulling a shift at the hospital. He does that often.” I raced to the hospital, but still couldn’t find him. Reid was missing, too.

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Willow and Ezra had loved each other for a lifetime, only to be reborn together into the 1980s. To claim our destiny again, I waited two full years in the same community center social where we first met. Watching him walk toward me with that familiar, determined stride, my heart swelled with joy. I reached out my hand, ready to start our new life. But his steps carried him past me, stopping instead in front of Savannah Reed, the Director’s daughter. “May I have this dance?” It turned out he wanted to change partners. 1 “Willow, you’ve looked toward that door at least ten times. Who are you waiting for? So many handsome guys here, and you haven’t spared a glance for any of them?” I ignored Savannah’s chatter, my eyes fixed on the entrance. I had been reborn, and tonight was the night I first met my husband, Ezra Thorne. In our previous life, Ezra and I were the couple everyone pointed to. We started from nothing, building a life and a business over sixty years. We were poor, we fought, we struggled, we cried, we made up, and we complained—but we never once mentioned splitting up. In our toughest times, we shared a single roll, huddling together for warmth. After we made our fortune and moved into a house, we still supported our friends and family. We walked through life hand-in-hand, the enviable model couple. On his deathbed, I asked him: “If you could be reborn, would you still ask me to dance that night?” He kissed me without hesitation, and I ended that life with a smile. So in this life, I refused every man who showed interest, no matter how capable or handsome he was. I was waiting for Ezra Thorne. I was going to be his wife again. I avoided every social mixer at Talon Textiles & Design. I told my frantic parents I had a soulmate, and he would arrive at our company on this exact date next year. My parents thought I was losing my mind. I waited year after year. Ezra, who should have joined the company in 1986, finally showed up in 1988. It was then I learned he had spent two years in the military. Ezra had always lamented his biggest regret was never having served, yet here he was, having deliberately chosen two years in the armed forces. A guess formed in my mind: Had he been reborn too? When I heard Ezra was attending the social mixer, my excitement was uncontrollable. I was the first to sign up. Even two years late, I wore the same polka-dot red dress and had my hair styled just like the night we met. I turned down every invitation, sitting in the waiting area, staring intently at the door. Tonight, I would officially greet him. “That’s the new tech specialist at the plant.” “And I heard he just got back from the military—you can tell. The whole vibe is different.” Savannah nudged my arm, pointing toward the main entrance. That familiar silhouette entered my field of vision. The thumping music of the dance floor seemed to slow to 0.5 speed. His close-cropped hair, the sharp lines of his jaw—he scanned the room as if searching. The moment his eyes met mine, he gave a shy smile, revealing his signature dimple. He walked through the crowd, straight toward me, just like the last time. Twenty-four-year-old Ezra Thorne still made my heart race. I took a deep breath. My heart hammered faster as he approached. I raised my arm, ready to receive the happiness of this second life. My hand froze mid-air. He stepped past me, stopping in front of Savannah Reed, who was sitting just behind me. “Hello, miss. May I have this dance?” Savannah looked flustered, her face immediately flushing crimson. Colleagues around us started to cheer and egg her on. “Ezra’s the new guy, Savannah! Don’t crush his confidence!” “Yeah, go on! Just one dance!” Unable to refuse, Savannah placed her hand in his. Ezra took her hand, and they walked onto the dance floor. The crowd erupted in cheers. I sat there dumbfounded, the loud music now a meaningless buzz. Ezra didn’t spare me a second glance. He walked straight past me, his steps unwavering, toward Savannah. Had he wanted to ask Savannah to dance, even back then? I fled the venue. Rain poured down, and memories of the previous life flooded back. Last time, Savannah had invited me to the social. She had styled me from head to toe. The red polka-dot dress was one she often wore. The curls were a look she had copied from an old movie star. We were similar in height and build. When we were dressed up, standing next to Savannah, I looked a bit like her twin. I couldn’t dance, so I only dared to sit in the corner. Ezra had approached, lowering his gaze, and asked me in front of everyone: “Hello, miss. May I have this dance?” The stage lights were dim. He didn’t dare look up. Seeing my delay, he gathered his courage and added: “I’ve liked you for a long time. Please, dance with me!” That was the first time I had ever truly heard my own heartbeat. I’d silently been in love with Ezra for ages. Suddenly confessed to by the object of my affection, I panicked. My mind blank, I woodenly extended my hand and managed to reply, “I like you too.” The colleagues around us cheered. It was only then that Ezra looked up and our eyes met. At the time, I couldn’t read the shock in Ezra’s eyes. I thought it was surprise. After that one dance, I grew bolder and sought him out. Ezra never rejected me. The people at the plant quickly assumed we were a couple. Marriage and children followed, as if by simple momentum. Even though he was distant, I always believed he was just a naturally reserved man. But now, remembering the burning intensity of his gaze as he looked at Savannah in the dance hall— The truth hit me. Ezra had been aiming for Savannah all along. I remembered Savannah saying she had a soft spot for military men. That’s why he joined the military first thing in this life. His supposed regret from the past life was a direct reference to Savannah. Ezra’s purpose in being reborn was as clear as mine. Only our targets had changed. I went home, sick from the rain. My parents worried outside my door for days. Once I recovered, I said with chilling composure, “Mom, Dad, I’m ready to start dating.” In this life, Ezra seemed like a completely different person. The man from the past life was cautious and would consider every move carefully. But the man now practically moved his desk next to Savannah’s. It was as if he wanted everyone at Talon to know he was obsessed with Savannah. His aggression and passion were things I’d never seen. In the old days, if I got too close to him at work, he’d avoid me. “We’re in the same unit. People will talk.” I don’t know what ‘gossip’ he was afraid of then, but now, he’d been warned repeatedly by the Director and still hadn’t stopped pursuing Savannah. Savannah, my best friend, couldn’t stop venting to me about Ezra. “He’s so annoying! Ezra Thorne is like glue, everywhere I go, he’s there!” “You don’t like him? I noticed you kept the gifts and went to the movie he paid for.” “Keeping a gift means I have to date him? I get gifts from guys all the time.” Savannah had many suitors. Ezra, even with two years in the military, wasn’t particularly outstanding otherwise. Savannah shared the imported chocolate Ezra bought her with everyone. A pang of envy struck me as I looked at the piece in my hand. When I was pregnant in the last life, I desperately wanted a sweet piece of chocolate. But he said we were starting a business, and every penny had to be spent wisely. With a baby on the way, money was tight. No matter what I wanted, he always had a thousand reasons why not. Now, if Savannah just mentioned wanting some, he’d buy her so many boxes she couldn’t finish them. Love and disinterest were always obvious. It was just my own delusion that made me blind to it. Later, feeling a bit low on sugar at my desk, I unwrapped the chocolate Savannah gave me. “How could you eat that?” This was the first time Ezra had spoken to me since his rebirth. But his next action was to slap the chocolate out of my hand. “That’s for Savannah! Where did you steal that from?” The word “steal” chilled me to the bone. That was his opinion of me: a thief. “What is wrong with you! I gave that to Willow!” Savannah stepped in instantly to protect me. Ezra gave an awkward half-smile. “Oh, right. My bad.” He turned to Savannah, his tone shifting to pleading. “Savannah, that chocolate was expensive. It cost half my paycheck. You should really keep it for yourself.” “I’ll give it to whoever I want! It’s none of your business! Come on, Will, I’ll take you out to eat.” When Ezra had said “steal,” his eyes looked at me like I was a complete stranger. He never once considered that I might have been reborn, too. After all, we had been together for sixty years, started a business, built a home, and raised children. Even without love, surely there was family affection. His cold tone was laced with resentment. He was terrified of having any connection to me, even through a gift he had given to someone else. “So, Savannah, when are you going to make things official with Ezra?” Savannah sighed, pushing some mashed potatoes onto my plate. “His background is just too rough. Besides the military thing, nothing about him excites me. I’m still thinking about it.” Despite her words, within two months, the news of Ezra and Savannah’s relationship was all over the plant. Many speculated that Ezra was chasing Savannah because she was the Director’s daughter—a classic opportunist looking for an easy climb. But to prove his ‘true love,’ Ezra got Savannah’s face tattooed on his arm. In the last life, when our son tattooed a photo of me and Ezra on his arm, Ezra had shamed him relentlessly. I never imagined he’d use that same move to woo Savannah. Savannah’s parents hated the tattoo and Ezra’s perceived opportunism. They demanded they break up immediately. But with young people, the more you push, the tighter they cling. To show he wasn’t a gold-digger, Ezra swore he would buy Savannah the first fully paid-off condo in the city by next month. Listening to the gossip, a thought struck me: Ezra, from a poor background, where would he get the money to buy a house, let alone next month? Wait. Oh, hell. I suddenly remembered that next month, the city was hosting the first-ever National Bridal Design Competition. Last life, I entered a sketch just to try. My design won the gold medal and was bought by an industry insider for an astronomical fifty thousand dollars. In the 1980s, that fifty thousand became the seed capital for Ezra and my business. My brain spun. Last life, I only submitted the drawing. If I could actually sew the dress, I could get a lot more. I worked overtime for over a month. When I arrived at the competition venue, I heard waves of praise. “Who designed this? It’s practically art!” “This level is world-class!” “I totally underestimated Ezra Thorne! That heavy beadwork is simply divine.” … The applause was non-stop. I looked toward the cluster of people. A gown identical to my past life’s design was on a model. The elaborate beadwork, the jewelry choice, the lace pattern—everything was exactly the same. The only difference: the design was credited to Ezra Thorne. I had forgotten. In the previous life, he had seen that winning design hundreds of times and used it as the corporate showpiece for our company. I met Ezra’s eyes. I didn’t need to ask for an explanation, but his eyes were filled with provocation. He turned to the crowd of contestants and declared: “Competitions should be about sincerity. If you only bring a sketch, maybe don’t bother showing up!” “My finished work has been in process for over a month. Every stitch is my own blood, sweat, and tears!” He was certain I had only brought the sketch, just as I had the last time. The onlookers praised his dedication. The few who had only brought sketches lowered their heads in shame. My mother, who had come to help me, saw Ezra’s work and panicked. “Honey, how is his design exactly the same as yours?” Ezra and the people nearby overheard Mom’s words. A moment of silence passed. Ezra pounced as if he’d caught me red-handed. “Willow Sterling! We’re from the same firm. Were you spying on me while I was designing?!” “This is a competition! Are we really going to have plagiarism in the first year?” Ezra’s prepared accusations hit like a barrage. My mother, furious, opened my garment bag to argue with him. “This is what my daughter worked on for a month at home! Who copied who?” My gown was finished just this morning. The tailor’s basting stitches hadn’t been pulled out, and some threads weren’t trimmed. That made my alleged “copying” even more convincing. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, and people started demanding I be disqualified. Even Savannah, standing next to Ezra, looked at me like I was a thief. If I hadn’t lived a whole life before and seen every scenario, I would have fled right then. I was unperturbed, my expression calm. I registered, I filled out the forms. Seeing my attitude, Ezra adopted a posture of phony magnanimity. “Look, let’s go easy on her. I’m sure Willow was just blinded by ambition. We’re colleagues, so let’s have some mercy.” “Designs can be similar. I’m sure she didn’t do it on purpose this time.” He was playing both the good guy and the victim. People’s goodwill toward him increased. “For the sake of fairness, Willow, your entry isn’t quite finished, and it’s a collision with mine. You really shouldn’t compete. You’ll only embarrass yourself.” I smiled. “Ezra, I never said this was my entry.”

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Married to Eric for ten years, and his phone was always “out of storage.” He cleared his chat history every single day. I told him to get a new one, but he’d always refuse, saying the old one worked “just fine.” And I believed him. Right up until the moment I discovered he’d deleted my messages and forgotten my birthday, yet somehow had space for over two thousand photos of him and a young colleague at a Halloween event at the amusement park. That’s when it hit me. The problem wasn’t his phone’s memory. It was that I was no longer worthy of taking up any of it. 1 On my birthday, after ten years of marriage, Eric came home late from work to find the dining table empty. He looked genuinely confused. I stared back at him, my own feigned surprise masking a deep disappointment. “The cake? You were supposed to cook tonight, remember? Did you even buy groceries?” Eric slapped his forehead. “Oh God, Kate, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot. I’ll go right now.” The bubble of anticipation I’d been holding all afternoon popped. I felt deflated. “Forget it,” I sighed. “It’s too late. Let’s just order something.” “Eric, can’t you just get a new phone? You have to clear your chats every single day!” I grumbled, the frustration finally bubbling up. He immediately tried to smooth things over, sending me a $5,000 transfer. “I’m sorry, honey. The phone still works, it’s fine. But you should get a new one. Go buy yourself something nice.” I gave him a look—a mix of annoyance and affection—and let it go. “Just go take a shower. I made soup. We can order a couple of nice dishes to go with it and still make it a feast.” Eric squeezed my cheek and disappeared into the bathroom. While I waited, I started browsing new phones online, still thinking of getting one for him. To compare prices and avoid getting ripped off by targeted ads, I picked up Eric’s phone… and a notification immediately popped up: “Storage Almost Full. Clean Junk Files.” On instinct, I went to his photo gallery, planning to delete some old screenshots to free up space. But what I found made my blood run cold. His gallery contained 2,438 photos. Every single one was of the same woman: his colleague, Norah. The oldest ones dated back a year. Each photo was perfectly angled, capturing the soft, pale light on her face. He’d even caught candid shots of her turning to smile over her shoulder. But the most recent ones made me physically tremble. It was a selfie of him and Norah together, their faces painted with bloody streaks, little devil horns perched on their heads. The background was unmistakable: a Halloween pre-party at the amusement park. It was from last week. The same day as our daughter Lily’s parent-teacher conference. I’d been out of town on business and asked him to go. Her teacher later told me no one showed up. When I asked him about it, he’d claimed he got stuck with last-minute overtime and forgot. He said he’d cleared our chat history and the reminder along with it. He was so apologetic, even buying Lily a gift to make up for it. But his “overtime” wasn’t work. It was a date with his colleague at the amusement park. An image of Lily standing alone and confused in her classroom flashed in my mind, and a hot wave of fury washed over me. I wanted to storm into the bathroom and demand an explanation. No wonder he cleared his chats every day. He was erasing his tracks. He must have trusted me so completely, so certain I would never check his phone, that he didn’t even bother to hide the photos. The doorbell rang. The food delivery had arrived. The sound snapped me back to reality. I collected the food, called Lily to wash up for dinner, and calmly placed his phone back on the sofa. I thought for a long moment and made a decision. I would say nothing. Not yet. He was confident I’d never look. But even the most careful person makes a mistake, and he wasn’t even being careful. He was flaunting it, treating me and our daughter like we were invisible. Fine. If that’s how he wanted to play it, I would make him feel so guilty, so utterly indebted to me, that he would willingly give me everything before I made him lose it all. 2 After Eric got out of the shower, we ate dinner as a family. Later, he retreated to his study, claiming he had some reports to review. I opened my laptop and searched for “Norah” and the name of his company. Big data did its thing, and her social media profile was the first result. I clicked. There were hundreds of short videos, and nearly all of them featured Eric. A stolen glance. Feeding each other bites of food. Eric, at least, seemed to have some reservations; his face was often cut off, showing only his chin and mouth. But the small mole on his jawline was unmistakable to anyone who knew him. Norah’s captions were… interesting. “He said he wishes he could go back ten years and drive me to school every day. Lol!” “He bought me a Children’s Day gift today! Said he was making up for the last twenty-something years I missed out on!” “A client was giving me a hard time, and my guy stepped up and put him in his place! Total hero.” Reading that, a memory clicked. About six months ago, I’d gotten a call from the police station saying Eric had been in a fight. I rushed over, frantic with worry, only to find him calmly consoling a young woman. He seemed flustered when he saw me, quickly explaining that some guy had been harassing his colleague and he’d stepped in. Norah had even thanked me profusely, telling me how much Eric had helped her. She even took us out to dinner afterward to show her gratitude. How pathetic. Looking back now, it was so obvious. It wasn’t about justice; it was his chance to play the white knight. And I, like an idiot, had praised his “strong moral compass” and even joined them in bad-mouthing the client. I kept scrolling and found the video from the amusement park. Her caption read: “Halloween pre-party! He promised he’d take me again on the actual night!” I checked the date and a plan began to form. The next morning, Eric did something he rarely did: he made breakfast. As we sat at the table, I brought up Halloween. “We should do something for Halloween. I saw a lot of people going to the amusement park. It looks fun!” Eric shot the idea down immediately. “No, that’s for young people. It’ll be too crowded. What if Lily gets lost?” he said dismissively. “Besides, it’s a foreign holiday. What’s it got to do with us?” Lily looked a little disappointed. “My teacher did say we should celebrate our own traditional holidays more.” Eric ruffled her hair. “Exactly.” I could see the sadness in Lily’s eyes. “But we could just go for a little while. There are other rides and things to do there, too,” I pushed gently. “Think of it as a little break. The next day is a Saturday, anyway.” Lily’s head perked up. “Yeah! Let’s go!” I looked at Eric. He sighed, his voice heavy with resignation. “Fine. You two decide.” Lily and I exchanged a triumphant smile. I knew exactly what he was planning. He’d “accidentally” clear his chats and forget all about it. I just nodded, playing along. On Halloween, just before leaving work, I sent Eric a text with the plan. Let’s meet at the main gate. And please, don’t delete this message. He replied with a simple “Got it” and then went silent. I knew what that meant. He was going to stand us up and then play the “I was so busy I forgot” card. I pulled up Norah’s social media. A new video had just been posted. They were already in the car. “He’s taking me out for Halloween! Tonight is all ours!” she captioned it, complete with heart emojis. The comments were a flood of envy. “OMG, total daddy-boyfriend goals!” “Wait, a guy that handsome and successful can’t possibly be single, right?” “How did you snag such a great guy?” Norah replied to that one: “It was fate. He’s always been focused on his career, that’s why he was single. We’re the perfect team!” And then, a truly defiant one: “So what if office romances aren’t allowed? He’s willing to risk it all to be with me!” 3 Everyone in the comments was fawning over her. Using a burner account, I typed a simple question: “I see a tan line on his ring finger. Is he married?” Norah’s reply was instant: “He’s a desirable man. The person he lives with isn’t the person he loves.” The commenters understood immediately. “So you’re saying he’s already taken? You’re a homewrecker?” “I knew a guy that good wouldn’t be on the market. Knowingly being the other woman is disgusting.” Norah quickly deleted the negative comments, but not before I screenshotted everything. Oh, Norah, I thought. You have no idea how much people despise the other woman. Your defensiveness just proves one thing: you’re not as confident as you pretend to be. To know your relationship is wrong and dive in headfirst anyway isn’t brave; it’s just cheap. I took a deep breath, said nothing, and took my daughter straight to the amusement park. On the way, Eric called. “Honey, I just remembered I ordered some fresh groceries online. They’re being delivered right now. You need to get home and put them in the fridge before they go bad!” I almost laughed. There were no groceries. It was a pathetic attempt to keep me at home so he and Norah could have their perfect date night. “Okay, I will,” I said, my voice perfectly calm. My composure must have unsettled him, because he quickly added, “Listen, something came up at work. I don’t think I can make it tonight. But I promise, I’ll take you and Lily another time!” “I know.” I hung up and checked the video from our doorbell camera. Sure enough, a delivery person was at the door. I texted my neighbor, asked him to accept the package, and sent him $20 for his trouble. Then, Lily and I walked through the gates of the park. Nothing was going to stop me. I was going to make Eric understand that his actions had consequences. Just then, an email from my lawyer arrived with the draft of the separation agreement. I had already compiled a list of Eric’s assets, including every expensive gift he’d bought for Norah that she’d so conveniently flaunted in her videos. It was all marital property. I forwarded everything to my lawyer. All that was left was to serve him the papers. The park was packed. I bought Lily a little devil costume she loved, and we walked hand-in-hand, having the time of our lives. I took dozens of photos of her, and even a few of myself. Our family of three was split in two tonight. In Norah’s mind, a washed-up wife like me had no place here. This was a playground for the young. But who made that rule? I followed the trail of Norah’s video posts, easily tracking their location in the park. Lily was ecstatic, her joy infectious. I even bought her a huge pink cotton candy. We were busy taking pictures with a costumed monster character when I saw them. Just a few feet away, Norah was wrapped in Eric’s arms, kissing him as they posed for a selfie. Lily saw him first. Her face froze. “Daddy?” Before I could stop her, she ran towards them. “Daddy!” The sound of her voice made Eric whip his head around. His eyes met mine, and raw panic flashed across his face. He shoved Norah away from him so hard she stumbled. “Kate! I—I can explain!” he stammered, his face a mess of shock and regret. Lily reached him, her small voice trembling. “Daddy, you said you had to work.” I walked up to him, a slow, cold smile on my face, and slapped him hard across the face. “Eric,” I said, my voice ringing with finality. “I want a divorce.”

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In our sixth year of marriage, my husband, Jackson, began doting on a pretty, fragile college girl. He even grounded a private jet for her. Everyone said he must be madly in love. But this was the same Jackson who’d come home every night and play the part of the perfect, devoted husband. Until he found out I was having an affair, too. The day it all came out, he screamed at me, his voice tearing, asking me why. “If it’s the thrill of someone new you want, I can do whatever they do for you! Anything!” 1. I was humming a little tune when I walked through the door. Jackson was just finishing up in the kitchen and looked up at the sound of my arrival. “You’re back late.” He approached me with that familiar, gentle smile, taking my bag and sliding a pair of slippers onto my feet. “You mentioned last week you were craving that steak from Delmonico’s, so I tried to recreate it. Work was slow today. I made almond torte for dessert, too.” “That’s sweet of you!” I beamed, my smile not quite reaching my eyes. “But I’ve already eaten. You go ahead. Just toss whatever’s left.” I smoothed my hair back, ready to retreat to my study and finish the last pages of my script, but as I passed him, his hand shot out and clamped around my arm. His eyes were dark, unreadable. He bit his lip, a wounded look clouding his features. “Ella, I feel like… you’ve been distant lately.” He chose his words carefully. “Did I do something wrong?” That was a great question. A slow, knowing smile spread across my face as I turned to him. “No, nothing. I’ve just been in a bit of a mood.” I saw the relief wash over him, and just as he began to relax, I added nonchalantly, “My flight for that business trip last week? I was already on the plane when some lunatic started screaming that his woman was on board and was going to run off. He actually forced the entire plane to turn back.” Jackson’s expression flickered through a dozen emotions. “The flight was canceled. I had to rebook, just like everyone else. By the time I got there, the studio exec said I had no sense of professional courtesy and pulled the plug on the deal. Jackson,” I said, my voice dripping with mock despair, “can you believe my luck?” He dropped his gaze, his mind clearly racing. When he looked up again, his face was a mask of weary resignation. “Ella, you never told me you were on that flight. It was Rosalie… she’d hurt her leg and was trying to run off somewhere. I was just honoring the promise I made to her brother before he died. I couldn’t let her make her injury worse.” He added, as if it explained everything, “A dancer’s legs are her entire life.” I nodded slowly. “I get it. You were afraid she wouldn’t be able to make it on her own. So you bought her a condo, sponsored a university dance competition with her as the star, and rushed over to see her in the middle of the night. I get all of it.” I looked right at him, my expression the very picture of empathy. “I understand completely. So, can you let go of my arm now?” Jackson stared at me for a long moment, a profound exhaustion settling over him. He rubbed his temples, shaking his head with a sigh. “Ella, you have so much already. It was just one deal. Don’t be difficult about this, alright?” He reached out, trying to pull me into a hug. “Whatever deal you lost, I’ll make it up to you. Just let this go.” I let him hold me, my gaze fixed on the open door of my study. The wall opposite was covered with the awards and trophies I’d won over the years as a screenwriter. I could write the destinies of others with such ease, but I never imagined my own life would become such a cliché. My husband of six years, the man I’d been with for eleven, was cheating on me with his best friend’s little sister. He showered her with money every month, a constant stream of gifts and support. He’d even forgotten that his own wife was deathly allergic to almonds. The one who loved almond torte was Rosalie. It was never me. I patted the small of his back, my eyes drifting away as he held me. I said nothing. 2. Jackson must have thought he’d smoothed things over, because he let out a visible sigh of relief. But then his phone rang, and he was gone in a flash. He covered the receiver as he turned, his face a canvas of undisguised urgency, but he consciously softened his voice when he spoke to me. It was the same tone he used for the person on the other end of the line—as if he were speaking to a fragile treasure that might shatter at the slightest vibration. “Ella, something’s come up at the office. I have to go.” He paused for a second as he grabbed his coat. “Rosalie… she’s been through a lot. I’ll explain everything when I get back, okay?” After the door clicked shut, I sank onto a chair, my eyes drawn to the framed photo of Jackson and me on my desk. No, it wasn’t okay. Not at all. Forcing me to rehash something I already knew inside and out would only be twisting the knife. But Jackson didn’t see it that way. I remembered last week, when I first heard the flight was being grounded. Before I could even process it, a flight attendant was rushing down the aisle after a phone call, anxiously asking, “Is there a Miss Rosalie Dubois on board?” Rosalie, dressed in a flowing white dress, stood up, a vision of fresh-faced independence. The attendant quickly escorted her off the plane. There was only a thin curtain separating business class from economy. If she had just glanced up, she would have seen my stunned face. Through the window, I watched as my husband grabbed her wrist, his voice sharp and scolding. Tears streamed down Rosalie’s beautiful face, and in the next second, Jackson cupped her face in his hands and kissed her deeply. Some of the other passengers, oblivious to the full story, were more captivated by the real-life drama than annoyed by the flight delay. They started recording on their phones, murmuring about what a perfect couple they made. If the man in the video hadn’t been my husband, I might have thought it was a scene from some classic romance movie, too. But all I could do was watch as Jackson, after that passionate kiss, swept Rosalie into his arms and carried her away, leaving nothing but his back turned to the world, and to me. I lit a cigarette, the ember glowing red as it burned down to the filter. When Jackson and I first got married, Rosalie’s brother was our best man. She was only in high school then, watching us from a distance. She was so teary-eyed, so moved, I thought she was just an overly empathetic kid. I even joked that she should save some of those tears for her own wedding. How had I been so blind back then? How had I missed the undisguised ache in Jackson’s eyes when he looked at her? At the thought, a wave of nausea churned violently in my stomach. I bolted upright and ran for the bathroom. After a session of dry heaving left me exhausted, I leaned against the washing machine, my mind a blank haze. Then, my own phone started ringing. “Ella, my star writer! You busy? Just caught some fresh trout. Want me to bring them over?” It was Leo, an actor who’d recently started making a name for himself. He was an influencer-turned-actor, and while he had the looks, a built-in fanbase, and even some decent acting chops, he couldn’t seem to land the right script to break out of the C-list. We’d exchanged numbers at a wrap party, and he’d been texting me ever since, asking me out, making his intentions clear. After all, a role tailor-made for him could launch a nobody into a household name. I was about to say no, but as the word formed on my lips, I caught a glimpse of my own haggard reflection in the mirror above the sink. Instead, I gave him my address. “Be right there!” Leo sounded ecstatic. He said a quick goodbye and hung up. I clutched my phone, staring at my reflection. A bitter, ugly smile twisted my lips. If you can keep making excuses for your betrayal, Jackson, then why can’t I? 3. By the time Leo arrived, I had just finished scraping every last bit of the food Jackson had cooked into the trash. When I opened the door, a stunningly handsome face greeted me. Leo held up two still-flapping trout in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other. “Haven’t eaten, have you? Good thing I’m a decent cook. Let me show you what I can do.” He had a way of making himself at home instantly. The moment I gave him a sliver of an opening, he slipped right inside. I watched him put on a pair of Jackson’s slippers and almost told him to change them, but I let it go. “No gigs lately? You have time to go fishing?” “I’m a nobody, Ella. The agency signs me and then forgets I exist. But hey, no work means I have plenty of time to cook for a brilliant, beautiful woman.” Leo shot me a wink. Within minutes, he had one of the fish cleaned and prepped. As he dumped the scraps into the trash, he paused. I knew he’d seen the feast I’d thrown away. He just pursed his lips. “Whoever cooked this clearly doesn’t know you. This stuff is way too rich. Didn’t you just have your appendix out? You’re supposed to be eating light, right?” I blinked, momentarily caught off guard. I didn’t correct him. He was right. I’d been rushed to the hospital with acute appendicitis not long ago. When they needed a family member to sign the consent forms, Jackson was unreachable. He finally showed up the next day, after the surgery was over, rushing in with tears in his eyes, telling me how sorry he was. He’d been exhausted from work, fallen asleep at the office, and hadn’t been there for me. If I hadn’t seen the post on Rosalie’s private social media account—if I hadn’t known the day of my surgery was her birthday, and that Jackson had been with her the whole time—I probably would have believed him. After all, I used to trust him so, so much. Leo was happy to play chef, and I was in no mood for small talk, so I went back to my study to finish my script. “Dinner’s ready!” Leo burst into the study, wearing an apron Jackson had tossed on the sofa before he left. He brandished a pair of chopsticks and shot me a playful look. “Seriously, Ella, I’m a pretty great cook. If you ever write a chef character, you have to recommend me to the director! I’m not afraid of hard work!” “You talk too much,” I grumbled, but a small smile touched my lips. As I walked into the living room, I realized Leo had turned on the TV. The image on the screen made me freeze mid-step. It was Jackson, his face grim, protectively shielding a petite woman in his arms. A swarm of reporters surrounded them, shoving microphones in his face. “Mr. Thorne, sources claim you and Miss Dubois have been secretly involved for six months. Can you confirm you’re having an affair?” “Mr. Thorne, we heard you grounded a jet for Miss Dubois and flew in a world-class dance coach from Europe just for her final exams. Isn’t that a bit extreme?” “Mr. Thorne, your wife is the renowned screenwriter Ella Vance. Does she know about any of this?” At the mention of my name, Jackson finally looked up, his eyes flashing with a clear warning. “Shut your mouths, unless you want your entire network to go under.” Jackson wasn’t in the entertainment industry; he underestimated the tenacity of the press. His threats only made them bolder. “Tch. The girl he’s protecting is Rosalie Dubois, right?” To my surprise, the voice came from behind me. I turned to see Leo, still meticulously wiping the edge of a serving bowl with a paper towel. Seeing me look at him, he offered a lazy grin. “I saw that Rosalie at an industry dinner once. She was with some real estate mogul. His own daughter just got married last year, and Rosalie’s about the same age. She was all over that old creep, fawning over him, taking drinks for him. Later that night, she left with him and a few other investors.” Leo sneered, his face full of disdain. “The girl’s toxic. And that Jackson guy is blind, thinking she’s some pure, innocent flower. He can’t even see she’s a Venus flytrap. He deserves to be played.” The knot of grief in my chest loosened slightly. I glanced up at the large wedding portrait of Jackson and me hanging in the center of the living room. I pointed a thumb at it. “Hello? See the wedding photo on the wall?” “Saw it!” Leo replied cheerfully. He pulled me over to the dining table and sat me down, then leaned in close, his voice a soft, husky murmur in my ear. “Ella, your husband’s got terrible taste. So why don’t we get rid of him, what do you say?” “Consider me, Ella. I’ll be so much more loyal to you than he ever was.” I watched impassively as Leo took my hand and placed it on the smooth, pale skin of his neck. The beautiful young man in front of me held my gaze without blinking. “Choose me. I guarantee… you won’t be disappointed.” 4. The news of Jackson’s affair vanished from the internet in less than a day, replaced by a trending story about a starlet wearing a suspiciously expensive piece of jewelry. I was lounging on the sofa of a condo I’d owned before the marriage. Beside me, Leo was meticulously de-seeding chunks of watermelon and feeding them to me while I argued with a production company on my laptop. “Ella, everyone in the business knows you don’t allow changes to your scripts. And they want you to rewrite a main character? What’s their angle?” Frustrated, I snapped my laptop shut. My last message to them was a simple “Let’s cancel the contract.” Leo had been on a tirade against the director ever since he’d heard, not even bothering to ask for a role for himself. He was just angry on my behalf. “Vent all you want to me, but be careful. That’s a big-shot, award-winning director. Don’t get yourself blacklisted.” Leo just smiled and leaned closer, gently tucking a stray strand of my hair behind my ear. “Blacklisted, not blacklisted, who cares? I’m on your side, no matter what.” He really was breathtakingly handsome. The slightest flutter of his eyelashes was enough to captivate you. It was no wonder he’d managed to break out of the influencer world and into this industry. I found myself reaching out, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. He leaned into my touch, a picture of willing submission. Then, Jackson’s call came through. “Ella? You haven’t been home the last few days?” Jackson’s voice on the other end was hesitant. “I noticed the bed hasn’t been slept in. Are you on a trip?” I glanced at Leo, who was still trying to get my attention. He held up a goofy novelty mask and mimicked its exasperated expression, making me let out an involuntary laugh. “Are you out right now?” Jackson asked, his tone sharpening. “Yes,” I replied, my patience wearing thin. “Is there something you need? If not, I’m hanging up. I’m busy.” “Wait!” he cut in urgently, taking a deep breath. “You saw the news online, right? That day, Rosalie was being falsely accused of being a sugar baby. I was just helping her out of a jam. You know how the media loves to twist things.” Across from me, Leo rolled his eyes and started tapping away at his phone. “Mhm, yes, I heard. You’re such a saint,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “If the media just makes things up, why did you bother paying to have the story buried?” “I didn’t bury it.” He was growing agitated. “Where are you? Give me an address, I’ll come to you. There’s something I need to discuss.” I paused, glancing at the bag I’d brought with me today. “Perfect. I have something to discuss with you, too.”

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1 I was so broke, I was eating on someone else’s boyfriend’s dime. Using his meal card, to be precise. Then a post about me in the cafeteria went viral on the campus confessions page, and the original poster showed up in the comments to let me have it. 【Ava from CompSci, right?】 【Are you that poor? Can’t even afford your own food? Gotta use someone else’s boyfriend’s meal card?】 【How does it feel to be a homewrecker? Did you know my sister is in the HOSPITAL because of you?!】 In less than a minute, the thread exploded. 【Whoa, what’s going on??!】 【Ava is a homewrecker??】 【Hospital? Seriously? What happened?】 … “Guys, you have to see this person’s profile!” On the poster’s social media feed was a series of screenshots. 【Why? The things I give you… why do you just turn around and give them to her?】 【Does she have any idea I queued up all night to get that Pikachu keychain? How can she just take something so precious without a second thought?】 【You say it’s nothing, but it’s such a coincidence, isn’t it? That you even ended up in the same elective class…】 【You told me you were going to a conference. I waited for you all alone on Valentine’s Day, like a good girl. But my friend saw you two, alone in the conference room for a long, long time. The cake I bought tasted like ash in my mouth.】 【I felt bad that you were struggling with money, so I skipped meals to top up your card. But then I saw you hand her a bubble tea with a little heart sticker on it…】 【I’m just a normal girl. I can’t compete with a campus queen like her. Sometimes, when I see you two together, I get confused. Was my happiness the stolen thing all along?】 【If you like each other, could you just tell me?… I don’t want to be the fool. I know when to walk away…】 A collection of short, fragmented entries, like diary pages, stretching from last February until today. A full year and a month. They were soaked in a young woman’s sorrow, her tears painting a world of gray, draining the color and energy from everything. The silence in our dorm was so thick you could hear a pin drop. Mia cleared her throat. Everyone’s gaze followed hers, landing on the gray Pikachu keychain hanging from my crossbody bag. On my desk, a stack of pink bubble tea bags had accumulated. “Last Valentine’s Day…” another roommate started, her voice trailing off. Last Valentine’s Day, I had spent hours getting ready before I went out. The worst part wasn’t the flood of angry comments. It was the hesitant silence of my own friends. I saw Mia’s lips part, as if she wanted to say something, but the details in those screenshots lined up with reality, one by one, with damning precision. My phone, lying face down on my desk, buzzed. I flipped it over. The screen lit up with the two most blinding words I could imagine right now: Leo. The same Leo who gave me the keychain, who bought me bubble tea, who I was in that delicate, unspoken “something more than friends” phase with. Sunlight streamed through the high window, but not a single ray seemed to touch me. “So, you were playing me? Flirting with me while you were with her, is that it?” My tone was sharp, devoid of any warmth. The face I knew so well was now clouded with a shadow I couldn’t penetrate. His eyes darted away, the line of his jaw tight. I cut through his hesitation. “I had no idea you were seeing someone. This is on you. You need to clear this up, and then we’re done. We don’t see each other again.” “And I’m truly sorry for the pain this has caused your girlfriend.” Throughout this whole mess, I never knew she existed. If I had, I would have never, ever let things get this close. Leo and I were childhood friends. He moved away in middle school, and it was a shock to run into him again at university. I did have a crush on him, I’ll admit it. But I wasn’t desperate enough to knowingly chase after someone else’s boyfriend. This was his mess to clean up. He was the one who hid the truth, the one who blurred the lines. I laid out my terms. Leo was silent for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. “I can’t do that.” I stared at him, my focus sharpening. His expression was unyielding. “I only ever saw you as a little sister, Ava. I don’t know if I did something to make you think we were… flirting, or something.” “I’m just used to looking out for younger girls, that’s all. I never had any other intentions. This whole thing has really upset my girlfriend, and I think you need to apologize to her, in person. And from now on, I’ll definitely be keeping my distance.” His words hit me like a physical blow, my head buzzing. “What are you talking about? This is your fault. And now you’re telling me you saw me as a sister?” He shrugged, spreading his hands. “What else would it be? You’re the one who’s been misreading things all along, aren’t you?” “You were the one dropping hints about bubble tea. You begged me for a birthday gift, so I gave you the keychain because I felt bad. I never thought you’d actually accept it.” “Everyone knows I have a girlfriend. How could you not know? You told me you lost your meal card, so I lent you mine out of kindness. Then you just… never gave it back. You even made sure my girlfriend saw you using it. What was that, if not a deliberate provocation?” “I was just being polite, but you kept crossing the line. Now Abby is lying in a hospital bed, and you will apologize to her.” In that moment, I didn’t recognize the person standing in front of me. Lending me the meal card was his idea. He said he was working an off-campus job and wouldn’t need it. The money on it? I put it there myself. I’m not the kind of girl who sees romance in every friendly gesture. I know the difference between friendship and something more. But the things Leo did, the way he acted… it was textbook courting behavior. The intimate nicknames, the way his entire demeanor changed when he was with me compared to anyone else. I had always thought we were in that sweet spot, more than friends but not yet official. Call me old-fashioned, but I was waiting for him to make the first move. I never imagined the reason he hadn’t wasn’t because he was shy. It was because he couldn’t. And now, all those little moments, the sweet gestures I’d cherished during our “almost-relationship,” were being twisted and thrown back in my face as proof of my shamelessness. He claimed everyone knew about his girlfriend, but I was the one person who had been kept completely in the dark. The conversation ended disastrously. I thought he was coming to me to admit his mistake, to figure out a plan. Instead, he’d pinned everything on me. It was laughable. The next day, my world imploded. My social media was a dumpster fire of notifications. An audio recording of my conversation with Leo had been posted online, cleverly edited. They’d cut out the most critical parts of the conversation, making it sound like I was confessing to everything, confirming that I was the aggressor, the homewrecker. The victim was in the hospital. Leo, crying, had apparently received her forgiveness. He’d just “made a mistake with boundaries,” he said. The only one at fault now was me. It was me who did the seducing, me who was shameless, me who used my looks to bully other students. Once the seed of doubt was planted, everything I did was put under a microscope. The way I drank my coffee, my step count on WhatsApp, even the clothes I wore were dissected on the operating table of public morality. A group photo from a club event where I happened to be standing next to the president was now “proof” that I was a “habitual homewrecker.” Leo and Abby’s silence left me standing alone in the eye of the storm. My attempts to post clarifications were drowned out, disappearing without a ripple. The campus was buzzing with the thrill of gossip. Everywhere I went, I heard the whispers, the rumors. My social media, even my parents’ TikTok accounts, were flooded with hateful comments. Some called me a fake, a phony. Some pitied the girl whose relationship I had supposedly destroyed. Others said I looked innocent, but was probably a slut behind closed doors. They called me a bitch, a near-murderer. The insults were a barrage of daggers, and every single one seemed to have my name on it, magically swerving around Leo. I even overheard guys in the hallway muttering about how lucky he was, how he had some serious game to have two beautiful girls fighting over him. All the knives, they all found me. If things were bad outside, they weren’t much better in my dorm. Besides Mia, who still spoke to me in quiet tones, my other two roommates treated me like I was invisible. “Don’t be too hard on them,” Mia said, trying to comfort me. “It’s just a shock… They have really strong morals, you know…” I pressed my lips together. “Leo never told me he had a girlfriend.” My words felt weak, pathetic without proof. All those unspoken feelings, those shy, secret emotions, had left no trace, no evidence that could prove my innocence. I tried to contact Abby, to explain what really happened. All I got back was a message saying she was still recovering and couldn’t face me right now. Every attempt to clear my name only brought more criticism. The rumors didn’t die down; they grew, fed by a steady stream of new “evidence”—a selectively cropped chat screenshot, a misinterpreted photo—all painting me as a promiscuous villain. The whole affair reached its peak at the annual campus gala. I was the host. I was always the host. But this time, it was different. People I’d worked with for years, people I thought were my friends, avoided my eyes, their smiles strained and awkward. An invisible, suffocating pressure filled the backstage area. No one said a word, but I knew. This was my last time hosting. They hadn’t replaced me only because there wasn’t enough time to find someone else. I took a deep breath and walked onto the stage. Just as I expected, I was met with a sea of appraising stares and hushed whispers. Scrutiny, mockery. The hand holding the microphone trembled slightly. I wasn’t strong enough to stand here and pretend their words didn’t cut me. Thankfully, as the performances began, the attention on me started to fade. At nine o’clock, the gala ended. I stepped forward to deliver the closing remarks. The energy in the auditorium had mellowed, the crowd’s earlier animosity replaced by a restless impatience to leave. I forced a smile. “That concludes a wonderful evening. We’ll see you all next…” My words were cut short by an icy shock that hit me full in the face. Filthy water, mixed with leaves and cigarette butts, drenched me from head to toe. My hair was plastered to my face in dripping strands, my white formal dress stained and ruined. I didn’t have to look to know what a pathetic sight I must be. For the first time, I saw the guy who made the original post. His eyes were filled with raw, naked malice. “My sister is in the hospital, and you get to stand here, all glamorous and perfect?!” he screamed. “You vicious bitch, you don’t deserve this!” The audience, who had been shuffling towards the exits, stopped dead. Phones came out, a hundred little black lenses turning towards the stage, a hundred unblinking eyes watching this trial by public opinion. No one looked at me with pity. There were only cheers, a wave of excitement at this unexpected finale. “YES! Finally!” “She deserves it! Why should Abby be in the hospital while she’s up there under the spotlights?” “This is so satisfying!” My shock and humiliation were the spark that lit their fireworks. The hall erupted. Abby’s brother and I were both hauled into the Dean’s office. This guy, all six feet of him, was the one whose eyes turned red first. Talking about his sister, he choked up. “I just couldn’t stand it…” he sobbed. “Why should my sister suffer so much while she gets away with everything… I wanted to… I know I was a bit impulsive…” The Dean spent a long time talking to him, consoling him. His voice softened, and it seemed like they’d reached some kind of understanding. But when he left, the look he shot me was anything but forgiving. In his eyes, I deserved everything I got, and even this wasn’t enough to settle the score. Silence descended on the office again, the same heavy silence that followed me into my dorm room, into my classes. The Dean took a sip of tea. It felt like an eternity before she finally spoke. “Ultimately, you were in the wrong here, Ava. While the young man’s actions were extreme, they’re… understandable.” “Let’s just leave it at that.” She tapped her fingers on the desk, a gesture of finality. I looked up at her. “I didn’t do anything.” She waved a dismissive hand. “It is what it is. Don’t dwell on it. You young people and your messy lives.” “Because of the impact of this incident, you probably won’t be getting that scholarship. There’s nothing to be done about it.” “Give it time. The rumors will die down eventually. Just let time handle it.” She said it so calmly, but I could feel my whole body trembling. Why did everyone think this was something I just had to endure? Why was every attempt I made to tell the truth drowned by this tidal wave of gossip? The truth wasn’t what they said it was, so why was I the only one being punished? I looked at the clues I’d gathered on my phone and opened up the campus confessions submission form. A few minutes later, a new post set the campus on fire all over again. 【HUGE NEWS—This Wednesday, 3 PM, Ava will be live-streaming her confession. She will admit to being a homewrecker, kneel to apologize to Abby, and offer financial compensation.】 Watching the comment count skyrocket, my eyes narrowed. Maybe I was wrong to try and explain myself from the start. When someone throws mud at you, crouching down to wipe your skirt is the most useless thing you can do.

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For five years, everyone said I was dead. Even the boy I grew up with burned paper money for me every year on my “death anniversary.” But he was also the one who said he wanted to cut ties with me, the one who said we should never contact each other again. Later, I returned to the States and ran into him at a bar. Before I could even say hello, his bodyguards pinned me to the floor. He looked at me with chilling indifference. “Who allowed you to get plastic surgery to look like her?” Then he ordered his men: “Ruined her face.” Wait, how did the guy I haven’t seen in years suddenly turn into a criminal? 1 As soon as I walked out of JFK, a figure in black tackled me. “Zoey, I missed you so much!” It was my best friend, Chloe. We hadn’t seen each other in years, and the feeling was mutual. She hugged me for so long I started to lose my breath. “Chloe, that’s enough. Oxygen.” “Right, right.” Chloe let go, her eyes sparkling. “You’re not leaving again this time, right?” I nodded. “Yeah, I’m staying.” Chloe suddenly thought of something and burst out laughing. “If Liam saw you, would he think he’s seeing a ghost?” Liam was my childhood sweetheart, the only guy I ever loved. Before I came back, Chloe filled me in on what happened back home. Liam wasn’t the same Liam from five years ago. He climbed the ladder faster than I did and was now the head of the Sterling family empire. And me? I spent five years hiding in Europe just to stay alive. Surviving this long used up almost all my luck. I hadn’t contacted Liam in a long time. I looked at Chloe. “You didn’t tell him I was coming back?” Chloe smirked mischievously. “Nope. Serves him right for being so heartless back then.” Back then… My thoughts drifted. Liam and I were solid. We planned to marry after graduation. But my dad’s sudden illness revealed a secret: I had two half-brothers and a half-sister I never knew about. Dad was on his deathbed, and to fight for the inheritance, they planned to get rid of me. A staged car accident left me hanging by a thread. Mom didn’t trust anyone in the States anymore. She sent her most trusted aide to take me abroad for treatment. Before leaving, I called Liam to say goodbye. Afraid he’d worry, I didn’t mention the accident. Liam misunderstood. He thought I didn’t trust him and kept questioning me over the phone. “Why are you leaving? I told you I’d do everything to help you.” “Do you think I’m not capable enough?” I never doubted Liam’s heart. But back then, we were young and powerless. I didn’t want to drag him down. And I didn’t even know if I would survive. So I hardened my heart. “My mind is made up.” Liam’s voice choked up. “Zoey, please. Don’t go.” I gripped the phone tightly, forcing out the last words. “Liam, I’m sorry.” At that, Liam laughed bitterly. “Zoey, this is the first time I’ve begged anyone. And the last.” “If we meet again, let’s pretend we’re strangers. Don’t contact me.” The moment the call ended, I couldn’t hold on anymore. Everything went black, and I fell into a long coma. 2 When I regained consciousness, it was twenty days later. I was in Switzerland, my injuries healing. The first news I heard was of my death back in the US. Aunt Helen, who accompanied me, explained: “The moment our private jet landed, your dad’s illegitimate kids spread the news that you died in the crash. They wanted to use public opinion to seize the assets quickly.” “Your mom decided to play along and confirm your death so they’d stop hunting you. It frees her up to deal with them.” “Illegitimate kids have inheritance rights, sure, but they need to be alive to collect.” “Just recover here. Your mom will handle everything back home.” I understood. But thinking of Mom fighting those wolves alone… I had no mind for anything else. I threw myself into rehab, desperate to get back and help her. But my injuries were severe, especially my face. It was practically destroyed. Even with the best medical team Mom hired, I looked different than before. Chloe recognized me immediately because we video chatted often. I linked arms with her. “Then let’s keep it a secret.” No one stays in the same place for five years. Let the past stay in the past. 3 Chloe didn’t take me home immediately. Instead, she drove me to a cemetery in Upstate New York. She pointed to a tombstone with my name on it, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “Look at this guy. Said he didn’t love you, but burned paper money for you for five years straight.” “Said he loved you, but dates the heiress of the Vance family. Heard they’re close to tying the knot. I’ll take you to crash their wedding feast.” I didn’t speak, staring at the hyacinths in front of the grave. My favorite flower. This deception seemed to have fooled only Liam. What was he thinking when he heard I died? I shook my head, chuckling at myself. He has a new life now. Why dwell on it? The Vance heiress must be a great girl. Leaving the cemetery, Chloe chattered non-stop. “You’ve been gone five years. The city’s changed so much, right?” “Our old school area is all high-rises now.” “I have a list on my phone of all the best spots I’ve vetted personally.” “I don’t care, you have to come out for a drink with me tonight.” So, without even dropping off my luggage, I was dragged to a bar. As soon as we sat down, she whispered conspiratorially: “You’ve been a nun for years. Want me to order two male models for you to play with tonight?” My first instinct was to refuse, shaking my head vigorously. Chloe ignored me. “Relax, the quality has gone way up in the last two years. Satisfaction guaranteed.” I was shocked. Looks like she does this often. Meeting my gaze, Chloe shrugged. “Don’t look at me like that. You think I’m silly enough to believe in true love like you?” Knowing Chloe wanted it, I didn’t stop her. 4 People really do change. Five years ago, Chloe hadn’t even been in a serious relationship. Now she was handling two male models with ease. Afraid she’d get drunk and taken advantage of, I didn’t drink much. Even my bathroom break was a speed run. But in my rush, I ran smack into a wall of muscle coming out of the restroom. I rubbed my head, muttering, “Who has a chest hard as a wall?” I looked up and froze. It was Liam. How… how is this coincidental? The man opposite me saw my face and froze too. Recovering, he grabbed my wrist, voice uncertain. “Zoey?” I didn’t really want to acknowledge him, but since I was recognized, I braced myself to say hi. But before I could smile, Liam threw me to the ground. His expression was terrifyingly cold, as if he didn’t know me at all. “Who allowed you to get plastic surgery to look like her? Did Layla Vance send you? To test me?” “Do you think I’m that easy?” A bloodthirsty glint flashed in his eyes. He turned to his bodyguards. “Ruined her face.” Pinned down by Liam’s bodyguards, I couldn’t believe it. How did the guy I haven’t seen in years turn into a criminal? Whether I’m the real Zoey or not, this is illegal! Why did Liam become like this? My limbs were immobilized, my jaw held tight. Someone approached me with a knife. The whole time, I stared into Liam’s eyes. Just as the blade was about to touch my face, Liam closed his eyes and spoke. “Forget it. Next time you appear in front of me, you won’t be so lucky.” They left quickly. Still shaken, I looked at the corner. There was a security camera. I pulled out my phone without hesitation. “911? I want to report a threat and assault.”

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My favorite idol got canceled, and I was sobbing in an internet café. The hot guy next to me lost his game and ripped off his headset in frustration. “What the hell are you crying for? I’ll win the next round. I’ll be your man.” And just like that, I found myself nervously watching him play, terrified he’d lose. 1 This guy had a “player” face—sharp, aggressive, and dangerously handsome. He looked like trouble. I recognized him. Caleb Rivers, the heartthrob from the art school next door. Someone I would never cross paths with in a million years was now offering to be my man? Talk about a pie falling from the sky—and a sweet one at that! In the middle of the game, he “died” once. during the respawn countdown, he glanced sideways at me, his gaze lazy and tired. That look seemed to say: Relax, I’m definitely going to be your man. Finally, the screen flashed VICTORY. I got so excited I couldn’t help myself and grabbed his arm. “Bro, you won!” I realized how forward I was being as soon as I said it. But hey, I’m a sucker for good looks. A little lack of reserve is normal. The man leaned back in his chair, headset hanging loosely around his neck, his tone casual. “So, are we dating for real?” He said it with a smile, not quite a question, but not quite a statement either. “Wait… didn’t you say it?” My voice was timid, but inside, I was already cursing him out. Just then, four men in suits walked up behind us. They looked like bodyguards. The leader nodded slightly. “Mr. Rivers, if you’ve had enough fun, it’s time to go home.” “…” What is this? This vibe was giving “Domineering CEO drags his little wife home.” I couldn’t help but look at the guy next to me. Drop-dead gorgeous, but frowning with impatience. He turned to meet my gaze for half a second, then suddenly smirked. “Can’t I even say a few words to my girlfriend without you interfering?” “…” I blinked. He had already taken my hand. His palm was warm, sending a tingle straight to my racing heart. The bodyguard was clearly stunned. “Of course, sir. We wouldn’t dare.” “…” Caleb didn’t say another word. He just pulled me along and walked out. 2 Standing on the street corner, my thoughts slowly returned. My idol got canceled, but I got a boyfriend out of it? Thank you, cancel culture! Caleb let go of my hand, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with his head tilted to the side. Smoke drifted from his pale hand. He had this undeniable bad-boy aura. “Crying that hard over a breakup?” he asked. I wanted to explain, but it felt unnecessary. “Have you always…” I swallowed, “liked me?” With a move like that, it was hard not to misunderstand. Caleb took a drag, chuckled lightly, and stubbed out the cigarette on a trash can. He didn’t say anything, which felt like a silent admission. He really had a secret crush on me! I felt a sudden pang of guilt. “I’ll take responsibility for you.” “…” I don’t know which part tickled his funny bone, but his shoulders shook with laughter, muscles flexing under his white tee. “Babe, you really are clueless.” He grabbed my hand again. “Hungry? Let’s get some food.” I hadn’t eaten much for lunch, so I was actually starving. On the way, we ran into a few of his friends. “Yo, Caleb, who’s this?” “You turned down Vanessa for this innocent little bunny?” “Where are your bodyguards? How come they aren’t tailing you today?” I’ve always been a well-behaved girl. Hearing these guys from a different crowd talking about me made my cheeks burn. Caleb’s tone was light. He took a cigarette offered by a friend and twirled it in his fingers. “Why would they follow me? To watch us hold hands? Or to watch us…” He didn’t finish because I slapped his shoulder in embarrassment. I guessed what he was going to say and glared at him. Caleb raised an eyebrow and gave me a meaningful smile. This scene caused the guys opposite us to hoot and holler. “Since when is Caleb whipped?” “…” Caleb didn’t linger. He laughed, cursed them out, and dragged me away. 3 We found a dessert shop. I have a serious sweet tooth. I took a bite of a waffle and peeked at him, only to lock eyes. He hadn’t touched his food. I quickly lowered my head. A few seconds later, I heard a faint chuckle by my ear. “Why are you blushing?” His voice was cool but laced with a smile that made my heart flutter. I wiped my hands. “Why do you keep staring at me?” “I’m looking at my own girlfriend. Got a problem with that?” My face turned even redder. I changed the subject. “Why do those bodyguards follow you?” He stirred his coffee absentmindedly. A few seconds later, he looked up at me lazily, clearly up to no good. “To be honest, babe, I’m sick.” “…” I stared at him, stunned. “What kind of sickness?” He didn’t answer directly, looking away. “I do like you, but I don’t want to hold you back. So maybe we should just…” His tone was pitiful. Paired with that handsome face, it triggered my savior complex instantly. In that moment, I was Mother Teresa. I put my hand over his. “Caleb Rivers, don’t worry. I won’t abandon you.” A flicker of stiffness crossed his brow, but then he laughed out loud and held my hand back. “Glad to hear it.” 4 The news of Caleb dating spread to every campus confession page by the next day. “Holy sht, my crush is taken?”* “Help! How does this girl compare to Vanessa? She looks like such a ‘pick-me’…” “…” The words “pick-me” kept replaying in my head. I was so mad I threw my phone. Just one photo and they decided I was a “pick-me” girl? “Summer, tell me, how did you hook Caleb?” My best friend, Lila, whispered, leaning in. I raised an eyebrow. “He confessed to me.” Silence. Lila laughed. “You think I’m stupid? Caleb just rejected the campus queen next door, and then confessed to you?” She switched to a fawning smile. “Get to know him better, introduce his friends to me. Keep the good stuff in the family.” “…” I brushed her off and went to find Caleb. The basketball court stands were packed with girls. Oh, and the four bodyguards standing on the sidelines. “Caleb, your girlfriend is here,” someone said. I looked in that direction. He was wearing a black tee and gray sweatpants, his features sharp and cold. He was wiping sweat with a towel. He was tall. He walked towards me, towel in hand, the muscles in his neck and shoulders on full display. “What’s up?” His tone was casual. I lowered my head. They called me a “pick-me,” right? Fine, I’ll show them a pick-me. Without thinking, I hugged him. 5 Boys hooted around us, enjoying the drama. A girl in the stands stood up and left. His waist was really firm. My ears burned, and I couldn’t focus on anything else. I looked up at him and saw his Adam’s apple bob slowly. Caleb looked down, his hand resting on my waist. “Don’t start. I’m sweaty.” I shook my head, looking aggrieved, forcing tears into my eyes. “They called me a pick-me.” Caleb looked uncomfortable and clicked his tongue. “How did I end up with such a crybaby girlfriend?” Suddenly, a basketball flew from the next court. I instinctively shrank into his arms. He raised a hand and intercepted the ball effortlessly. Frowning, his tone unchanged: “Who called you that?” That move was so hot I was dazed. “Just… online.” Caleb nodded. “Got it.” “…” That’s it? I poked his wrist. “Lunch together?” Caleb didn’t speak. His gaze remained calm. He glanced behind me, his voice lazy. “Sure.” After he showered, he naturally took my hand. He looked at the bodyguards nearby. “We’re going on a date. You coming too?” The leader hesitated for a few seconds, then shook his head.

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