Category: English

In three years of marriage to Adrienne, I had never asked her for a single favor. The only time I did was this summer, after my little sister, Molly, graduated high school. I asked Adrienne if she could find Molly a summer internship at her firm. She hadn’t even looked up from her tablet. “Tell her to report to the reception desk. They can always use a hand.” Molly took a seventeen-hour Greyhound bus, wearing her only decent white button-down, and waited in the lobby all afternoon. By evening, I saw the Slack notifications from the company’s general channel. “Who’s the country bumpkin at the front desk? Her collar is literally yellowing. I can’t.” “Apparently, she’s the boss’s husband’s sister.” “Wait, seriously? Didn’t Adrienne personally walk Lawrence’s little sister around all the departments today?” The attached photo showed Adrienne with her arm around another girl’s shoulder, smiling warmly, looking every bit the elegant CEO. Same floor, same afternoon. Someone replied with a hand-over-mouth emoji. “Both sisters, but what a difference.” When Molly came home that night, she pulled a bag of sun-dried peach slices from her backpack. “Travis, I brought these for Adrienne. She was so busy today, I’ll try to give them to her next time.” “The girl at the front desk gave me a cup of cucumber water. It tasted so good.” I smiled, brushing a stray hair from her forehead, then stepped out onto the balcony to call my lawyer. “Could you draft a divorce agreement for me? Yes, as soon as possible.” … In the living room, Molly was hunched over the coffee table, writing on a post-it note. As I walked over, she instinctively hid it behind her back, her ears flushing red. “What are you writing?” “Nothing… just nothing.” I reached out. She shrank back but couldn’t avoid me. I gently took the crumpled piece of paper from her hand. It read: Adrienne, I left the dried peaches on the table for you. They’re from this year’s harvest. Mom said they’re your favorite. I stared at her neat, round handwriting, a heavy ache settling in my chest. Five years ago, when Adrienne first came to my hometown, she really did love them. It was Thanksgiving. I had driven eleven hours to take her back to our small town in rural Kentucky. Molly was only in seventh grade then. Hearing her brother’s girlfriend was coming, she ran all the way from the dusty county road to the edge of our driveway. When the car door opened, she stood there panting, clutching a Ziploc bag, her cheap t-shirt damp with sweat. Adrienne had knelt in the gravel, unzipped the bag, and eaten three slices right then and there. “These are incredible. Way better than those organic, overpriced ones I get in Chicago.” Molly’s eyes had lit up like stars. For the rest of the trip, Adrienne carried that bag everywhere. My mother pulled me aside later, whispering, “Adrienne is just being sweet. Country things like dried peaches can’t compare to what she’s used to in the city.” I had laughed, completely sure of her. “She’s not just being polite, Mom. She truly loves them.” My mother beamed and spent the next day dehydrating two massive trays. Now, that bag of freshly dried peaches sat on our marble coffee table, brought all the way from Kentucky. Seventeen hours on a cramped bus, cradled in Molly’s lap so they wouldn’t get crushed. The front door clicked open just after eleven. Adrienne walked in, hanging her coat on the rack. Passing the coffee table, she paused, her eyes sweeping over the Ziploc bag. Her nose wrinkled slightly, and she nudged it toward the edge of the table to clear space for her keys. “Is your sister asleep?” “Yeah.” She murmured an acknowledgment, leaning against the kitchen island to check her phone. I watched her open Slack. Please arrange a lunch for Chelsea tomorrow. Invite the marketing team so she can start networking. After sending that, she texted Lawrence, her executive assistant. Your sister did great today. I’ll take her to the site visit with me tomorrow so she can get some hands-on experience. Lawrence replied instantly with a smiley face: Thank you so much, Adrienne. Chelsea is thrilled. A faint smile played on Adrienne’s lips. When she finally looked up at me, her expression smoothed into her usual calm facade. “Travis,” she said, as if suddenly remembering. “HR mentioned a new face at the front desk. Is that Molly?” I looked at her. “You’re just finding out now?” She blinked, caught off guard, but quickly recovered. “It was a hectic day. I couldn’t get away. I assume she’s doing fine down there? Megan at the front desk is usually very helpful.” I didn’t answer. She didn’t press, taking her glass of water toward the bedroom. As she passed the coffee table, her sleeve caught the bag of dried peaches, sending it sliding onto the hardwood floor. She didn’t stop. I knelt, picked up the bag, smoothed out the plastic, and placed it back on the table. My phone buzzed. A text from Molly, sent from her room—likely because she didn’t want to say it aloud. Travis, can I go to the office early tomorrow? Megan said she’d show me how to organize the files. I want to get a head start so I don’t embarrass Adrienne. The next afternoon, I brought a lunchbox to the office. Megan, the receptionist, smiled awkwardly. “Travis. Adrienne is upstairs in a meeting. Should I page her?” “No need. I’m here to see my sister. Where is Molly?” Megan’s smile faltered. “Molly… she’s down in Basement 2. The archives. Lawrence reassigned her yesterday.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Travis, there’s no AC down there, and the air is really musty. Do you want me to mention it to Adrienne? Maybe she can move her.” “I’ll go down first.” When the elevator doors opened at B2, the smell of damp cardboard hit me instantly. At the end of the dimly lit hallway, the heavy metal door was propped half-open. Old folders were stacked nearly to the ceiling. Molly was crouching on the concrete floor, her white sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her forehead slick with sweat. Her face brightened when she saw me. “Travis! What are you doing here? It’s not even lunchtime yet.” She grinned, looking like the same goofy kid from Kentucky. “Brought you lunch. Isn’t it hot down here?” She took the lunchbox, wiping her dusty hands on her jeans before opening it. “It’s fine. There’s a fan.” She pointed to a rusted box fan rattling in the corner, its blades coated in thick gray dust. “Actually, Travis, I really like this job,” she said, taking a bite. “Look, I’ve already organized three shelves. I put little colored labels on every single bin. Now, anyone looking for old tax records can find them in five seconds.” I looked where she was pointing. The labels were written in her neat, careful handwriting. On a few of them, she’d drawn tiny, hand-drawn flowers in the corner—a habit she’d had since she was a little girl. I knelt beside her, helping her close a heavy storage box. “Eat your lunch first. Then take a break.” “I can’t,” she said, swallowing quickly and looking up at me with absolute earnestness. “Lawrence said this whole section needs to be logged by Friday. I don’t want to slack off and make Adrienne look bad.” I looked at her damp eyelashes, clenching my jaw to keep my composure. When I took the empty lunchbox back upstairs, the elevator stopped on the seventeenth floor. As the doors slid open, I saw the glass-walled conference room directly opposite. Adrienne sat at the head of the long table. Chelsea sat opposite her. A few marketing directors were gathered around them, laughing. Adrienne leaned over, gently adjusting Chelsea’s hand as she held her pen, showing her how to annotate a brief. The gesture was incredibly natural, filled with the patient warmth of an older mentor. Chelsea smiled shyly, and Adrienne tapped her shoulder encouragingly, her eyes soft. The elevator doors slowly slid shut. It was the same look Adrienne had given Molly at our wedding three years ago. Molly, wearing a rented dress, had been so nervous her fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. Adrienne had taken her hands, gently placing the silver spoon in her palm. “Don’t worry,” Adrienne had whispered. “You’ve got me now.” Molly had looked up, her eyes rimmed with red, smiling so wide. “Adrienne.” “We’re family now, Molly.” The seventeenth floor: a bright room, shared laughter, and an artisanal catered lunch. Basement 2: dust, heat, and a broken fan. In the lobby, I ran into Lawrence. He was carrying two iced lattes, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the polished tile. “Travis, hey. Adrienne was just asking about you,” he said smoothly. “By the way, is Molly settling into the archives okay? Let me know if she needs anything.” I forced a tight smile and walked past him without a word. Molly came home very late that night. Her white shirt had a dark, blotchy stain right below the collar. “What happened to your shirt?” She looked down, quickly pulling her collar up to hide it. “It’s nothing, Travis.” “Molly.” She didn’t answer, slipping past me into the kitchen. The sink faucet began to run. I stood at the doorway, watching her vigorously scrub the stain with dish soap. After a long silence, she spoke in a small, tight voice. “I was delivering some old files upstairs this afternoon. I ran into Chelsea.” “She and Adrienne were coming out of a conference room. Chelsea was holding an iced coffee. She said I was blocking the hallway.” “I tried to step aside, but she bumped into me… I’m sure it was an accident.” Her voice trailed off, lacking any real conviction. “Did Adrienne see it?” Molly’s hands paused. She shook her head, then quickly forced a smile. “Really, Travis, it’s fine. It’ll wash out. Tomorrow I’ll wear a cardigan over it, no one will see.” That was her only decent white shirt. Before going to bed, I opened my phone. A photo was circulating in the company’s group chat. Adrienne was standing at the podium of the main boardroom, Chelsea beside her. The caption read: The CEO personally mentoring our new intern. Chelsea knocked her first presentation out of the park today! Below it, someone had forwarded Adrienne’s quote: Chelsea is young, but she has a rare spark. I already look at her like a little sister. I stared at those words until the screen went black. Molly finished organizing the entire archives on her fifth day. When she told me, she looked incredibly proud but slightly anxious. “Travis, do you think I could show the catalog to Adrienne? Do you think she’d like it?” I smoothed her hair. “She will.” She washed her face carefully before we left. She spent a long time in front of the mirror, buttoning her collar all the way to the top, then unbuttoning it, and finally buttoning it back up. Megan told me what happened next. When Molly reached the executive suite, the assistant told her Adrienne was in a meeting. Molly nodded, clutched her stack of organized folders, and stood quietly against the hallway wall. She waited for two hours. People walked past, casting curious sidelong glances, whispering to one another. Megan tried to persuade her to go down to the breakroom, but Molly shook her head, holding the folders even tighter. “I want to give them to her myself.” Finally, the boardroom doors opened. Adrienne and Chelsea walked out side-by-side, deep in conversation. Molly’s eyes lit up. She took a step forward. “Adrienne…” Adrienne’s gaze swept over her, pausing for less than a second on Molly’s frayed collar and dusty shoes. “Mmm.” She didn’t even break her stride. Molly’s outstretched hand froze in midair, the heavy folders slipping slightly in her grip. Chelsea looked back, her eyes lingering on the stain on Molly’s collar. A faint, mocking smile touched her lips before she turned and caught up with Adrienne. Megan said that when she went to comfort Molly, Molly just stood there for a long time, staring down at the folders in her arms. Then, she whispered, “Adrienne must just be really busy today.” Those folders were eventually tossed into a storage bin by HR. Adrienne never saw them. That night, Adrienne arrived home before Molly. I set a glass of water on the kitchen island in front of her. “Molly went to see you today.” Her hand paused on her cufflink. “Oh. I think I saw her outside the boardroom. What did she want?” “She finished the archives. She wanted to show you her work.” Adrienne leaned back against the sofa, sighing. “She should have just handed that to HR. Tell her to text me next time instead of standing in the hallway like that. It doesn’t look professional.” “Professional?” “Travis, we have clients coming in and out of the executive suite. Having her stand outside my door looking like that…” She stopped herself. “Just tell her to wait downstairs next time.” Silence stretched across the living room. I stared at her, suddenly remembering the hardest year of her startup. Molly had pawned the gold baby locket our parents had left her and spent two weeks doing heavy labor at a warehouse to help us pay rent. She was only thirteen then. Her hands were so raw and dry from the cold that they bled when she washed them, yet she’d smiled and said she was just glad to help her sister-in-law. That winter, Adrienne had gotten drunk and cried, holding Molly tight. She had sworn she would always protect Molly, would treat her like her own flesh and blood. “Have you forgotten all of that?” I asked quietly. Adrienne’s face went momentarily blank. She rubbed her temples, looking irritated. “Travis, things are different now. Can you please stop bringing up the past every time we have a minor issue?” “My position is different. People are watching me. I can’t exactly introduce a girl who looks like she just crawled out of a coal mine as my sister-in-law to my board of directors, can I?” She sighed. “Look, what is she unhappy about? Does she want a different department?” I looked at her. “I’m sending her back home the day after tomorrow.” Adrienne frowned. “I thought she was staying for the whole summer.” “Her classes start soon.” “In July? Her semester doesn’t start until September.” I didn’t answer. When I opened Molly’s bedroom door, she was already packing her duffel bag. The white shirt was folded into a neat square, tucked at the very bottom. “Travis.” She didn’t turn around. “Is it… hard for Adrienne to have me around?” “No. She’s just got a lot on her plate at the company.” Molly nodded quietly. After a moment, she whispered, “Actually, Travis, I know.” She turned to face me. At eighteen, the bright, eager girl who had run down a dirt road to hand a stranger a bag of dried peaches was gone. “I saw the Slack messages. I borrowed Megan’s phone to look up some transit directions, and the notifications popped up.” She offered a small, fragile smile. “They said I was a country bumpkin. They laughed at my shirt.” She looked down at her hands. “It is yellow. I couldn’t get the stain out.” A lump formed in my throat, thick and painful. Molly reached out, squeezing my arm to comfort me instead. “Don’t be mad at Adrienne, Travis. She runs a huge company. It was nice of her to let me work there at all.” She pressed the white shirt deeper into her bag. “I’m just not cut out for the city.” Before she left, Molly went to a department store downtown. Her stipend for those five days was only three hundred dollars. She spent a hundred and twenty of it on a silk scarf. She had stared at it in the display case for an hour before finally pulling out her crumpled bills. “Travis, do you think this color looks good on Adrienne? Will she like it?” The price tag was still attached, and she held the box so carefully to ensure the corners wouldn’t get dented. Looking at her hopeful, anxious face, my chest tightened. “It’s beautiful. She’ll love it.” Molly let out a sigh of relief. Then she reached into her backpack pocket and pulled out a white envelope, placing it on the coffee table. “This is for you.” “What’s this?” She rubbed the back of her neck, blushing. “My savings. My stipend, plus the allowance money you sent me over the years that I didn’t spend. I saved it all.” “It’s not much, but… happy early third anniversary to you and Adrienne.” I opened the envelope. Three thousand two hundred dollars. A few hundred-dollar bills, but mostly crumpled twenties, tens, and fives. On the way to the Greyhound station, Molly kept her eyes glued to the window. “Chicago is so big, Travis.” “If I get into grad school here, we can see each other every day.” She smiled but didn’t say anything else. After a while, she asked softly, “Travis, do you remember the creek behind our old house?” “Of course.” “Remember when it flooded, and Adrienne carried me across? The water came all the way up to her waist. I begged her to put me down, but she wouldn’t.” She smiled down at her lap. “She told me that when she made it big, she’d build a real bridge for our town. I thought she was just bragging.” She paused, staring out at the passing highway, her voice barely a whisper. “But she actually sent the money to the town council. The bridge was finished this summer, Travis. I don’t think she even knows.” The bus station was packed. Molly handed me the gift box for Adrienne, with a small note tucked inside. “Go home, Travis. I can handle the ride.” “It’s seventeen hours, Molly.” “It was seventeen hours coming here, and I survived.” She flashed her teeth, showing her familiar dimples. “Besides, I bought instant ramen.” As she walked through the gate, she turned and waved. Her lips moved, her voice drowned out by the roaring engines, but I could read her lips perfectly. Tell Adrienne I said thank you. The metal gate clicked shut. I stood there for a long time until my phone buzzed. A message in the company chat: Adrienne is hosting a farewell dinner for Chelsea at the Peninsula Hotel tonight. Private room, all the VPs are there. Wow, that’s huge. Wait, didn’t the boss’s sister-in-law intern here too? Why is only one getting a send-off? One is a VIP guest. The other was basically a volunteer. You can’t compare them. I stared at the screen and felt a sudden, bitter urge to laugh. On the exact same day. Molly was starting a seventeen-hour bus ride with a cup of instant ramen, having spent half her money on a gift for Adrienne. Chelsea was sitting in a five-star dining room, wearing a designer necklace Adrienne had bought her, surrounded by executives. I had seen that necklace in a boutique window last week. Twelve thousand dollars. When I got back to the empty apartment, I set the silk scarf on the coffee table. Next to it sat the bag of dried peaches, untouched since the day Molly arrived. I went into the study and pulled out the divorce papers. As I lowered the pen to the paper, memories flooded back. Adrienne sitting on the gravel eating dried peaches; Molly laughing on her shoulders; Adrienne tucking the spoon into Molly’s hand at our wedding. But my hand didn’t tremble. I signed my name. I went into the bedroom, pulled out my suitcase, and began to pack. The front door opened around midnight. Adrienne stepped in, smelling faintly of wine. She kicked off her heels, calling out, “Travis? Why are the lights—” Her voice stopped dead. She was staring at the coffee table. The signed divorce papers, my wedding ring, the bag of dried peaches. And the cheap box containing the silk scarf.

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Because my sister and I were both genetically prone to obesity, our mother laid down a strict rule: we were forbidden from eating anything except the diet meals she personally prepared for us. I complied completely, terrified of gaining even an ounce. I barely dared to drink a single extra drop of water. But when I stepped on the scale a month later, the numbers shattered my world. I had ballooned to three hundred pounds. Panicking, I ran to my sister Mel’s room. She was standing in front of her full-length mirror, turning side to side with a smug smile. “Cassie, does this bodycon dress look good on me?” My eyes flicked to the digital scale on her floor. The display read ninety pounds. I felt like the ground had been pulled out from under me. I suspected something was wrong with the meal prep Mom was making. So, for the next month, I became her shadow. I watched her buy the groceries, watched her prep, and stood by the stove until the food hit the plate. The moment it was done, I took my portion straight to my room, eating behind locked doors, giving no one a chance to tamper with it. Yet, thirty days later, my weight soared to five hundred pounds. Deep, angry purple stretch marks tore across my skin. My blood pressure hit a dangerous 220. Because of my extreme weight, my company let me go. My boyfriend ghosted me without a word—a brutal, sudden breakup that left me hollowed out. My body became a prison of chronic pain and failing organs. I spiraled into absolute despair. I refused to touch another bite of Mom’s food. I begged them, screamed at them to take me to the hospital for gastric bypass surgery. But by then, I was nearly eight hundred pounds. I was suffering from severe hypertension, diabetes, and advanced congestive heart failure. The day after the surgery, a massive, rampant infection took hold. I died in my bed, suffocated by my own body. Then, I opened my eyes. And I was back. Back to the exact day my mother started her mandatory diet plan. … “Mel, Cassie, dinner’s ready!” My mother’s voice floated through the door, sharp and familiar. I walked out of my bedroom to find the dining table set with two identical meal-prep containers, just like in my previous life. Mel’s was on the right. Mine was on the left. The meal was simple: a piece of pan-seared fish, a few steamed broccoli florets, and a small scoop of brown rice. It looked like any standard fitness meal you’d buy at a health-food store. My hand shook as I picked up my fork. Why had Mel shrunk to skin and bones in my past life, while I had gained a hundred pounds in a single month? Was there some hidden difference between these two seemingly identical plates? I looked at Mel, keeping my voice casual. “Hey, Mel. Let’s swap plates.” A sharp clang echoed from the kitchen. Mom had dropped her spatula onto the tile floor. She hurried out, her expression momentarily slipping into panic. “They’re exactly the same, Cassie. Why would you swap?” Mel rolled her eyes. “What is your problem now? Just eat your own food.” Their resistance only fueled my suspicion. Without another word, I lunged across the table, grabbed Mel’s container, and began shoving the food into my mouth. Mel didn’t fight me. She just scoffed, rolled her eyes again, and quietly started eating the portion I had abandoned. Mom, however, looked downright skeletal in her fury. Her face darkened, her lips twisting into a tight line, but she forced herself to turn around and walk back into the kitchen. For the next three days, I did the same thing. I forced Mel to swap meals with me every single time, telling myself that this time, I had to lose weight. I had to. With a racing heart, I finally stepped onto the digital scale. The numbers flickered, bouncing up and down, before locking in. Two hundred and twenty pounds. My stomach plummeted. In just three days, I had gained twenty pounds. It was impossible. Mathematically, biologically impossible. In a blind panic, I picked up the scale and smashed it against the wall. The tempered glass shattered into a thousand glittering pieces across the floor. I drove straight to Target, bought the most expensive, high-end smart scale they had, ripped the packaging open in the parking lot, and stepped on it. Two hundred and twenty pounds. Exactly the same. Under the bewildered stares of passersby, I collapsed against my car door, tears streaming down my face. An older woman carrying grocery bags gently patted my arm. “Honey, the local hospital has a fantastic weight-management clinic. I lost fifty pounds with their help. You should go get checked out.” I managed a choked thank you, rushed home, and immediately confronted my mother. “Mom, I need to go to the hospital’s weight-management clinic. Will you take me?” Before Mom could answer, Mel walked out of my bedroom, holding a family-sized bag of potato chips. “Cassie! You’re stuffing your face with junk food in secret, and now you want to go to a clinic? Are you insane? Mom literally quit her job to meal-prep for us. Have some decency and stop binging behind our backs!” My throat tightened. I wanted to scream that those chips were old, from months ago, that I hadn’t touched them. But Mom stepped forward, turning her phone screen toward me. “Cassie, I already booked you an appointment at the clinic. We’re going tomorrow.” I was stunned by how quickly she agreed. Behind her, Mel crossed her arms, rolling her eyes so hard they almost disappeared. “Fine, Mom. Just keep enabling her!” At the hospital, I underwent every test they offered. Blood work, metabolic rate, thyroid function—everything. Even with a genetic predisposition, there was no biological pathway for a human to balloon this quickly on a calorie deficit. Something was fundamentally broken. These specialists saw thousands of cases. Surely, they would find the glitch in my body. The doctor flipped through my charts, a patronizing, all-knowing smirk touching his lips. “Young lady, if you want to lose weight, you need to start by losing the lies.” I froze. “What do you mean?” He gave me a pitying look. “Do you know what the law of conservation of energy is? With a metabolic spike like this, you are absolutely binging in secret. There’s no other explanation.” It felt like a physical blow. “I didn’t! I haven’t eaten anything else!” The doctor ignored my protests, typing away on his computer. “Next patient, please!” “Doctor, please, I didn’t eat junk food! I only ate the meals my mother prepared!” Mel, thoroughly embarrassed, grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the exam room. She shoved her finger hard against my forehead, poking me repeatedly. “Cassie, stop with the goddamn act! The specialist literally just called you out. What are you still lying for?” My head hit the drywall with a dull thud, leaving me dizzy. Through the haze of pain, I saw Mom standing nearby. Her eyes were swimming with a heavy mixture of disappointment and sorrow. “Cassie, please stop eating behind our backs,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “If you keep gaining at this rate, your heart won’t last another six months.” I opened my mouth, but the words died in my throat. I had to find out what was happening to me. I had to. Once we got home, I spent hours scouring the internet, looking for any medical anomaly that matched my symptoms. That’s when an ad for an intensive fitness retreat popped up. EXTREME WEIGHT LOSS. LOSE 50 POUNDS IN A MONTH. My heart hammered against my ribs. This retreat was a closed, controlled environment. It was my only lifeline. But would Mom let me go? My doubts about her meals hadn’t faded. She and Mel were keeping secrets—I could feel it in the tense silence of our house. But if I went to the retreat, I could escape whatever trap they had set for me here. I packed a single duffel bag and tried to slip out the front door at dawn, but a sharp voice cut through the quiet house. “Cassie, where the hell do you think you’re going?” Mel spotted the printed retreat brochure in my hand. Instantly, the color drained from her face, her eyes widening in pure terror. She screamed, “You can’t leave this house!” Mom stepped out of her bedroom, her expression dark and menacing. “Cassie? Are you actually trying to go to a fitness camp?” A cold sweat broke out across my back. I nodded numbly, clutching my bag tighter. A strange, calculated glint flashed in Mom’s eyes. She slowly slid her hand into her pocket, as if reaching for something. I braced myself to bolt, but instead of a weapon, she pulled out her designer leather wallet. “Cassie, if you really want to go… I’ll pay for it.” In that single second, a wave of intense guilt washed over me, instantly drowning out all my suspicions. I felt like a monster for doubting her. Maybe my body was just broken. Maybe my metabolism was uniquely resistant. I promised myself I would work twice as hard at the camp. I wouldn’t let Mom down again. At the retreat, the trainer looked at my swollen frame and smiled encouragingly. “Don’t worry, Cassie. Bodies with a lot of water weight actually drop the first few pounds fast. Just stick to the program.” My determination skyrocketed. Every morning, long before sunrise, I was on the track. I ran six miles, followed by three hundred jump ropes. Even after the grueling daily classes, I pushed myself through an extra hour of laps in the pool. My trainer told me I was the most dedicated client he’d ever worked with. He guaranteed I would see massive results. I strictly avoided binging, only eating my designated meals at the camp’s dining hall. Oddly, the low-sodium, high-protein meals here tasted strangely familiar. They had the exact same bland, slightly metallic undertone as Mom’s food. I shook it off, telling myself all diet food probably tasted the same. After seven days of sheer agony and sweat, the day of the first official weigh-in arrived. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the heavy-duty scale, letting my weight settle. A few other camp residents had gathered around, curious to see the hard worker’s progress. “You’ve got this, Cassie! You worked harder than anyone!” “I bet you lost at least ten pounds!” I blinked my eyes open. The glowing red digital display glared back at me: 250 lbs. The crowd went dead silent. “Is the scale broken? How did she gain thirty pounds?!” I froze, a primal, icy terror clawing its way up my spine. How? Why? I fled to my cabin, sobbing. My trainer chased after me, his face red with frustration. “Cassie, be honest with me! Did you sneak out to the diner down the road? Did you smuggle snacks in your duffel? Empty your bags right now!” Once again, I was trapped in the familiar, suffocating nightmare of being labeled a liar and a glutton. Broken and humiliated, I demanded a partial refund, packed my bags, and checked out. On the ride home, my chest felt incredibly tight. My body felt like rising dough, expanding from the inside out. I could almost feel the fat cells multiplying beneath my skin, suffocating my organs, heavy and suffocating in my limbs. The rapid expansion phase from my past life had begun again. If I couldn’t figure out how to stop this, I would end up exactly where I did before—a prisoner in my own failing body, dying of organ failure. When I walked through the front door, Mom looked at me with tears in her eyes, her face a mask of deep, performative disappointment. Mel scoffed from the couch. “Your trainer called Mom. He said you were binging at the camp. You’re hopeless, Cassie. Once you hit five hundred pounds, Mom is going to have to bathe you and wipe your ass. Do you want to keep her chained to you forever?” Mom shot Mel a warning look to quiet her down, then turned to me, her voice dripping with maternal agony. “Cassie, sweetheart, if you can’t control your eating, you’re going to die. Your father passed away from obesity complications. I can’t lose you too!” She began to sob, her shoulders shaking violently. A profound sense of helplessness settled over me. I couldn’t prove my innocence. I didn’t want to break her heart, and I desperately didn’t want to die. My mind spun in chaotic circles. In a desperate bid for answers, I posted my story on a popular health forum, begging for advice. But the replies were brutal. Most trolls made fat jokes, while others told me to “stop lying to myself” and admit to my midnight binges. Only one anonymous reply stood out. OP, have you looked at your sister? Why is she the one shrinking while you balloon, when you’re doing the exact same thing? Look closer at her. A jolt of electricity shot through my brain. It was true. We had the exact same DNA, ate the exact same meals, and I exercised far more than she did. Yet she was thin as a rail. What was she doing behind closed doors? I began to watch Mel’s every move. Her daily routine was incredibly sparse. She ate, used the restroom, and spent the rest of her time locked in her bedroom, ignoring all her friends’ texts. But there was one bizarre anomaly. While my showers took fifteen minutes tops, Mel would lock herself in the bathroom for two full hours every single night. I used to think she just liked long baths. Now, I realized that bathroom was hiding something. That night, the second she stepped out, I slipped inside before the steam could even clear. I searched the shelves. Standard shampoo, body wash. But then, tucked away in a corner soap dish, I found a strange, irregularly shaped bar of soap. I picked it up. It felt sticky and slightly oily to the touch—she had just used it. I brought it to my nose. A heavy, chemical-sweet fragrance hit me. It was the exact scent that clung to Mel’s skin lately. Was this the secret to her weight loss? My heart raced with excitement. I turned on the shower, got wet, and began lathering the sticky soap all over my body. Almost instantly, my skin flushed a bizarre, irritated pink. A strange tingling sensation spread beneath the surface, as if the fat cells under my skin were vibrating. I stayed under the water, rubbing the soap into my skin for two agonizing hours. By the time I walked out, Mom’s room was pitch black. But a thin sliver of light escaped from Mel’s bedroom door. I peeked through the gap. Mel was holding an unmarked green prescription bottle. She shook out a single pill and swallowed it dry. My brow furrowed. Another secret? I crept back to my room and waited in the dark. It felt like hours before Mel’s soft, rhythmic snoring finally drifted down the hallway. I slipped out of bed, crept into her room, and guided myself by the moonlight to her vanity. I picked up the green bottle. The label had been completely torn off. I carefully twisted the cap off, trying to tip one pill into my palm. Suddenly, a cold draft hit the back of my neck. “What do you think you’re doing?” The voice sliced through the silence, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. I spun around just as the overhead light flicked on, blinding me. Mom was standing in the doorway. Her face was cast in harsh shadows, completely devoid of her usual warmth. Mel bolted upright, rubbing her eyes. When she saw the pills scattered on the floor, she let out a screech of pure rage. “Cassie! Who gave you permission to touch my stuff?!” She scrambled off the bed, gathering the pills with trembling fingers, dusting them off and counting them frantically before locking them back in the bottle. Her panic only cemented my suspicion. This bottle was the key to everything. “Mel, what are those pills?” I demanded. Mel’s eyes darted toward Mom before she shoved the bottle deep into her nightstand drawer. “None of your business! Why the hell are you sneaking into my room in the middle of the night anyway?” Mom stepped into the room, her voice dangerously quiet. “Cassie… did you find something?” They flanked me, locking me between them. Their cold, calculating stares made my blood run cold. “I… I just wanted to see how Mel got so thin,” I stammered, my voice shaking. “I wanted to see if she was taking diet pills. I didn’t find anything else!” Mom’s tight posture slowly relaxed, and her face softened back into her maternal mask. She reached into her robe and pulled out a piece of paper. “Oh, Cassie. Mel’s weight dropped too fast, and her doctor said she’s severely malnourished. Those are just prescription vitamins to help her recover. And that soap in the bathroom? It’s just a specialized medicated soap for her eczema.” I stood frozen. Something felt deeply, fundamentally wrong with her explanation. Seeing my hesitation, Mom went back to her room and returned with a brand-new bar of the specialty soap and an sealed bottle of the same pills. “If you don’t believe me, try them yourself,” Mom said with a weary sigh, handing them to me. She walked away, looking defeated. Mel shoved me out of her room and slammed the door in my face. I was left standing alone in the pitch-black hallway, holding the bottles like an outcast. Every day after that, I took two-hour showers with the medicated soap and swallowed one of the pills before bed. But instead of dropping weight, my body expanded at a terrifying speed. I could literally see the fat multiplying under my skin, stretching it until it burned, leaving angry, weeping tears in my flesh. I crushed every scale we owned. When I stood in front of the mirror, I was a stranger to myself—a monstrous, ballooning shape expanding daily. My blood pressure spiked to a lethal 220. The deep folds of my skin, impossible to clean properly, began to chafe and decay, giving off a horrific odor. I couldn’t even use the bathroom without Mom lifting and cleaning me. My boss called to fire me, citing my “incapacity to perform physical duties.” And then came the text from my boyfriend: Looking at you makes me sick. Don’t contact me again. The neighbors whispered whenever they saw us. “Poor Helen, working herself to the bone to care for that gluttonous girl. It’s a tragedy.” I went on a total hunger strike, consuming nothing but water, clinging to the desperate hope that if I put nothing in, I couldn’t expand. Mom fell to her knees in the living room, sobbing, begging me to schedule a gastric sleeve surgery. I lay on my reinforced mattress, gasping for air. “No,” I whispered. “I’m not going.” I knew how that story ended. I wouldn’t die on a cold operating table from systemic infection like I did before. I closed my eyes in absolute despair. If death was inevitable, I wanted to go out on my own terms. That night, I wrote a suicide note, dragged my heavy body into an Uber, and rode out to the edge of the city. There was a wide, rushing river there. I stood on the bridge, staring down into the dark, swirling water. God, if you gave me a second chance, why did you let me end up here again? I didn’t want to die, but the agony of living in this suffocating skin was worse than death. Rain began to fall, soaking through my clothes. An elderly passerby spotted me on the ledge. He lunged forward, grabbing my coat. “Sweetheart, don’t do it! Please, step back!” As we struggled, my thin jacket ripped open, exposing my back. The cold rain hit my bare back, and a sharp, localized stinging sensation flared up. It was a chemical-like burn, spreading down my spine. In an instant, my mind cleared with terrifying sharpness. I gasped, the truth hitting me like a physical blow. “I know… I know what they did.”

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At the party, my girlfriend lost a game of Truth or Dare. Someone in the crowd jeered, daring her to list ten things she loved about my best friend, Jared. Lauren didn’t even hesitate. “He’s outgoing. Extremely handsome. In great shape. He knows exactly how to charm people.” “He’s always smiling, highly intuitive, driven, and he has incredible taste.” “Oh, and… he’s really good with his hands.” The room erupted into hoots and catcalls, with a few stray, pitying glances darting toward me. For the next round, Jared grinned, throwing the question right back at her. “So, what about Connor? What are his best qualities?” Lauren looked at me. She froze for a few seconds. Finally, she managed just one word. “Steady.” Someone laughed nervously, trying to ease the tension. “And? What else?” Lauren frowned, appearing to search her mind in earnest. But she couldn’t find a second thing to say. In that excruciating silence, a profound exhaustion settled over me. Lauren and I had been together for seven years. Our wedding was next week. Yet, after searching her mind so desperately, the only virtue she could find in me was that I was “steady”. This time, I didn’t want to be the steady one anymore. … I was about to slip out when someone slammed a hand on the table. “Don’t go yet, Connor! Last round.” “Let’s do something messy. Let’s see who has the most text exchanges on their phone.” Jared slid his phone onto the table with a lighthearted laugh. “Sure, why not? I’ve got nothing to hide.” But when the screen compiled the results, the private room fell dead silent. The contact Lauren texted the most wasn’t me. It was Jared. A couple of people let out awkward, forced chuckles. “Well… looks like Lauren and Jared have a lot to talk about.” Jared blinked, his tone breezy and effortless. “Hey, it’s not what you think. Connor is always so swamped, you know? He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Lauren gets stressed sometimes, and she just needs someone to vent to.” As he spoke, his finger accidentally—or perhaps intentionally—tapped into one of their chat threads. A message Lauren had sent him popped up on the screen. “Connor is obsessing over the wedding itinerary again.” “He’s taking this way too seriously.” Jared’s reply: “He’s just wound too tight. Unlike me—getting married should actually be fun.” Lauren: “Exactly. Talking to you is so much easier than talking to him.” My chest tightened, a slow, cold ache spreading through my ribs. Then, the screen scrolled to another thread. Lauren: “Connor is wearing that white suit again today.” “Does he actually think he looks good in white?” Jared: “Aww, don’t be mean to him.” “But yeah, it’s not really his look. A bit stiff.” Lauren: “Right? You’d look way better in it.” The room went entirely quiet. I stood frozen, a thick lump forming in my throat. A quiet, searing humiliation washed over me, making even the act of breathing feel heavy. All my quiet anticipation, the nervous excitement I felt when trying on my wedding suit… to Lauren, it was nothing more than cheap gossip to share with Jared over a laugh. Jared walked over, throwing a familiar arm around my shoulder. “Hey, Connor, don’t be mad. If she were talking to anyone else like this, I’d kick her butt for you. But I’m your best friend.” He tilted his head, giving me a look of pure innocence. “I’m just looking out for her for you. Isn’t that a good thing?” I stared at the hand resting on my shoulder. On his wrist was a watch. It looked incredibly familiar. A few days ago, Lauren had sent me a photo of it while she was away on a business trip, asking if I liked it. I had stared at that photo for a long time, my heart racing with quiet joy as I typed back: “I love it.” I thought it was a surprise she was bringing home for me. I had even planned to act surprised, to playfully ask if she’d brought me anything back. But I had waited for days, and the surprise never came. Now, it was strapped to Jared’s wrist. I slowly pulled my shoulder out of his grip. Jared’s face flushed, a look of wounded disbelief taking over. “Connor, do you seriously not even trust me?” Lauren finally creased her brow. “Connor. Everyone is just playing a game. Don’t be so sensitive.” Hearing those words, the anger drained right out of me, leaving behind only a hollow emptiness. I stood up, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m tired. I’m going home.” I made it to the door before realizing I’d left my coat on the back of the sofa. When I turned back to retrieve it, the heavy wooden door of the private room wasn’t shut completely. Through the crack, I heard a hushed voice advising her. “Lauren, are you seriously not going after him? Connor looked ghost-white.” Lauren paused for a second, her voice carrying an infuriating certainty. “He won’t actually stay mad. He’s too sensible. He just needs a night to sleep it off.” My hand froze on the brass handle. Then she added, “Jared, on the other hand, looked so uncomfortable with everyone teasing him. I need to go cheer him up.” My fingers went entirely numb against the cold metal. “Sensible.” A word that felt like a blunt knife. No blood, just a dull, agonizing sawing against my heart. I didn’t go back inside. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was our wedding coordinator. “Mr. Davis, are you sure you want to cancel the wedding? You’ve spent over six months curating this entire plan. From the floral arrangements to the lighting, the invitations to the seating cards, you hand-selected every single detail. It would be such a shame to let it all go.” I stared at the digital renderings he had sent. I remembered how, in the beginning, I had wanted a wedding filled with white camellias. But Lauren had taken one look at the design and said, “Jared says camellias look too washed out. A wedding should feel alive.” So, the camellias were replaced with red roses—Jared’s favorite. I had wanted soft, warm gold lighting. Lauren had countered, “Jared says sunset orange photographs better.” I had wanted minimalist, textured paper for the invitations. Lauren had said, “Let’s just trust Jared on this. He has incredible taste.” Only now did the truth finally settle in. The wedding I had spent half a year meticulously planning had been slowly, systematically reshaped into Jared’s dream. And I, the groom, was nothing more than a placeholder name on the invitation. The coordinator sent another text. “Are you absolutely sure you want to cancel?” I looked at the rendering of a wedding that no longer belonged to me, and a dry laugh escaped my throat. I typed back: “Yes. Cancel it. I will cover any cancellation fees.” When I got back to the apartment, I started packing. We had chosen this place together. Lauren had promised me that after a long day at work, the entryway light would always be on, a hot pot of soup would be waiting on the stove, and we would grow my beloved camellias on the balcony. It had sounded like a dream. But standing in the quiet of the living room, I realized the space was already saturated with Jared. The fridge was packed with his favorite peach seltzers. His discarded jacket lay draped over our sofa. Even the best man’s suit hanging next to mine in the closet looked more bespoke, more cared-for, than my own wedding tuxedo. I stood in the closet, staring at the two garments hanging side by side. A bitter ache swelled in my chest. The wedding hadn’t even happened yet, but Lauren had already systematically replaced me with Jared in every corner of her life. I didn’t cry. I simply retrieved my suitcase and began packing my documents, my passport, and a few essential clothes. Halfway through, the front door clicked open. Lauren was home. She was carrying a small boutique bag, her tone carrying a gentle, placating warmth. “Hey, baby. Don’t be mad anymore, okay? I was passing by the store and saw these. I remembered you saying you liked obsidian.” She opened a small velvet box to reveal a pair of obsidian cufflinks. I did love obsidian. Years ago, I had stared at a pair through a shop window for a long time, ultimately walking away because they were far too expensive for our budget back then. Lauren had squeezed my hand and laughed, promising, “When we get married, I’ll buy you an even better pair.” Now she had bought them. But she had bought cufflinks. I never wore French cuff shirts. Jared did. She wrapped her arms around me from behind. “Let’s just put tonight behind us, okay?” I stared down at the cufflinks. Before I could speak, a small slip of paper drifted out of the shopping bag. The receipt. The total on it was staggering. It was for a designer tie, priced at ten times the cost of the cufflinks. I recognized the brand instantly. Only thirty minutes ago, Jared had posted a photo on his Instagram feed. He was wearing that exact tie, a brilliant, cocky smile on his face. The caption read: “Complimentary wedding gift from a very special sponsor. Going to be the best-looking best man next week.” I stared at the receipt, and a single, hot tear spilled over my lashes, dripping onto the paper. The patience on Lauren’s face instantly evaporated. “Why are you crying again? Connor, honestly, dealing with you is so exhausting.” I froze, her words echoing in the quiet room. There was a time when my tears would panic her. She used to clumsily wipe them away, pulling me into her arms and murmuring over and over, “Connor, please don’t cry. My heart breaks when you cry.” Once, after a terrible nightmare in the middle of the night, she had driven across three neighborhoods just to buy me a bowl of hot soup to calm me down. She had said, “My Connor didn’t have anyone to comfort him when he was a kid. But from now on, every time you cry, I’ll be here to dry your tears.” Back then, she truly cared. Now, my grief was merely “exhausting.” When your tears no longer touch a person’s heart, it is time to dry them yourself. I wiped my face, my voice quiet and flat. “I’m fine.” Lauren seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. She leaned in, attempting to kiss my cheek, but I instinctively turned my face away. Her expression hardened into cold irritation. She ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “Whatever. Cool off.” She turned on her heel and walked into the study, slamming the door behind her. Later that night, as I was turning off the lights, the iPad on the nightstand lit up. Lauren’s messages were synced to it. I only intended to turn off the screen, but the name flashing on the display made my chest tighten with a sharp, familiar pain. It was Jared. Jared: “Did you smooth things over?” Lauren: “No. He’s getting harder and harder to deal with lately.” Jared sent a smirk emoji. Jared: “Did you make it up to him in bed tonight, then?” A few seconds passed before her reply appeared. Lauren: “Please. He turned me down.” Lauren: “Honestly, it’s fine. It’s been seven years; I don’t really feel anything for his body anymore. It’s a relief he pushed me away. Otherwise, I would have had to force myself to get intimate.” I stared at those lines. My eyes burned, but the tears had run completely dry. So even touch had become a chore she had to steel herself to perform. I shut down the iPad. I took the obsidian cufflinks, placed them back inside the boutique box, and set them on the entryway table. Beside them, I laid my wedding band. It felt like returning the remnants of a dream I had finally woken up from. Right then, my phone buzzed with a notification. My ticket was confirmed. A 3:00 AM flight to Iceland. From this moment on, whichever city I flew to, I would never again land by her side. The next morning, as I rolled my suitcase past the study, the door was slightly ajar. From inside came the sound of Lauren’s soft, amused laughter. She was on a video call. Jared, dressed in his pajamas, was leaning back against his headboard, holding a printout of our wedding vows. “Lauren, this part is way too formal,” he read aloud, chuckling. “‘Connor, thank you for seven years of companionship.’ It sounds like a corporate speech from a CEO.” Lauren laughed softly. “I’m terrible at writing that kind of stuff.” Jared rested his chin on his hand, looking at the screen. “You should write something like: You’re like springtime, you make me feel light. Isn’t that more romantic?” The line fell into a quiet, heavy silence. “That sounds more like you,” Lauren said, her voice dropping to a murmur. A beat of silence stretched through the speaker. “Are you sure you want to say that to Connor, then?” Jared asked quietly. Lauren didn’t answer immediately. After a long pause, she spoke. “It’s a wedding. It doesn’t really matter who I’m reading them to. Just pretend I’m secretly saying them to you.” Standing in the hallway, I felt something tear quietly inside my chest. For those vows, I had spent nights drafting three pages of text. Writing, revising, erasing. Removing anything that sounded too cliché, leaving only the rawest, most honest pieces of my heart. I had once asked her, “Should we write our vows together?” She had brushed it off: “There’s no need for that kind of empty performance.” It wasn’t that she found it empty. It was just that performing it with me wasn’t worth the effort. On the screen, Jared leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Come closer.” Lauren creased her brow. “What?” He didn’t answer. He simply leaned forward and pressed his lips gently against his camera lens. An absurd, lingering kiss. And Lauren didn’t pull away. She only sighed softly after a brief silence. “Jared. Don’t do that anymore. I’m getting married.” Jared lowered his eyes, his voice laced with practiced vulnerability. “I know. That’s why I wanted to be selfish one last time before you belong to someone else.” Lauren didn’t reprimand him. Her silence was a quiet permission. My fingers grew cold. If she truly felt a line had been crossed, why hadn’t she hung up immediately? Jared quickly flipped to another file on his screen—the layout for our wedding photo wall. “Do we really have to display all these old couple photos? Honestly, seeing how happy you two used to be… it hurts a little.” Lauren looked at the screen, silent for a moment. Finally, she spoke. “We can just take them down, then.” “Connor is easygoing anyway. He won’t mind.” A sudden, sharp heat pressed behind my eyes. That photo wall was the one part of the wedding I had fought to keep. Seven years of memories. The first snow we watched together. Our very first road trip, holding hands in the car. The slightly lopsided cake she had baked for my birthday. I had spent hours choosing those photographs because I believed they were the physical proof of our love. Yet, with a single complaint from Jared, Lauren discarded them without a second thought. The moments I had treasured for seven years were nothing more than an inconvenience. I suppose when you reach the absolute limit of heartbreak, you no longer feel the pain. It turns into a deep, hollow numbness. I quietly turned around, pulling my suitcase behind me. My phone lit up. It was the wedding coordinator. “Mr. Davis, Ms. Lauren just confirmed the removal of the photo wall. Additionally, the wedding vows have been modified by Mr. Jared. Are you absolutely certain you wish to cancel?” I stared at the words and let out a small, tired smile. I typed back: “Yes. Cancel it.” The chill of the early morning wind swept through the stairwell as I walked out, the wheels of my suitcase clicking softly against the concrete. Seven years of photos, erased in a single sentence by Lauren. And so, I left Lauren behind in those seven years, too. As I handed my boarding pass to the gate agent, the automated cancellation notification finally made its way to Lauren’s phone. She immediately dialed the coordinator, her voice tight and panicked. “What is the meaning of this?” The coordinator sounded more bewildered than she was. “The cancellation was requested by Mr. Davis himself. He mentioned he accepted a position in Iceland and likely won’t be returning. Ms. Lauren… did you not know?”

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Three years after I faked my own death, the Caldwell women tracked me down. I held a knife to my own throat, desperate to escape them, willing to bleed out right there on the floor. But then my seven-year-old daughter wrapped her small hands around her grandmother’s ventilator hose. Isabel stood beside her, her voice trembling but cold as ice: “Choose, Henry. Do you want to watch your mother suffocate, or do you want to come back and be the man of the Caldwell house? It’s up to you.” My hands shook with a rage so violent it nearly tore my artificial heart from my chest, but I had no choice. I dropped the knife. I signed the remarriage papers. When I crossed the threshold of that familiar mansion again, I became the model husband. I lived to appease them. When Jared—Isabel’s foster brother—was having an off day and needed her comfort, I didn’t say a word. I packed a bag, booked a hotel room, and got out of their way. Even when my stomach lining ruptured and I had to undergo emergency surgery alone, I never called her once. When our daughter, Ruby, refused to eat, whining that she only wanted the dishes her “Uncle Jared” made, I didn’t complain. I got in the car, drove to his apartment, and brought him back to live with us. Then came my birthday. Jared sat at the dining table, his eyes turning a soft, performative red as he whispered, “I envy you, Henry. You have such a loving wife, a beautiful daughter… not like me. I’ve never even received a real birthday gift in my life.” Without a second thought, I slipped the carnelian bead bracelet off my wrist and pressed it into his palm. The deep crimson beads looked strikingly bright against his skin. But Isabel’s eyes flared with sudden, raw emotion. She grabbed my wrist, her grip painful, her teeth clenched so hard her jaw shook. “Henry Ward,” she hissed. “That is the amulet I begged for on my knees. I bowed at every third step on my pilgrimage to Tibet to get that for you. It was our promise!” 1 The air in the room instantly turned to lead. Jared quickly closed his hand around the bracelet, pretending to slide it off his wrist. “I’m so sorry, Isabel. I didn’t know. I’ll give it back to Henry right now.” Beside him, Ruby’s small face tightened with anger. She glared at me and shouted, “Daddy knew exactly how important it was! He did it on purpose to make Uncle Jared feel bad! You’re a monster!” Isabel stared at me, the exhaustion in her eyes heavy enough to sink a ship. “Henry, when is this going to end?” she asked, her voice cracking. “I brought you back because I wanted us to be a family again.” Inside, I felt nothing but a hollow, absurd amusement. Years ago, if I didn’t give Jared what he wanted fast enough, I was punished. Now that I was finally playing the submissive husband, she still wasn’t satisfied. I turned, picked up the antique brooch Isabel had just gifted me for my birthday, and held it out to Jared. “Is the bracelet not enough? Here. Take this too.” Isabel’s face turned a terrifying shade of gray. With a sudden, violent sweep of her arm, she sent my birthday cake flying off the table. Vanilla frosting splattered across my shirt as the porcelain plate shattered against the hardwood floor. “Do you have to be so incredibly petty, Henry? Do you have to twist the knife every single time?” “I’m not twisting anything,” I replied softly. Isabel closed her eyes, taking a long, ragged breath to force down her fury. “I know you’re still angry about the ambulance,” she said, her voice dropping. “I know you hate me for sending Jared first.” “But he was hemorrhaging, Henry. He almost died on that gurney.” “And these past few years, I’ve been searching everywhere for a compatible heart donor for you. I don’t want a tragedy to happen again.” “Please, Henry. Stop punishing me. Can we just go back to the way we were?” I nodded, offering her a vacant, agreeable smile. Ruby slammed her hands on the table and stood up, her little chest heaving. “Mommy just apologized to you! Why are you still acting like a block of ice?” She sneered. “No wonder Grandma is the only one in this house who actually likes you.” The words were a sudden, sharp needle to my chest. I let out a soft, cold laugh. “Funny. Because except for my mother, there isn’t a single person in this room I care about either.” Isabel froze, her gaze turning completely dead. “Fine. Perfect… Since you care about nothing and love no one.” She stood up, tall and unyielding. “Starting tonight, Jared and I are sleeping in the master bedroom. You can pack your things and move down to the maid’s quarters.” I didn’t argue. I simply turned and walked toward the stairs. Behind me, Ruby clapped her hands, giggling. “Yay! I finally get to sleep with Mommy and Uncle Jared every night!” 2 Back in my room, I began to pack in silence. I opened the closet. Cashmere coats, silk ties, designer cufflinks, limited-edition watches… All the luxuries I had starved myself of during my leanest years, Isabel had bought to fill the void. The lavender diffuser on the dresser was hand-blended by her; even the heavy drapes had been changed to the forest green I loved. In the two years since she dragged me back, she had tried so hard to act like the girl who once loved me blindly. But the old Henry was dead. I could no longer be swayed by expensive toys or sweet words. I only packed the worn, simple clothes I was wearing the day she dragged me back. As I zipped the suitcase, Isabel walked in. Without a word, she grabbed my wrist and forced the carnelian bead bracelet back onto my arm. “Keep it,” she commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. “And don’t you ever give away anything I buy you again.” I looked up, genuinely surprised. She had actually gone and clawed it back from Jared. Her eyes drifted down to my open suitcase, her brow furrowing deeply. “That’s all you’re taking?” “None of the rest is mine,” I said, my voice flat. “There’s no point in pretending.” The old fury flared back in her eyes. “If you despise it all so much, then none of it matters.” She turned to the hallway and shouted, “Someone get in here! Take every single thing I bought for the master of the house and burn it in the incinerator.” She glared back at me. “From now on, if you want to use a single luxury in this house, you ask Jared for permission.” My expression didn’t change. I picked up my suitcase and walked out. I was halfway down the stairs when a heavy force slammed into my back. I lost my footing and went tumbling down the wooden steps. My knees scraped raw against the polished wood, a burning heat blooming under my skin. Ruby stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at me with absolute contempt. “You haven’t changed at all! You’re just pretending to be nice so you can drive a wedge between Mommy and Uncle Jared.” She pointed a finger at me. “I’m warning you. If you ever hurt Uncle Jared again, I’ll make sure Mommy throws you out for good.” Then, she spotted the yellow protection amulet peeking out of my breast pocket. She lunged down and ripped it away. “Give that back!” I gasped, scrambling on the floor to reach her. I had knelt on a stone floor for three days and three nights to get that blessed charm for my ailing mother. Ruby waved it in my face, a cruel, triumphant smirk on her lips. “Every time you make Uncle Jared sad, I’m going to destroy something you care about. Maybe then you’ll learn to behave!” She tore the paper charm to shreds. Bright yellow fragments fluttered down like dead autumn leaves, landing on my bruised hands. Something inside me snapped. The last thread of my endurance broke. I dragged myself up, stepped forward, and slapped her hard across the face. The slap echoed through the foyer. “The biggest mistake of my life,” I whispered, my voice trembling with a cold, absolute hatred, “was giving my heart to you.” “If you love Jared so much, go ahead. Let him be your father.” Ruby clutched her cheek, her eyes wide with shock. I didn’t wait for her to cry. I picked up my suitcase, limping heavily as I made my way to the tiny, cramped staff bedroom under the stairs. I was cleaning the dirt out of my bloody knees when the door was kicked open. Isabel stormed in, her face twisted in rage. “Henry Ward, you hit a child over a—” She stopped. The sight of the dark purple bruises and raw skin covering my legs silenced her. “How did you get these?” she whispered. She sat on the edge of the narrow cot, trying to pull my leg onto her lap to bandage it. For a split second, I saw the gentle girl from our youth in her eyes. My throat grew tight, a bitter burn rising in my chest. “Henry…” Isabel leaned in, her eyes searching mine, her lips reaching for a kiss. I instinctively flinched, turning my face away. She froze. Then, her grip tightened painfully around my jaw, forcing my head back as she kissed me with a desperate, punishing violence. The taste of copper bloomed in my mouth. I stayed entirely still under her touch, my mind flashing with a thousand terrible memories. When her warm hand began to slip beneath my collar, my stomach violently rebelled. I shoved her away with everything I had, leaned over the edge of the cot, and dry-heaved onto the floor. “Henry!” Isabel’s face turned white, then red with sheer humiliation. “Am I really that repulsive to you?” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, my eyes fixed on the floor. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel well. If you want someone, go find Jared.” Tears welled in her eyes, her voice shaking with hurt. “Are you pushing me away again?” “Henry, I’ve told you a thousand times. Since you disappeared, I haven’t let another man touch me. I only look after Jared because your father begged me to on his deathbed!” I looked at her, completely detached. “I believe you. You two are perfectly innocent.” The calm in my voice drove her mad. She kicked the plastic trash can, sending it flying across the room, and slammed the door behind her. A few hours later, my phone vibrated. It was a video call from Isabel. I hesitated, then picked up. A low, ragged groan echoed from the speaker, filling the small room. On the screen, Isabel was straddled over Jared’s waist, pressing him against our wedding portrait on the master bed. Jared stared directly into the camera, a smirk playing on his lips. “Isabel… gentler…” he gasped. “Your husband is watching.” Isabel angled the camera closer to the sheets, her voice dripping with vengeful malice. “Since you insist on imagining it, Henry, I might as well make it real.” “Watch us. Watch how much Jared loves me.” “Don’t you dare hang up until we’re done.” 3 They kept the call going all night. She dragged Jared to every corner of the master suite, leaving their sweat and noise in every space we had once shared. The screen was a blur of skin and breathless whimpers that made my stomach churn with a deep, physical revulsion. It wasn’t until the first light of dawn broke through the window that she finally ended the call. My weak, artificial heart couldn’t handle the strain. A heavy, squeezing pain bloomed in my chest, making it hard to draw a full breath. I dragged myself out of bed to find my heart medication. But as soon as I poured the pills into my hand, a small figure rushed in and snatched them away, throwing them onto the floor. “Who said you could take medicine? Uncle Jared said you aren’t allowed to touch anything without his permission!” Ruby glared at me, her face contorted with anger. The pain in my chest was spreading like wildfire. I didn’t have the energy to argue. I bent down, trying to gather the scattered white pills. But before my fingers could reach them, Ruby’s foot slammed down, grinding the medicine into the dirt-covered floor. The pills dissolved into gray powder in the cracks of the wood. “Thief! Freeloader!” she screamed. “Get out of our house!” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. The artificial heart inside me was failing, straining against the limits of its programming. I collapsed onto the floor, my vision blurring as the past rushed back to drown me. Ruby had been a sickly child, born with a failing heart. By the time we diagnosed her, there was no time left to wait on the transplant list. Without telling anyone, I went to the hospital, ran the tests, and found out I was a match. I gave her my own healthy heart and had a mechanical pump installed in my chest instead. I spent nearly a month hovering between life and death in the ICU. But the very day Ruby was allowed to leave her bed, she didn’t come to see me. She ran straight into Jared’s arms. “Uncle Jared, when are you going to marry Mommy and be my real daddy?” she had asked, her voice sweet and bright. “My actual dad is so annoying. He yells at Mommy if she drinks iced water, and he won’t let me watch TV.” “I like you so much better. You buy me burgers and take me to the theme park. Mommy and I love being with you.” I had been standing right outside the door. I heard every single word. The massive surgical scar across my chest burned like liquid fire. I swallowed the lump in my throat and stepped into the room. “Ruby, I almost died on that operating table for you. Is this how you talk about me?” Jared immediately pulled her behind him, looking up at me with soft, helpless eyes. “Henry, she’s just a little girl. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. There’s no need to raise your voice and terrify her.” With Jared protecting her, Ruby grew even bolder. She peeked out from behind his back and screamed, “I hate you! You’re always so cold and miserable! Why didn’t you just die on the table?” “Mommy is going to have Uncle Jared’s baby anyway. I’m going to have a little brother soon. We don’t need you!” The words hit me like a physical blow. My body went cold. The blood rushed to my head, and my vision went entirely black as I fell to the floor. When I woke up, Isabel was sitting by my bedside. Seeing me open my eyes, she remained silent for a long time before speaking in a quiet, detached voice. “Since you know, I won’t lie to you.” “Jared and I slept together. It was the night of your father’s funeral.” “I told you I was drunk and didn’t hear your calls. The truth is, Jared was holding me too tight. I couldn’t get away to answer.” My mind went completely blank. I remembered that night. Jared had fainted at the memorial service. I was so worried about him that I told Isabel to take him back to the hotel while I stayed behind. But as soon as the service ended, my father’s greedy relatives descended on the house, trying to seize our inheritance. To protect my mother and the family home, I fought them off until my head was bleeding. During those hours of terror, I called Isabel dozens of times. She never picked up. While I was bleeding on the floor of my childhood home, she was in a hotel bed with Jared. The betrayal ripped through me. Rage and humiliation boiled over, and I slapped her across the face, over and over. She didn’t move. She didn’t try to block the blows. She just took them, staring at the floor. But the moment I stood up to find Jared, she grabbed my wrist with a sudden, violent strength. “Henry, please!” she cried. “You’ve had everything your whole life. Parents who loved you, me to protect you… you never wanted for anything.” “But Jared has nothing! He was an orphan, living under other people’s roofs, always afraid. Can’t you just let him have this one thing?” Looking at her—so thoroughly, hopelessly blinded by her pity for him—I felt the last drop of warmth leave my body. “Let’s get a divorce, Isabel,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. 4 “No!” Isabel threw her arms around me, her tone instantly softening into desperation. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean it.” “Henry, I only love Jared like a brother. He was just scared that after your father died, we would throw him out. He put something in my drink, Henry. I swear it.” “It only happened that one time. I promise you, never again.” “Think of Ruby. She just got a new heart. Do you really want to break up her family now?” For the sake of our daughter, I hesitated. No matter how much I hated what they had done, Ruby was still the child I had raised. “I will give you one last chance,” I told her. “But you have to send Jared away, terminate the pregnancy, and cut him out of our lives forever.” Isabel hesitated for a long second, then nodded, her jaw tight. “Okay. I promise.” She deleted his number in front of me. She started coming home early every night, behaving like the gentle, attentive wife she used to be. Even Ruby became quiet and obedient. I actually allowed myself to believe that we could heal. Until Ruby’s birthday. I left work early, wanting to surprise her with tickets to the amusement park. But as I approached her bedroom door, I heard their voices. “Mommy, when can we go see Uncle Jared? I miss him so much.” Isabel’s voice was a low, hurried whisper. “Shh, be quiet. Tonight, after your dad gets home, we’ll put some sleeping medicine in his milk. Once he’s asleep, we’ll go see him.” I stood in the hallway, the cold seeping deep into my bones. That night, I drank the milk she gave me. I waited until I heard their soft footsteps leave the house, then I got up and followed them. The trail led to a luxury penthouse on the other side of town. Through the half-open door, I saw Isabel sitting comfortably on the sofa, her loose maternity dress draping over a prominent, heavy stomach. Jared was gently feeding her grapes, massaging her swollen ankles. “It’s been so hard on you, having to hide like this,” he murmured. Ruby curled up next to him, pouting. “It’s all my stupid dad’s fault. Why won’t he just let Mommy bring you home?” I pushed the door open, my teeth chattering as I spoke. “You told me you terminated the pregnancy. You told me you sent him away.” “Isabel… is there a single word that comes out of your mouth that isn’t a lie?” Isabel immediately stood up, shielding Jared with her body. “Henry, enough!” she snapped. “Jared has never tried to steal anything from you. He lives here with no name, no status, just to be near me. He’s suffered enough. Can’t you stop being so selfish?” Jared looked at me from behind her, his voice dripping with condescension. “Henry, let’s be honest. You’re older, you’re boring, and Isabel was tired of you a long time ago. Instead of letting some stranger have her, why not me?” The rage overtook me. I picked up a heavy crystal vase from the entryway and threw it at his head. Chaos erupted. In the scuffle that followed, Jared and I both tumbled over the low balcony railing, crashing onto the pavement below. In the shock of the fall, Isabel went into premature labor, losing the baby. When the sirens wailed and the paramedics arrived, they looked at our broken bodies and turned to Isabel in panic. “Ma’am, they are both in critical condition. We only have one trauma bay available in this rig. Who do we take first?” Isabel didn’t even look in my direction. “Save Jared,” she said instantly. I lay on the freezing asphalt, watching the red tail lights of the ambulance fade into the dark. With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “If I survive tonight,” I whispered into the receiver, “help me disappear.” 5 “Henry! Henry!” Isabel’s frantic voice pulled me back from the edge of the dark. She was holding me, desperately shoving a nitro tablet under my tongue. As the medicine dissolved, the tight, suffocating grip on my chest began to loosen. I opened my eyes to see Ruby standing nearby, her jaw set in a stubborn, defiant pout. Isabel turned and slapped her hard across the face. “You stupid girl! Who told you to throw away your father’s medicine?” Ruby burst into tears, wailing. Jared immediately pulled her into his arms, glaring at Isabel. “Isabel, don’t scream at her. She’s just a child. She didn’t understand what she was doing.” He pulled a piece of folded paper from his pocket and tossed it onto the bed. “I wasn’t going to show you this, but Henry is taking this act too far.” “He had a heart transplant years ago. He’s perfectly fine. This ‘weakness’ is all a show.” Isabel scanned the forged medical report, her expression hardening instantly. “You’re fully recovered?” she whispered, her voice laced with cold fury. “You’ve been faking this entire time just to make me feel guilty?” I didn’t have the strength to argue. I just stared at her, exhausted. She crumpled the paper and threw it in my face. “I wanted to give you a real birthday today. But since you’d rather lie and play the martyr, we’re leaving.” She grabbed Ruby and Jared, walking out and locking the heavy bedroom door from the outside. I lay in the dark, feeling absolutely nothing. I had no desire to join them anyway. An hour later, my phone buzzed with a notification. Ruby had posted a photo on her social media. In the picture, Isabel was leaning against Jared’s shoulder, with Ruby standing between them, all three of them smiling brightly under the sun. The caption read: The perfect family. I stared at it for a moment, then tapped the ‘like’ button. Suddenly, the phone began to ring. It was the hospital. “Mr. Ward? You need to come quickly. Your mother’s condition has taken a turn for the worse. She’s failing.” My stomach dropped. I lunged out of bed and threw myself against the door. It was locked tight. I dialed Isabel’s number. Once. Twice. Three times. It went straight to voicemail. Desperate, I ran to the window, opened it, and jumped. The impact sent a sickening crack through my right leg. Pain flared like white-hot lightning, but I didn’t stop. I dragged myself up, limping and crawling to the main road, waving down a passing cab. But by the time I reached the ICU, the room was silent. The doctor looked at me with pity. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Ward. Her heart gave out. It was a sudden, massive shock.” I fell to my knees on the cold tile, the world dissolving into gray. While packing up her few belongings, my hand brushed against something beneath her pillow. A small digital voice recorder. I pressed play. Jared’s voice filled the quiet room—soft, polite, and dripping with venom. “Mrs. Ward? I thought you should know the truth before you go. I’m not some orphan your husband adopted. I’m his son. His biological, illegitimate son.” “You spent your whole life fighting my mother, and in the end, you spent decades raising her boy. Isn’t that hilarious?” “Oh, and that family home you and Henry fought so hard to keep? Your husband signed it over to me the day I turned eighteen. Thanks for taking such good care of my inheritance.” “My mother beat you, I beat your son, and soon, I’ll have his daughter, his wife, and his wealth. You really were our lucky stars, weren’t you?” My mother had been in a vegetative state, but she could still hear. He had literally tortured her to death. A blinding, blood-red rage took over my mind. I ran from the hospital like a madman, tracking them to the amusement park. Through the crowd, I saw them laughing on the grassy lawn. I pulled the small pocket knife from my jacket and charged at Jared, wanting nothing more than to drag him down to hell with me. But before I could reach him, Isabel caught my wrist, her grip like iron. “Henry Ward! Have you lost your mind?!” The crowd immediately gathered, muttering and pointing. Ruby leaped in front of Jared, screaming at the top of her lungs, “My dad is a psycho! He’s always trying to hurt Uncle Jared!” “Uncle Jared just got better, and now he wants to kill him!” “Go away, you crazy monster! Go away!” She picked up a stone from the path and hurled it at me. Encouraged by her, the onlookers began to join in, throwing trash and shouting insults. “Get him out of here!” “Crazy bastard!” The screams and abuse washed over me like a freezing tide. I looked past the crowd, my eyes meeting Isabel’s. She was still holding Jared, looking at me with nothing but disgust. I let out a laugh—a broken, hysterical sound that tore from my throat. “Isabel Caldwell, in our next life, I pray I never meet you.” Before she could react, I turned the blade toward my own chest and drove it deep into my heart.

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During the wedding rehearsal, when the celebrant called the best man, Oliver, the groom for the third consecutive time, I was still clutching the wedding itinerary I’d stayed up until 3:00 a.m. revising for the seventh time. Victoria only offered a soft, dismissive laugh, her fingers casually reaching up to straighten the silk bowtie on Oliver’s tuxedo. “Let’s just have Oliver walk through it with me first,” she said, her voice smooth and practical. “His memory is sharper than yours, Henry. Let’s not waste everyone’s afternoon.” From the front pews, a few of her childhood friends and corporate colleagues laughed, murmuring about how striking they looked together—the brilliant Victoria Albright and the golden boy, side-by-side like they were born for it. I stood at the edge of the altar, waiting for Victoria to speak up. To correct them. Instead, she tilted her head to look down at me, her eyes carrying that familiar, quiet arrogance that usually silenced boardrooms. “Henry, be the bigger man here,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying past the first row. “We have guests here today. Don’t make a scene and turn us into a joke.” Oliver, wearing a bespoke white tuxedo identical to mine down to the Italian stitching, toyed with his cufflink, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips. “Henry, maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to stand in,” Oliver said, his voice dripping with soft contrition. “But Victoria insisted you were the most generous man she knew, that you wouldn’t mind. Besides, when we played house as kids, I was always the one waiting for her at the altar…” I didn’t answer him. I just looked down at the first page of the itinerary in my hands. Under the section marked Processional, in the slot reserved for the groom, my name had been casually struck through in gray pencil. Next to the smudge, Victoria’s elegant, precise handwriting had filled in his name instead: Oliver. In that quiet beat, the last seven years of our relationship shriveled into a grotesque punchline. I didn’t even have the energy to utter the words: This is my wedding. … I closed the folder and handed it back to the wedding coordinator standing beside me. “Run it exactly how Victoria laid it out,” I said. Victoria turned back, a look of cool satisfaction washing over her features. “I knew you’d understand,” she said, her tone softening with a patronizing warmth. “Oliver’s health has been so fragile lately, and since he’s still single, he was just curious about how a real ceremony feels. Let him have his fun. I know you’re exhausted from your night shift at the hospital anyway. Go home, get some rest, and tonight I’ll take you to that little sushi place you love downtown.” Oliver’s eyes pooled with theatrical gratitude. “Thank you, Henry. Victoria always tells me what an incredible doctor you are—so selfless, always putting everyone else’s feelings first.” “Enjoy the rehearsal,” I said softly, stepping back from the stage lights into the shadows of the empty cathedral. Victoria’s brow furrowed. Her heels clicked to a halt on the marble. “Henry, what is it now?” The irritation in her voice was a sharp edge. “It’s just a rehearsal. Do you really have to ruin the mood? If it bothers you that much, I’ll tell Oliver to step down right now.” But her feet didn’t move. In fact, her hand instinctively shifted to shield Oliver’s elbow, a protective gesture so natural she probably didn’t even realize she was doing it. “I’m not upset,” I replied, my voice flat. “The hospital called. I have a shift to cover. I’m leaving.” Before she could piece together an argument, I turned toward the heavy mahogany exit doors. Behind me, Oliver’s soft, fragile voice drifted through the vaulted hall. “Victoria, the floor is so slick here… I think I twisted my ankle…” “Oh, honey, be careful.” The clicking of Victoria’s heels hurried in the opposite direction. There was a sudden, frantic tenderness in her voice that she never used with me anymore. I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the hotel. A freezing Boston wind whipped against my neck. I pulled my coat tight and hailed an Uber. When I unlocked the door to the apartment we’d spent three years decorating, the living room smelled faintly of lavender and cardboard. On the coffee table lay the unfinished wedding favors. They were custom-made wax seal kits I’d spent weeks designing with a boutique in Back Bay. The brass stamp was supposed to bear our initials: V & H. I walked over, picked up one of the heavy brass seals, and turned it over. V & O. Victoria and Oliver. My fingernails dug into my palms, but I felt nothing but a dull, hollow absurdity. I pulled out my phone and called the boutique. “Mr. Henry. Did they arrive safely?” the owner asked warmly. “Ms. Albright’s assistant called yesterday in a panic. She said she needed a last-minute adjustment for a special set of favors for a dear friend. We had to work through the night to change the initials.” “Yes,” I said, my throat dry. “They’re here. Thank you for your hard work.” After hanging up, I sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the polished brass V & O for a long time. She had always been this way. In her mind, as long as she handed me a signed marriage certificate at the end of the day, any private concession she made to Oliver was harmless. She thought changing a few letters on a wax stamp was just a harmless indulgence for her childhood friend, something my family would never notice. My phone buzzed. A text from Victoria. Oliver’s ankle is badly swollen. Taking him to the ER for X-rays. We’ll do sushi tomorrow. Be good. I didn’t reply. I walked into the study, pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk, and retrieved the printed confirmation for our marriage license appointment at City Hall. I tore it down the middle, then into quarters, and let the white scraps flutter into the wastebasket. Then, I opened my laptop and created a group chat with only my family and closest friends. I’m sorry to inform you all that the wedding scheduled for this Sunday has been canceled. Thank you for your understanding, and I apologize for any inconvenience. — Henry. I clicked send. Instantly, the screen lit up with a barrage of questions. I set my phone to Do Not Disturb. The electronic lock beeped at the front door. Victoria was home. She kicked off her heels in the foyer, holding a grease-stained paper bag. “Henry, I grabbed you those lamb gyros from the food truck on the corner,” she said, rubbing her temples as she set the box on the kitchen island. “Oliver wanted them because his stomach was acting up, and the line was wrapped around the block. I made sure to grab an extra order for you.” She pulled the container out, and the pungent, heavy aroma of roasted lamb immediately filled the kitchen. I stood three feet away, staring at the container. “Victoria, I don’t eat lamb,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I’m severely allergic. It triggers immediate hives, and last time, I went into anaphylactic shock. Did you forget?” Victoria’s hand froze on the button of her trench coat. She looked at the gyros, then at me, a flicker of defensiveness and irritation crossing her face. “I’ve had a million things on my mind today, Henry. It slipped my mind. Oliver said they were delicious, so I just grabbed them. If you don’t want them, I’ll throw them out. There’s no need to interrogate me like I did it on purpose.” The next morning, I walked back to the hotel’s events wing. As I approached the double doors of the grand ballroom, Oliver’s voice drifted out. “Victoria, what if we used yellow orchids for the head table? White roses look so sterile, almost like a funeral.” Inside, Victoria stood with her arms crossed, studying a floor plan. Behind her, the massive LED screens were looping our engagement photos. “Henry wants white roses,” she muttered, not looking up. Oliver immediately stepped closer, slipping his hand casually onto her waist. “But Victoria, I’m terribly allergic to rose pollen. Have you forgotten? And I’m the one bringing up the rings tomorrow. What if I have an asthma attack on stage? Henry is a grown man, surely he wouldn’t want me to suffer over a few flowers?” Victoria’s hand hovered over the blueprints. She glanced up at the screen displaying my face, then sighed. “Fine. Swap them for the yellow orchids,” she told the event coordinator. The coordinator looked uneasy. “Ms. Albright, the white roses were imported from Ecuador. Mr. Henry spent six months securing this specific batch. Changing them now means forfeiting the deposit…” “Put the fee on my corporate account,” Victoria interrupted coldly. “And let’s reconfigure the seating arrangements for the head table.” From the doorway, I watched Oliver hand a slip of paper to the coordinator. “Please put my parents in these two seats,” he said with a sweet, innocent smile. “They drove all the way from upstate, and Victoria promised them the best view. As for Henry’s parents… just put them at one of the side tables. They’re from a small town anyway; they won’t really care about formal seating etiquette.” I took a slow breath and pushed the doors open. “There’s no need to change anything.” Victoria spun around. When she saw me, her brow snapped together in an immediate scowl. “What are you doing here?” she snapped. “I told you to rest. My assistant has this covered. Why are you here making a fuss?” Oliver flinched, stepping slightly behind Victoria like a frightened child. “Henry, please don’t be mad! I just thought since there were empty seats at the head table, my parents…” “It doesn’t matter,” I said. I didn’t even look at him. I walked past them and handed a document to the coordinator. “Mr. Jenkins, please cancel the fifteen tables reserved for my guests.” The ballroom went dead silent. Mr. Jenkins froze, looking between the document in his hands and Victoria’s tightening expression. Victoria lunged forward, her hand slamming onto the paper, her manicured nail leaving a deep crease across the page. “Henry, have you lost your mind?” she hissed under her breath. “The wedding is tomorrow. If you cancel fifteen tables now, where is your family supposed to sit? You’re thirty years old—are you really going to throw a tantrum over table settings and humiliate us?” “They aren’t coming,” I said, pulling the paper from under her palm. I pulled a tissue from my pocket and casually wiped the back of my hand where her fingers had brushed mine. “They aren’t coming?” Victoria let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Fifteen tables of guests just decided not to show up? Henry, pick your battles! If this is about the flowers, I’ll buy you that sports car you looked at last month. Just stop this nonsense!” She turned back to Mr. Jenkins. “Ignore him. Proceed with the original plan. Swap the flowers to orchids, and add two seats to the head table!” I didn’t bother arguing with her. I simply slid the signed cancellation form back to Jenkins. “I paid the deposit from my personal bank account, and my signature is on the contract,” I told him. “Per the cancellation policy, refund the remaining balance to the card on file. If this isn’t processed within the hour, my hospital’s legal counsel will be here to handle it.” Jenkins wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked at Victoria’s frozen, icy glare, then reluctantly picked up his pen and signed. Victoria watched him sign, her face hardening into a mask of pure, absolute cold. “Fine, Henry. Have it your way,” she sneered, stepping back with a bitter laugh. “If your family shows up tomorrow with nowhere to sit, that’s on you. Don’t expect me to save face for you.” She was entirely convinced this was just a desperate bid to make her crawl back. For seven years, no matter how much I protested her behavior, she always assumed a firm hand would bring me to my knees because of how deeply I loved her. Oliver reached out, gently tugging the sleeve of Victoria’s blazer. “Victoria, is Henry mad at me? I’m so sorry… I shouldn’t have asked for the head table. I’ll leave…” “You’re not going anywhere,” Victoria snapped, her fingers closing tightly around his wrist. “You aren’t the one who needs to leave.” She glared at me, her eyes flashing with the cold authority of an executive delivering a final warning: “Henry, I am giving you one last chance. Withdraw the cancellation. Put the tables back. Don’t humiliate me tomorrow. You know exactly where my boundary lies.” I looked down at her hand wrapped around Oliver’s wrist, and a wave of pure nausea washed over me. “No thank you,” I said, tucking the signed copy into my coat pocket. “Carry on.” As I walked away, Victoria’s furious voice echoed through the vaulted space behind me: “Henry! If you walk out that door, don’t you dare think I’ll come crawling after you!” I didn’t look back. Outside, the autumn sun was blinding, but it held absolutely no warmth. I pulled out my phone and sent a message to my department head. Dr. Weaver, is the opening for the East Africa medical relief mission still available? He replied almost immediately. It is, Henry. But pre-deployment training begins in forty-eight hours, and it’s a strict two-year commitment. Aren’t you getting married tomorrow? The wedding is off, I typed back. I’ll report to the training facility tomorrow morning. By 9:00 p.m., I was folding my last two white coats and packing them into my suitcase. The closet was mostly empty now. I’d left behind all the designer suits and luxury items Victoria had bought me over the years—expensive, ill-fitting armor meant to make me look presentable at her corporate galas. The front door beeped, and Victoria walked into the bedroom. She froze at the sight of the suitcase on the floor. “What is this?” her voice rose, her eyes scanning the bare closet. “Henry, when is this tantrum going to end? First you cancel the reception, and now you’re playing the runaway? This little act was old yesterday.” I zipped the suitcase and wheeled it to the corner. “I’m just clearing out the things I don’t need.” Victoria stared at me, a flicker of unease finally breaking through her irritation. She stepped closer, reaching up to squeeze the back of my neck in that familiar, placating gesture of hers. “Look,” she said, her voice dropping into a softer, patronizing tone. “I lost my temper this afternoon. I should have considered your feelings. I already called the manager back. Your parents can have the head table, and I told them to use the white roses. Are we good now?” It was her signature move: a slap followed by a hollow peace offering. Three years ago, I would have been so incredibly grateful for the crumb of affection. But this time, I stepped back, letting her hand fall through empty air. “Victoria, my parents aren’t coming,” I said plainly. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?” The softness vanished, her eyes hardening again. “I’ve already compromised. What else do you want from me? Do you expect me to completely banish Oliver from my life? You know how fragile his mental health is. I’m not leaving him to sit alone in a corner tomorrow.” I looked away. “Do whatever you want.” Right then, her phone lit up. Oliver was flashing on the screen. She shot me a quick look before picking up, her voice softening instantly. “What’s wrong?” Oliver’s panicked voice spilled from the receiver, loud enough for me to hear. “Victoria… the rings are gone. I had them in my bag, but they’re not there! I’m so sorry… if we don’t have them tomorrow, you’re going to hate me, aren’t you?” Victoria’s face went pale. “Don’t panic, honey. Where are you? I’m coming to help you look.” She hung up and grabbed her car keys. “Oliver lost the rings. I have to go help him search.” “Get some sleep,” she added hurriedly as she rushed toward the door. “The stylist will be here at seven sharp. Don’t be late.” She didn’t even stop to explain why our wedding bands were in another man’s bag in the first place. The door slammed shut. The silence returned. I logged into the hospital portal on my phone. Under Emergency Contact, I stared at Victoria’s name. I had entered it there seven years ago, on my first day of residency. With a single tap, I cleared her name and phone number, replacing them with Dr. Weaver’s details. I used to think she was my anchor. Now, I realized I’d just been chained to a sinking ship. A text from her came through: The rings might have slipped out near the hotel. I’m going to the precinct with Oliver to check the street cameras. It might take all night. Don’t overthink it, get some sleep. I stared at the screen and let out a dry laugh. I unpinned her contact and muted her thread. After tomorrow, she would have all the time in the world to search for whatever she wanted. At 6:00 a.m., the sky was a pale, icy blue. I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the foyer, dressed not in a tailored tuxedo, but in a simple black windbreaker and jeans. I looked exactly like the twenty-three-year-old Henry who had graduated from medical school seven years ago. I took the spare keys and the keycard to the apartment. Victoria had bought this place with cash, promising it would be our home. But for the past three years, I had been little more than an on-call housekeeper. I slid the keys and keycard into a plain manila envelope, along with the wrinkled wedding itinerary with my name crossed out. I left it on the console table by the door. I took one last look at the apartment, stepped out, and let the lock click shut behind me. By 7:30 a.m., I arrived at the specialized training facility outside the city. The shuttle buses were lined up on the tarmac. Dr. Caroline Foster, the chief medical officer and team lead, walked over to help me with my bags. She was dressed in crisp, black tactical gear, her eyes sharp but warm. “Henry, are you absolutely sure about this?” she asked. “Two years in East Africa is no joke. The conditions are grueling, and the medical risks are real. And wasn’t your wedding scheduled for today? I can’t imagine your fiancée letting you go without a fight.” “I’m sure,” I replied, hoisting my suitcase into the bay. My voice was as steady as if I were discussing a routine chart. “The wedding is off.” Caroline paused, studying my face for a moment before nodding respectfully. “Understood. Go grab your training gear. Welcome to the team, Dr. Henry.” At 8:00 a.m., the overhead speakers chimed, instructing all personnel to surrender their personal communication devices. The training period was strictly closed-door. I handed my phone to the coordinator at the desk. “Just a reminder, Dr. Henry,” she said as she logged it. “Once this is turned in, there is no outside contact for the next three months, barring extreme family emergencies.” “I know,” I said, signing the non-disclosure and deployment agreement without a second thought.

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On my wedding day, the bride didn’t show up. Instead, a gig courier in a high-vis jacket walked down the aisle. “Mr. Mitch, hello. I’m here on behalf of Rebecca. She hired me to stand in for her and complete the ceremony.” The crowded chapel went dead silent. I stood there, wearing the custom tuxedo Rebecca had personally picked out for me, my fingers slowly crushing the bridal bouquet in my hand until the stems snapped. Only last night, she had stayed up until dawn, meticulously choosing the tie that would suit me best. “Connor,” she had whispered, her arms wrapped around my neck. “No matter how long that aisle is tomorrow, I’ll be right beside you to walk it to the end.” Sitting in the front row, my grandmother, whose eyesight had been failing for years, heard the commotion. She smiled warmly and reached her trembling hand out toward the altar. “Rebecca? Come here, sweetheart. Let Grandma hold your hand. After today, you’re officially my granddaughter.” The courier took a half-step back, her face turning bright red under the gaze of a hundred guests. Then, she pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket. I stared at the printed lines, a sudden numbness creeping into my fingertips. Right then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Zach had posted an update on his private social media story—visible only to me. In the photo, Rebecca was wearing her custom-tailored wedding gown, smiling brightly as she wheeled a suitcase down a hallway ahead of him. His caption read: She said a wedding can always be rescheduled, but I only have today. From the front row, Gran’s quiet, fragile voice drifted up to me again. “Connor, why isn’t Rebecca coming over?” I tossed the mangled bouquet onto the altar. Without looking at the crowd, I handed the courier’s instruction sheet to the technician booth and had them project it onto the giant screens for every guest to see. “Gran,” I said, my voice echoing through the speakers. “She outsourced her own wedding. We don’t want a woman like that in our family.” … The text on the screens was magnified until every single word was agonizingly clear. Bride’s Entrance: Hired courier will walk the aisle in her stead. The Vows: Nod when prompted by the officiant; no verbal response required. Exchange of Rings: If the groom is emotionally stable, the courier may slip the ring onto his finger. If he is unstable, simply hand the ring box to the officiant. Note: Connor’s grandmother has severe vision impairment. If she mistakes the courier for the bride, there is no need to correct her. The color drained from the faces of the relatives in the front rows. Whispers broke out, turning into a low, angry hum. “Is this some kind of joke?” “Where the hell is the bride? She actually hired a delivery driver to stand in for her wedding?” “This is incredibly disrespectful to the Mitch family.” Rebecca’s mother, Mrs. Christian, was the first to snap out of the shock. Clutching her designer gown, she rushed up the steps of the altar. “Turn that off!” she hissed, glaring at the technician booth before turning her venom on me. “Connor, do you have to humiliate both of our families today?” I took a step back, keeping my distance. “Mrs. Christian, I didn’t humiliate anyone. Your daughter is the one who outsourced her wedding.” Her face flushed an ugly purple, and she lowered her voice to a threatening whisper. “Don’t forget who is sitting out there. Half of these guests are our business partners. Rebecca just had a temporary emergency. What do you gain by blowing this out of proportion?” I ignored her and looked at the terrified courier. “What else did Rebecca give you?” Fumbling with her pockets, the courier hastily produced a small black velvet box. Inside were two wedding bands. The groom’s ring was the one I had picked out myself, carrying it in my pocket for weeks. The courier’s voice shrank to a squeak. “Ms. Christian said… she said if you didn’t make a scene, I should just hand these to the priest. She told me I didn’t even have to touch your hand. I could just slide the box over.” Another wave of outrage rippled through the pews. Hearing this, Gran struggled to stand up. Because she rose too quickly, her balance gave way, and her fragile frame swayed. I rushed over and caught her before she could fall. “Connor,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Is she really not here?” My throat felt like it was coated in sand. “No, Gran. She sent a stranger to take her place.” Gran went quiet for a long, heavy moment. Today, she was wearing a vintage burgundy silk dress. It was the same dress she had worn to her own wedding decades ago. The waist was far too tight now, so she had stayed up until midnight, painstakingly altering the seams by hand under a dim lamp. Before we left for the chapel, she had been practicing her blessing in her room, whispering to herself. “Rebecca, my Connor has a stubborn streak, but he has a good heart. Please be patient with him.” Then she had looked up at me, asking softly, “Connor, do you think that sounds okay? I don’t want to embarrass you in front of her family.” I had held her hands and told her she was perfect. “That’s good,” she had smiled, her face wrinkling with warmth. “I wanted to wear something festive. I can’t let my boy down.” Now, Gran slowly reached up to her chest, unpinned her red rose corsage, and crushed it in her palm. Mrs. Christian was still trying to salvage the situation. She turned to the wedding planner. “What are you standing there for? Keep the music playing! The bride’s representative is here. We are continuing the ceremony!” She glared at me. “Connor, I’m giving you one last chance. When Rebecca gets back, you can throw whatever tantrum you want. But if you drag our family through the mud today, don’t expect her to ever walk down an aisle for you again.” I picked up the microphone from the altar. “To all our guests,” I said. “As you can see, the bride isn’t here today. She arranged for a courier to walk the aisle, nod to the vows, and exchange the rings. She even planned for all of us to lie to my grandmother.” I paused, looking out over the crowd. “The wedding is officially canceled. Every single registry gift and cash donation will be returned to you by the end of the day.” Mrs. Christian screamed, “Connor!” I didn’t give her another look. I plugged my phone into the AV system and projected Zach’s Instagram story onto the massive screens behind us. The white wedding car, the flowing lace of Rebecca’s gown, her radiant smile. And the caption: She said a wedding can always be rescheduled, but I only have today. “As for Rebecca,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “I’m done.” As I guided Gran toward the exit, my phone began to vibrate. It was Rebecca. I tapped the screen and put it on speakerphone. Her voice filled the quiet space—calm, sweet, and laced with a hint of exasperation. “Con, what’s going on? The coordinator just called and said you’re refusing to go through with the ceremony.” She spoke with such easy nonchalance, as if she hadn’t just abandoned her own wedding. As if I were merely a toddler throwing a fit over nothing. “Rebecca,” I said, “do you even know what you wrote on the instructions you gave that courier?” I heard her sigh softly on the other end. “I knew you’d be upset when you saw it. But I did it to keep things moving. You get so anxious in front of crowds, Con. I didn’t want you standing up there looking foolish and alone.” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “So you wanted our entire family to lie to my grandmother?” The line went quiet for a second. When she spoke again, her tone was softer, patronizing. “Con, let’s not make a big deal out of this. Gran’s eyes are so bad anyway, she wouldn’t have even noticed. Just cooperate with me, okay? Your tie is probably crooked, and it’s going to ruin the photos. You know how much I love you in that tuxedo. When I get back, we’ll take our own private photos.” “Where are you right now, Rebecca?” I asked slowly. There was a brief hesitation. “I’m with Zach. His landlord evicted him, and all his things were thrown onto the sidewalk. I couldn’t just leave him sitting out there in the cold.” I looked down at Gran, whose head was bowed. “So you left my grandmother to cry at our wedding instead?” Suddenly, Zach’s voice drifted through the receiver. “Rebecca, am I causing trouble again? You should go back. I’ll be fine on my own.” Rebecca’s voice instantly dropped, muffled as she spoke to him. “Don’t touch that box, Zach, it’s too heavy. Just wait for me.” Then she turned her attention back to me. “Con, a wedding is just a piece of paper and a party. You’re the one I chose to spend my life with. You’ve always been the sensible one. You wouldn’t want to embarrass both our families over something this trivial, right?” At that moment, the truth finally sank in. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how much this would hurt me. She knew. She just knew I would endure it. Because I was sensible. Because I loved her. She was handing me a blade, expecting me to press it into my own chest and smile through the bleeding. Gran suddenly reached up and took my hand. Her voice was quiet, but it carried perfectly through the silent hall. “You don’t let a stranger stand in for your wedding.” I squeezed her hand. “You don’t need to come back, Rebecca,” I said into the phone. “I’m not marrying you.” Her breathing finally hitched. “Connor, calm down. Don’t throw our future away over a tantrum.” I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “You outsourced our wedding. I’m just cutting my losses on the marriage.” Before she could speak, I hung up. In front of Mrs. Christian and all the remaining guests, I blocked her number. As we walked toward the exit, the hotel manager caught up to us, looking highly uncomfortable as he held an invoice. “Mr. Mitch, I understand the wedding is canceled. But the remaining balance for the venue and catering must be settled today.” Before I could speak, Gran stepped forward. She reached into her coat and pulled out a faded red cloth purse. The edges were worn, mended with thick, uneven thread. I recognized it immediately. It was where she kept her life savings. Inside, there was supposed to be the welcoming cash gift for Rebecca, along with a pair of handmade red silk pillowcases she had spent weeks sewing for us. Because of her failing eyesight, she had worked on them day and night, tearing out the stitches and restarting whenever they went crooked. “Con,” she had told me when she finished them, “newlyweds need to sleep peacefully. These stitches carry my blessings for a long, happy life.” Now, she bypassed all of that and handed her debit card to the manager. “How much do we owe?” “Gran, no,” I said, trying to push her hand back. “I’ve got this.” She patted the back of my hand gently. “Connor. Money can always be earned back. But if you enter a family on your knees, you’ll spend the rest of your life unable to stand up straight.” The manager looked at her with pity. “Ma’am, the balance is quite high.” Gran nodded. “Run the card. My grandson doesn’t owe them a single dime.” Her hand shook violently as she pressed her fingers against the keypad to enter her PIN. She got it wrong the first time. And the second. Frantic, she apologized to the manager. “I’m so sorry. My eyes are failing me, and my fingers are clumsy. Please, don’t hold it against my Connor.” Watching her, a tight knot formed in my chest, making it hard to breathe. Just then, Mrs. Christian marched over. She snatched a red velvet jewelry box from her bag and threw it violently at my feet. The box burst open on the marble floor. “Since you’re calling off the wedding, give us back our family heirlooms,” Mrs. Christian spat. “Don’t act all high and mighty while holding onto our gold. Did you really think you deserved to be part of our family?” Gran instinctively bent down. Because of her poor vision, she thought something of value had dropped and wanted to help retrieve it. Before I could stop her, her palm pressed directly onto a shard of glass from the shattered box. Blood immediately began to pool on the floor. “Gran!” I gasped, dropping to my knees. Gran’s face went white with pain, but her first instinct was to pull her hand into her sleeve, trying to hide the wound. “Don’t let it drip, Con,” she whispered. “The hotel’s carpet looks expensive.” In that second, a blinding fury roared to life in my chest. Mrs. Christian scoffed, crossing her arms. “Oh, please. What a cheap performance. The Christian family gold isn’t something just anyone can touch.” I stood up, stepped forward, and slapped her hard across the face. The sharp crack echoed off the high ceilings of the lobby. Everyone froze. Mrs. Christian clutched her cheek, staring at me in absolute disbelief. “You… you dared to hit me?” I reached down, tore off the heavy heirloom gold bracelet from my wrist—the one she had insisted I wear as her future son-in-law—and hurled it straight at her chest. “Take your gold and get the hell out of my sight,” I snarled, my voice shaking with a rage I had never felt before. “If anything happens to my grandmother, your family won’t have enough money to pay for it.” In the sterile corridor of the hospital, I was still wearing my wedding tuxedo. Gran sat on a plastic chair outside the exam room, her palm bound in white gauze after receiving five stitches. I knelt in front of her, unable to look her in the eye. “Gran, I’m so sorry. I brought this on us. I chose the wrong person.” Gran reached out with her uninjured hand and gently stroked my hair. “Connor, don’t you dare apologize. Walking away today was the best thing you’ve ever done. My eyes might be failing, but today, I saw everything clearly.” That night, I spent hours returning every single registry gift and donation. By 1:00 AM, I finally unlocked the door to the apartment we were supposed to share. The entry code was still my birthday. I stood in the entryway, unable to take a step further. The living room was crowded with pink cardboard boxes, each one bearing Zach’s name in bold marker. His expensive sneakers were lined up on the top shelf of our shoe rack. His cologne sat dead center on my writing desk. In the master bedroom, his discarded jacket was draped carelessly over the headboard. The vibrant red silk bedding I had spent hours preparing for our wedding night had been ripped off the mattress and tossed into the dirty laundry hamper on the balcony like a piece of trash. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a notification from our mutual friend group chat—the one containing me, Rebecca, Zach, and a dozen of our college friends. Zach had posted a short video. In the video, he was sitting on our new bed, wearing the spare wedding tie I had left hanging in the closet. He smiled warmly at the camera. “Finally moved into the new home she built for me,” he said. From off-camera, Rebecca’s voice filtered in, soft and slightly scolding. “Stop playing around, Zach. Connor will mind.” Zach leaned back, flashing a boyish grin. “But he’s always so sensible. You said yourself, he’ll get used to it.” The video went silent for a second. Then, Rebecca murmured softly, “Just don’t push him too hard.” A second later, the video was retracted from the chat. But it was too late. I had already downloaded and saved it to my drive. My phone lit up again. It was a private message from my best man, Will. Con, are you okay? I stared at the screen, and a sudden, quiet laughter spilled from my lips. It turned out I wasn’t even the first groom to sleep in my own wedding bed. I walked into the walk-in closet, dragged out my suitcase, and packed only my essential documents, a few changes of clothes, and the handmade red pillowcases Gran had sewed for us. When I stripped off the tuxedo, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time. Then, I hung it up neatly right in the center of the closet. I placed the wedding ring boxes on the nightstand, beside a simple note: Rebecca, we are done. The next morning, Rebecca returned to the apartment. She was still wearing her wedding dress, though the hem of the white lace was stained with grey dust from Zach’s moving boxes. Zach hovered behind her, his voice small and hesitant. “Rebecca, do you think Connor is still mad?” Rebecca offered a tired, dismissive chuckle. “His heart is too soft, Zach. No matter how bad the fight was last night, he just needs to sleep it off. I’ll buy him a nice dinner and he’ll be fine.” She pushed open the bedroom door. The smile froze on her face. The closet was half-empty. My clothes, my books, my documents—all gone. Only the wedding tuxedo hung in the center, looking like a ghost. On the nightstand sat the rings, the house keys, and my note. Zach’s face paled. “Maybe… maybe he’s just trying to scare you…” Before he could finish, Rebecca’s phone rang. It was the hotel manager. She answered it, trying to keep her voice steady. “The wedding balance. Contact my assistant, she’ll handle the payment.” The line was quiet for a second. “Ms. Christian, the balance was fully settled by Mr. Mitch last night. However, he left a message for us to convey to you.”

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Ever since my father-in-law moved into my house, I’ve been afraid to even open my own refrigerator. He had taped a note onto the crisper drawer where the Bing cherries were kept: Bought by Dad. For daughter only. Others, buy your own. Until last week, when my four-year-old son, Max, reached in and took one. My father-in-law slapped the back of his tiny hand so hard the cherry flew out of his grip and rolled across the hardwood floor. “Just like your father,” he sneered. “Always looking for a free handout.” Then he turned to my wife and said, “While you’re still young, you need to have a daughter. Send this boy to his father’s parents. Let them raise him.” And my wife? She just hummed in agreement. A quiet, dismissive, “Mmhmm.” That was it. I knelt down, picked up the cherry, wiped the dust off, and popped it into my son’s mouth. Then I walked over to the fridge, ripped down my father-in-law’s note, and taped a new one in its place. It read: This refrigerator, along with this entire property, belongs to Darren. Anyone not listed on the deed must vacate within three days. … “Darren, what the hell is wrong with you? Take this ridiculous note down right now!” Rae slammed the bedroom door open. She was clutching the note I had taped to the fridge the night before, her knuckles white. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, bending down to pull a pair of dinosaur socks onto Max’s tiny feet. At the sound of her voice, Max’s small shoulders flinched. He instinctively tried to tuck his hand—the one with the red, swollen bruise on the back of it—behind his back. I reached out, gently pressing his shoulder to keep him steady, trying to offer what little comfort I could. Only then did I look up, my gaze cool as I met my wife’s furious eyes. Rae marched across the room in three sharp strides and slapped the crumpled paper onto my dresser. “Do you have any idea how upset my father is? He couldn’t even eat breakfast!” “His blood pressure is already sky-high, and you’re in here trying to tear this family apart!” I stood up, stepping deliberately between her and my son. “Whether he eats breakfast or starves is none of my concern.” Rae stared at me, her mouth slightly open in disbelief. “Darren, listen to yourself. When did you become so utterly unreasonable?” “It was a single cherry! My dad was just teaching him a lesson. You don’t take things that don’t belong to you!” “And you? You write a note telling him to pack up and leave in three days?” “Are you trying to humiliate him? Or are you trying to humiliate me?” Her voice rose, turning shrill. My voice remained perfectly level. “This house is solely in my name. I paid the down payment, and I’ve paid every single mortgage payment. If I want someone out of my house, I don’t need your permission.” Rae froze, her voice cracking as anger hid her sudden embarrassment. “You… don’t you dare hold this house over my head! We’re married! What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine. It is a daughter’s duty to take care of her father!” “Go to the living room and apologize to him right now, and we can forget this ever happened.” I didn’t answer her. Instead, I turned to the closet, pulled out Max’s small winter coat, and carefully zipped him into it. “Daddy, is Grandpa going to hit me again?” Max whispered, tugging weakly at my sleeve. I knelt down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “I promise you, buddy. No one is ever going to hurt you again.” I took his small hand in mine, brushed past Rae, and walked out. Rae grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. “Darren! Are you listening to me?” “If you walk out that door today, don’t bother coming back tonight!” I stopped and turned my head slowly to look at her. “Rae.” I said her name quietly. “You have two and a half days left.” She blinked, caught off guard. “What?” “The deadline on that note. Two and a half days.” I peeled her fingers off my arm, one by one. “When the clock runs out, if he’s still here, I will personally throw his things onto the curb.” With that, I walked out of the bedroom, leading my son. In the living room, my father-in-law, Richard, was sprawled on the sofa, cracking sunflower seeds and spitting the shells onto the hardwood floor. When he saw me, he rolled his eyes and practically screamed toward the back of the house. “Oh, Rae! Come look at this wonderful husband of yours!” “He hasn’t even made a name for himself, and he’s already throwing me out!” “What a miserable life I have! I raised you with my own sweat and blood, and now I don’t even have a corner to lay my head!” He wailed dramatically, though his shifty eyes kept darting to see my reaction. Rae stormed out of the bedroom, her face pale with frustration. “Dad, stop crying. He’s just throwing a tantrum. He won’t actually kick you out.” She glared at me. “Darren, if you dare go to work today, we’re getting a divorce!” I reached the entryway and slipped on my shoes. I opened the door. “Fine,” I said, without looking back. “See you at the courthouse tomorrow morning.” The door clicked shut behind us. After dropping Max off at his preschool, I didn’t head to the office. Instead, I pulled into the parking lot of a quiet coffee shop I frequent, took a seat by the window, and ordered a black coffee. When I unlocked my phone, my screen was flooded with notifications. Rae had sent over a dozen voice messages. I tapped the speech-to-text option, and the screen filled with defensive, angry text. Are you losing your mind, Darren? You want a divorce over a single cherry? My dad is an old man. Can’t you just show some respect for once? I’ll buy a whole carton of cherries tonight for you and Max. Just come home. I stared at the promise of a carton of cherries and let out a cold, humorless laugh. That was always Rae’s logic. She genuinely believed that throwing a little material comfort at a problem could erase the terror my son felt, or the years of humiliation I had endured. But the cherries were never the point. What broke me was the cold, indifferent “Mmhmm” she uttered while our son’s hand was being struck. That single sound had severed the last remaining thread of our marriage. I swiped out of messages and opened our smart home security app. When I bought the house, I had installed a camera in the living room to keep an eye on Max when he was playing. The feed buffered for a few seconds before the room appeared in sharp high-definition. Rae had already left for work. Richard was home alone, humming a cheerful, off-key tune as he wandered around the living room with a pair of heavy kitchen shears in his hand. He stepped out onto the balcony, his eyes settling on the potted orchid I had kept alive for four years. I had bought that rare orchid to celebrate the day Max was born. Richard sneered, raised the shears, and snipped off every single blooming bud. “Pointless weed,” he muttered, tossing the delicate white petals into the trash can. “Taking up space where my granddaughter’s toys should go.” Then, he walked into the master bedroom. The camera couldn’t see inside the bedroom, but the audio was crystal clear. I heard drawers being violently yanked open and slammed shut, followed by the heavy, hollow sound of glass bottles hitting the bottom of a wastebasket. “Buying all this expensive skincare… spending my daughter’s hard-earned money!” Richard grumbled. “Once we get rid of that useless boy, I’ll make sure Rae finds a real man who can give her a proper daughter.” His venomous muttering spilled out of my phone’s speaker. I watched the screen, my face entirely numb. I downloaded the footage, merged it with the recording of him striking Max from the night before, and backed it up to my secure cloud storage. Then, I called my old college friend, Matt, who was now a senior partner at a divorce law firm. “Hey, Matt. It’s Darren.” “Yeah. I’ve made up my mind. I need a divorce.” Half an hour later, I was sitting in Matt’s high-rise office. I slid a folder across his mahogany desk. Inside was a copy of the deed, the pre-marital purchase agreement, and four years of bank statements. Matt adjusted his glasses, scanning the documents. “You bought this property in full before the marriage. There’s no dispute here—it’s solely your personal asset.” “But what if she claims she contributed to the mortgage after you got married?” Matt asked, looking up. I pointed to the stack of bank statements. “There is no mortgage. I paid the full amount upfront to save on interest.” “As for our living expenses over the last four years, every single utility bill, grocery run, and repair came directly out of my checking account.” “Rae’s paychecks? The day after she gets paid, her entire salary is transferred straight into her father’s bank account.” Matt paused, his fingers resting on the paper. He looked at me, a flicker of genuine pity in his eyes. “So you’re telling me that for four years, she lived rent-free in your home and didn’t contribute a single dime to your lives?” “It gets worse.” I unlocked my phone and slid it over, playing the security footage. “She enabled her father’s physical abuse of my son, and they’ve openly discussed abandoning him.” As the video played, Matt’s expression hardened. “This is crucial evidence. It’s more than enough to secure you sole custody and ensure she leaves with absolutely nothing.” Matt closed the folder with a heavy thud. “But Darren, prepare yourself. Women who are used to treating their husbands like a personal piggy bank don’t react well when the card gets declined. She’s going to get ugly.” I took a slow sip of my water. “I don’t care how ugly she gets.” “I just want her out of my life.” I pulled a draft of a divorce agreement from my bag—one I had quietly prepared weeks ago. “Help me finalize this, Matt. I want her to sign it in forty-eight hours.” After leaving the law firm, I drove straight to our building’s management office. I placed my deed on the manager’s desk. “Mr. Isaac, could you check how many key fobs are currently registered to my unit?” Mr. Isaac tapped away at his keyboard. “You have three active fobs, Darren.” “Deactivate two of them,” I said without hesitation. “Only keep mine active. And please schedule a locksmith to come to my unit. Two days from now. Eight o’clock sharp. I want the locks changed.” Mr. Isaac blinked, taken aback by my cold tone, but he nodded. “Understood, Darren. We’ll have them there.” I walked out of the office and looked up at the sky. The afternoon sun was blindingly bright, but for the first time in years, the suffocating fog in my mind had completely cleared. For the next two days, I didn’t go back to the apartment. I checked Max and myself into a clean business hotel near my office. Initially, Rae bombarded my phone with calls and texts. When I didn’t reply, she must have assumed I was just sulking. But by the second night, her tone shifted. She sent a long, breathless voicemail. “Darren, seriously, stop throwing a tantrum. Do you have any idea how much money you’re wasting staying at a hotel? You think money grows on trees?” “My dad already said that if you just come home and apologize to him, he’ll drop the whole cherry thing. Let’s just move on.” I listened to the message, felt absolutely nothing, and blocked her number. Sitting at the hotel desk, I spent the evening organizing a spreadsheet of our finances from the last four years. The columns of numbers were a stark record of our marriage: everything from high-end kitchen appliances to the imported joint supplements my father-in-law insisted on taking. I had paid for all of it. Rae had spent years systematically draining my savings to fund her birth family. On the afternoon of the third day, I left work early to pick Max up from preschool. “Daddy, are we going home today?” Max asked quietly from the backseat, his large eyes reflecting a quiet fear. “Yes, buddy,” I said, reaching back to squeeze his hand. “But first, we’re going to meet a few nice uncles who are going to help us.” I parked my car along the curb outside our building. A few minutes later, a large moving truck pulled up behind us. Four broad-shouldered movers jumped out of the cab. The foreman walked over and tapped on my window. “Mr. Scott? You called for the clean-out service?” I nodded and stepped out of the car. “Yes. Thank you for coming. Just follow my lead.” Right then, my phone buzzed in my palm. It was a motion-alert notification from my home security app. I tapped the live stream. The living room was crowded. Aside from Richard, Rae’s younger sister, Emily, was there along with her husband, Greg, and their five-year-old daughter, Zoe. They had clearly just arrived. Massive duffel bags and cardboard boxes blocked the entire entryway. Greg was lounging on my sofa, laughing as he watched Zoe bounce up and down on the premium white leather cushions. “Wow, Dad, Rae’s place is amazing. It’s so spacious,” Emily said, biting into an apple as she paced the room. Richard sat in my armchair like a king on his throne. “Of course it is! My eldest daughter is a success. This house is the new foundation for our family.” “I already told Rae to have you guys move in.” “Darren and that useless boy are occupying the second bedroom anyway. It’s a total waste of space. We’ll clear them out so Zoe can have her own room.” Richard’s loud, boastful voice echoed through my phone speaker. I stared at the screen, and felt a sudden, icy surge of laughter bubble up in my throat. Rae really was something else. Instead of taking my three-day warning seriously, she had invited her entire parasitic family over to claim my home as their own. I locked my phone and looked at the movers. “Gentlemen, no matter how much they scream or cry, I want you to carry every single item that doesn’t belong to me out of that apartment.” “If there are any issues, I will take full responsibility.” The foreman cracked his knuckles with a grin. “Don’t worry, boss. We’re professionals. As long as you’ve got the deed, we’ll clear ’em out even if the President himself is sitting in there.” I took a deep, steadying breath and took Max’s hand. “Come on, Max. Let’s go clean up our house.” With four movers and two building security guards behind me, we stepped into the elevator. The floor numbers ticked up slowly, but my heart rate remained perfectly, beautifully calm. The doors opened on the sixteenth floor. I walked up to my front door, bypassed my keys, and pressed the doorbell. From inside the apartment, a chaotic rush of footsteps scrambled toward the door. The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Emily’s smug grin instantly froze when she saw me. She took a step back, her eyes darting nervously from me to the four towering movers and the two uniformed security guards standing behind me. “Darren…?” she stammered. I didn’t answer. I simply guided Max past her and stepped into the living room. The air in the apartment was thick and rancid. A portable electric stove sat on the coffee table, a greasy hot pot bubbling away, splattering red chili oil everywhere. The hardwood floor was littered with empty beer bottles, used napkins, and sunflower seed shells. My three-thousand-dollar white leather sofa was covered in dark, greasy footprints from where Zoe had been jumping. Richard was in the middle of dipping a piece of beef into the pot. When he saw me enter, he paused, then slammed his chopsticks down onto the table. “Oh, look who decided to crawl back!” Richard sneered, his eyes narrowing. “I thought you’d starved to death out there!” “Well, don’t just stand there. Go to the kitchen, wash the dishes, and slice some fruit for us.” He completely ignored the small army standing behind me, still expecting me to play the submissive servant. At that moment, the master bedroom door opened. Rae walked out, wearing her silk bathrobe and yawning. When she saw me, her brow furrowed, but then a triumphant smile spread across her face. “What’s the matter? Couldn’t afford the hotel bill, so you finally came crawling back?” She walked over to the sofa, sat down, and crossed her legs. “I hate to break it to you, Darren, but you’re too late.” “My sister and her family moved in today. They’ve already taken the second bedroom.” “You and the boy can sleep on the living room couch tonight.” She pointed lazily to the oil-stained leather sofa, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. I stood in the center of the room, quietly watching her little performance—watching the smug, ugly entitlement written all over her face. “Rae,” I said. My voice was very quiet, very cold, cutting straight through the noisy bubbling of the hot pot. “Can you not read?” “My note said to vacate within three days.” “Today is the third day.” Rae snapped, jumping to her feet and pointing a trembling finger at my face. “Darren, have you completely lost your mind?” “My entire family is here today. I dare you to try and lay a single finger on my father!” “You think bringing a couple of security guards is going to scare us?” Richard slammed his hand on the table, joining in. “Exactly! This is my daughter’s home! Who the hell are you to throw us out, you outsider?” “Greg, get up and throw this trash out!” Greg looked uneasy, but with his father-in-law watching, he took a hesitant step forward. “Come on, Darren, don’t make a scene. We’re family, there’s no need to make things so ugly…” I didn’t take a single step back. I reached into my bag, pulled out a document, and threw it down onto the table right next to the boiling hot pot. “Look closely,” I said, my voice deadpan. “That is a certified copy of the deed. This house belongs to me.” “The ground you are standing on is my private property.” Rae’s eyes fell on the paper. The smugness on her face instantly shattered. She stared at the words Sole Owner: Darren, her lips trembling as she tried to form a sentence. “You… why do you have this?” Her voice shook, all her previous bravado evaporating in an instant. I didn’t bother answering her. I turned to the movers and security guards behind me. “Gentlemen, begin.” “Take every single piece of property that doesn’t belong to me and throw it out.” “Officers, please monitor them. If anyone tries to interfere, call the police immediately and have them arrested for trespassing.” The moment the words left my mouth, the four movers charged into the living room and the second bedroom. “Hey! What are you doing? Stop! That’s my bag!” Richard shrieked, lunging forward to grab a duffel bag from one of the movers. But he was no match for a grown man half his age. With a gentle nudge, the mover sent him tumbling back onto the floor. Emily and Greg clutched each other and their daughter, too terrified to utter a single sound. Rae completely panicked. She rushed toward me, trying to grab my hand. “Darren! You’ve gone mad! We can talk about this! Why are you letting strangers ruin our home?” I violently slapped her hand away. I reached into my bag one last time, pulled out another document, and threw it directly into her face. “Our home?” I stared at her face, which had gone entirely bloodless. “Look closely, Rae. Those are divorce papers.” “Now, take your father, take your sister, and get the hell out of my house.”

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When I listed the riverfront condo—the one where I’d personally put down the three-hundred-thousand-dollar down payment—the realtor asked how I could bear to slash the price so drastically just to get rid of it. I pulled at the corner of my mouth. “Because of a cashmere throw.” The night before, I had worked past midnight. My stomach ulcer flared up, leaving me shivering on the living room floor in a cold sweat. All I wanted was to slide into the master bed and close my eyes. But Devon’s hand clamped down on the doorknob, blocking me. He frowned. “Don’t go in. Mallory loves those silk sheets and that cashmere throw. The last time you slept in there, you left a trace of your perfume, and she couldn’t sleep a wink all night.” He closed the door tightly, keeping the gap sealed, and spoke in a hushed, pleading tone. “Just hold out on the sofa tonight, Bella. Mallory just got discharged from the psychiatric ward. We need to be accommodating.” The protective way he stood guard over that door felt like a physical blow. Suddenly, the home I had spent six months building—running to hardware stores, supervising contractors, picking out every piece of trim—felt freezing cold. I didn’t argue. I didn’t demand answers like I usually did. I simply turned around and walked back to the stiff leather sofa. Devon watched me go, shaking his head with a sigh, assuming I was just being difficult. Then he retreated to his study. I stared at my phone screen, watching the confirmation for my mortgage redemption appointment pop up. I closed my eyes and let sleep take me. I was done trying to force my way into the fortress of becoming Mrs. Devon West. … I woke up with my stomach still twisting in knots. The living room lights were still on. On the coffee table sat a half-empty glass of cold water. Devon hadn’t even bothered to find my medication. I forced myself upright, my palms slick with cold sweat. A faint strip of light glowed beneath the master bedroom door, accompanied by the low hum of a white noise machine. It was the sound of falling rain—the only thing Mallory could sleep to. I leaned against the wall, walking toward it. Hanging from the brass doorknob was a wooden sign: “Sleeping. Do Not Disturb.” It was brand new. I had never seen it before. I reached for the handle. The lock was turned from the inside. “Bella, don’t mess with the door,” Devon’s voice called out from the study. I turned to look at him. He was in his pajamas, holding a mug of warm water. He didn’t offer it to me. Instead, he set it down on the small console table right outside the master bedroom. “Mallory needs warm water if she wakes up in the middle of the night,” he explained. “Where is my stomach medicine?” I asked, my voice flat. He paused. “I’ll pick some up for you tomorrow.” I walked over to the entryway and flipped open the first-aid kit. My prescription was three months expired. Meanwhile, Mallory’s sleep aids were meticulously sorted into daily pill organizers, each slot labeled with the date and exact dosage. Devon stepped over, pressing his hand down on the lid of the kit. “Don’t mess with her medicine.” I let go of the box. “When did she move her things in here?” “She just got discharged. The doctor said she needs a stable, familiar environment to recover.” “This is our house, Devon. Our wedding home.” His brow furrowed, a look of deep exhaustion crossing his face. “Do you have to be so petty? She’s only staying for a few nights.” I turned and walked toward the guest bedroom. When I pushed the door open, the room was piled high with wedding favors. Stacked against the far wall was Mallory’s easel, and her rolled-up yoga mat lay on the floor. I turned back to him. “Is the guest room a temporary stay, too?” Devon avoided my eyes. “Painting keeps her calm.” I pulled out my phone. A notification from a real estate app showed the current valuation of the condo. It was a painful drop from what I had paid, but I didn’t care. I opened my banking app, reviewing the outstanding mortgage balance, prepayment terms, and penalties. Devon stood beside me, exasperated. “What are you throwing a tantrum over now?” I didn’t look up. “Just running some numbers.” He sighed. “Bella, be mature. Mallory is sick. You’re healthy. Don’t fight her for the bed.” My thumb froze over the screen. “Fight her for the bed.” I had spent six months checking on contractors, selecting drywall, and testing mattresses at seven different stores before finding the perfect one. And now, he used the word “fight”. I opened the digital copy of our purchase contract. “Sole Title Holder: Bella Shaw.” “Mortgage Borrower: Bella Shaw.” My down payment records were saved in my cloud storage, alongside every renovation invoice. Devon caught a glimpse of the screen, and his expression shifted. “Why are you looking at those?” I locked my phone. “I can’t sleep.” “Well, keep it down. Don’t wake Mallory.” I looked at the master bedroom door. It had someone else’s sign on it. The bed held someone else’s blanket. The cabinets held someone else’s medicine. I opened my messages and texted Janice, our real estate agent. “Is there any way we can list this place immediately?” Janice replied almost instantly. “Are you sure? You’d be taking a massive hit.” I typed back: “I’m sure.” Inside the master bedroom, the rain machine cut off for a brief second. Devon immediately turned, rushing to knock softly on the door. “Mallory? Are you awake?” I set my phone face down on the coffee table. If the master bedroom didn’t belong to me, then there was no reason for the house to belong to us. The next morning, I opened the refrigerator. My coffee beans were gone. So was my Greek yogurt. In place of my hot sauces sat a neat row of low-sugar oat milk. A post-it note was stuck to the door in Devon’s neat handwriting: “Mallory: No caffeine, no cold drinks, no high sugar.” He walked out of the kitchen holding a bowl of plain oatmeal. “You should eat light today too. Mallory can’t stand the smell of anything heavy right now.” I looked at the bowl. Last night, when my stomach was tearing itself apart, he hadn’t asked if I needed a single bite of food. But he remembered exactly what smells would trigger Mallory. I grabbed my purse. “I’m not eating.” Devon’s face hardened. “Another attitude? You’re going to sour the whole morning over breakfast?” I slipped into my flats. “Keep it for her.” “Bella,” his voice dropped, warning me. “Don’t speak like that.” I walked into the closet to grab my coat. The main racks were now occupied by Mallory’s beige trench coats, silk pajamas, and knit shawls. My garment bag containing my wedding dress had been relegated to the corner of the balcony door, the bottom of the bag dusted with gray soot. I picked up the bag. Devon followed me in. “She gets anxious when her things are left out in the open. Don’t overthink this.” “So her anxiety matters, but mine doesn’t when my wedding dress is collecting dust by the balcony?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you really going to compare yourself to a clinical patient?” My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a notification from the West family group chat. Devon’s mother had sent a voice note. “Devon, how did Mallory sleep last night? Make sure Bella doesn’t go into the master bedroom and agitate her. A sick person can’t handle any stress.” Devon replied: “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve taken care of it.” His mother messaged back: “Bella is strong. A few days of compromise won’t hurt her. We’re all going to be family soon anyway.” No one asked how my stomach was. No one asked where I had slept. I took a screenshot of the conversation. Devon noticed, his expression instantly souring. “Why are you screenshotting that?” “For the memories.” He reached out to grab my phone. I took a step back, my eyes cold. “Don’t touch me.” His hand hung suspended in the air. “Bella, why are you being so sharp lately?” I zipped the garment bag shut. “Your family is much sharper. I’m just trying to keep up.” That afternoon, I took a half-day off work. I exported my down payment transfers. I exported every single mortgage payment. I saved the invoices for the custom cabinets, the designer lighting, and the landscaping. In the entire ledger, Devon had only contributed a few scattered transfers for minor monthly expenses. The only major purchases under his card were the television and the dining table. I sent the files to Sam, my closest friend who worked in corporate law. “Help me draft a pre-marital asset liquidation.” Sam replied within seconds. “You’re finally awake?” I wrote back: “No jokes. Just do the math.” Sam sent a quick reply. “The deed is in your name, and you have the paper trail. Do not play nice.” Devon came home around lunchtime. He handed me a glass of lukewarm water. “I was too impatient last night,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. This weekend, let’s go look at wedding bands.” I looked at the cup. The bottom of the glass still had a small thermal sticker Mallory used to measure her drinks. Forty-five degrees Celsius. I didn’t take it. His phone rang. A voice note from Mallory played automatically over his speaker. “Devon, the cashmere throw feels a little damp. I can’t close my eyes.” Devon instantly snatched his car keys off the counter. “I’ll take it to the dry cleaner. I’ll be back soon.” “What about the rings?” I asked. He paused at the door. “We can do that anytime. There’s no rush.” I looked down at my phone and clicked “Confirm” on my mortgage prepayment request. The screen blinked: “Request submitted.” He was busy protecting a blanket. I was busy dismantling a life. Devon had promised to accompany me to our wedding tasting. I had booked the reservation two weeks in advance, noting his parents’ dietary restrictions three separate times. But right before we were supposed to leave, his phone rang. Mallory was too terrified to go to her therapy session alone. Devon looked at me guiltily. “Go ahead without me. I’ll drop her off and meet you there as fast as I can.” I picked up my car keys. “Okay.” He let out a long breath of relief. “Thank you, Bella. I knew you’d understand.” I didn’t reply. When I arrived at the restaurant, the event coordinator handed me the seating chart for the reception. Right next to the head table, a new name had been added. “Mallory.” The notes beside her name were highly detailed: “Keep away from speakers. Avoid direct spotlights. Position near the exit/lounge area so Mr. West can easily assist her.” I held the pen, staring at the page. “Who requested this change?” The coordinator checked her tablet. “Mr. West called it in last night.” I set the pen down. “The head table is reserved for the bride, the groom, and their immediate families.” The coordinator offered an apologetic, awkward smile. “Mr. West mentioned the guest has special medical needs.” Half an hour later, Devon arrived. Mallory was trailing behind him, wrapped tightly in the cashmere throw, clutching a manila folder of medical records. “Bella,” Mallory whispered, her eyes downcast. “Should I not have come?” I looked at Devon. He immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her from my gaze. “I wanted her to get used to the venue ahead of time. We don’t want any unexpected episodes on the wedding day.” “It’s my wedding,” I said. “Who gave her permission to practice?” Mallory’s eyes welled with tears. Devon’s face darkened instantly. “Don’t raise your voice at her. She can’t handle stress right now.” I flipped open the menu. “Then she shouldn’t be here.” The tasting began. When the first course—a pan-seared sea bass—was served, Mallory covered her mouth with her napkin. “It smells too fishy.” Devon immediately signaled the server. “Please swap this dish out for something else.” When the soup arrived, she knit her brows. “The broth is too rich.” Devon turned to the coordinator. “Change this one too.” The coordinator looked at me for confirmation. I pushed the menu across the table. “Do whatever Mr. West wants.” The venue’s sound system began playing our selected ambient playlist. Mallory clutched the throw tighter to her chest, her breathing shallow. “This music… it’s making my chest feel so heavy.” Devon turned around. “Can we change the playlist to soft piano or white noise?” I stared at him. “Are our guests coming to a wedding, Devon, or a sleep clinic?” His voice fell into a harsh whisper. “Bella, the wedding is just a ceremony. Mallory’s health is real. She cannot be triggered.” “And what about me?” I asked. He hesitated, his voice softening slightly, though it offered no comfort. “You’ve always been the strong one, Bella.” The words hung in the air, cold and heavy. I closed my folder. Mallory spoke up, her voice trembling. “Maybe I should just leave. I don’t want to cause an argument between you two.” Devon immediately reached out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist to keep her in her seat. “No one is asking you to leave.” I stared at his hand on her skin. He realized what he was doing, flinching slightly as he let go. Mallory’s breathing became rapid and shallow. Devon stood up, supporting her by the shoulders. “I need to get her some air. Handle the deposit, and I’ll call you later.” The coordinator tentatively slid the invoice toward me. I didn’t reach for my pen. “We are putting the wedding date on hold indefinitely.” The coordinator gasped. “Ms. Shaw, you might lose the entire reservation deposit.” “Follow the terms of the contract.” As Devon helped Mallory into his passenger seat outside, my phone rang. It was Janice. “Bella, if you’re serious about selling that condo, I actually have a cash buyer who is ready to close quickly.” I watched Devon gently tuck the cashmere blanket around Mallory’s knees before shutting the car door. “I’m serious,” I said. Janice paused. “What about the price?” “Below market is fine. Just make it fast.” When I got back to the empty condo, I cancelled the catering, the florist, and sent a formal contract termination to the bridal boutique. Devon sent a text an hour later: “Mallory is resting now. Don’t overreact to what happened today.” I typed two words: “Too late.” He didn’t reply. I downloaded the standard residential purchase agreement template. A wedding could happen without me. And a house could certainly exist without him. At nine the next morning, I walked into the bank. The clerk noted the prepayment penalty fee on a slip of paper. “Ms. Shaw, this is a substantial fee. Are you sure you want to proceed with paying off the balance early?” I signed my name. “I’m sure.” She checked the documents. “Once the title is cleared, the property will be fully eligible for transfer.” I handed over my ID. “I understand.” When I stepped out of the lobby, Devon’s name flashed on my screen. “What do you want for dinner?” I replied: “Be home early. We need to talk about the house.” He wrote back: “Okay. I promise I’ll listen this time.” I slipped my phone into my coat pocket. By afternoon, Janice arrived with the buyers. Before they walked in, I had already gathered Mallory’s pillboxes, her diffuser, her slippers, and her sleep machine into clear storage bags, lining them up neatly by the front door. The buyer’s wife walked into the master bedroom, admiring the silk bedding. “These are gorgeous. Are they included?” “No,” I said. “The bedding goes with me.” The husband walked out to the balcony. “Why the sudden sale?” I handed him a copy of the cleared title deed. “I’m relocating out of state.” Janice pulled me to the side, whispering, “They’re going to try to negotiate because you’re moving so fast.” “If they can do a cash close, I’ll take the cut.” Janice looked at me, her eyes soft. “You’re really done, aren’t you?” “Entirely.” By twilight, Devon walked through the door. He stopped when he saw the cardboard boxes stacked in the hallway. “Are you organizing the wedding favors?” I placed the financial liquidation ledger on the coffee table. “Have a seat.” He looked at the document, his face losing color. “Bella, what is this?” “I slept on the couch last night, Devon. That was real. This is also real.” He sat down slowly. “Go ahead.” I flipped to the first page. “The down payment was three hundred thousand. I paid two hundred thousand; you paid one hundred thousand.” He nodded. “Yes. I don’t dispute that.” “The renovation costs were eighty thousand, paid entirely by me. The bulk of the mortgage payments, HOA fees, and interior design bills were also paid by me.” He rubbed his temples. “Is there really a point to doing this right now?” “Yes.” His phone began to vibrate. Mallory’s name lit up the screen. He pressed decline. It rang again immediately. On the third attempt, a voice note came through: “Devon, I’m alone in my room, and the windows feel like they’re falling down. I don’t want to live anymore.” Devon bolted upright, grabbing his keys. I stepped in front of the door, blocking him. “If you walk out that door tonight, we are finished.” He gripped the keys so hard his knuckles turned white. “She is sick, Bella! Don’t force me to be a heartless monster!” I looked him dead in the eye. “You were perfectly comfortable being a monster the night my stomach flared up.” He froze. Then, he pushed past me. The heavy front door slammed shut, and his hurried footsteps faded down the corridor. I sat down, opened my banking app, and initiated a wire transfer to his account. I calculated his exact share of the mortgage contribution, deducted his portion of the shared furniture depreciation, and hit send. In the memo line, I wrote: “Property and joint expenses cleared.” His phone call came thirty seconds later. I ignored it. I gathered the deed, the title release form, my ID, and the spare keys. At the title company’s office, the buyers were already waiting. Janice handed the paperwork to the closing officer. My phone vibrated continuously on the desk, Devon’s name flashing over and over. The officer verified my signature. “Property owner Bella Shaw, all documents are in order.” I placed the physical keys into the plastic tray. The officer looked up. “Ms. Shaw, do you confirm that you are selling this property of your own free will?” Behind me, the door to the office burst open. “Bella Shaw!” Devon’s voice cracked through the quiet room. “Don’t you dare sell this house!”

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Ever since I was diagnosed with narcolepsy—or what the doctors could only call a bizarre, daylight-onset coma—I would lose consciousness the moment the sun came up. We consulted endless specialists, flew to clinics across the country, but every diagnostic test came back frustratingly normal. Then, on the eve of my son’s birthday, I had a dream. A strange woman stood before me, her silhouette stark against a blinding white background. “You don’t actually believe you’re sick, do you? That a medical condition is what keeps you asleep all day?” I stared at her, paralyzed with confusion. She leaned in, a sharp, knowing smile on her lips. “It’s because my soul is fused with yours. We split this body. Twelve hours each. I get the day; you get the night.” “And the best part? Your husband and your son know all about it. In fact, to keep me around, they ran the only spiritual medium who could separate us right out of the city.” My mind went entirely blank. My hands, hanging at my sides, began to shake violently. She looked thoroughly satisfied with my horror. As the dreamscape began to fade with the rising sun, she whispered mockingly: “Don’t believe me? I’ll step back for the next few days. See for yourself.” … For three years, this was the first time I had ever opened my eyes during the day. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting golden stripes across our bedroom. The alarm on the nightstand buzzed. Elliott, who had been heading toward the master bath, stopped. Seeing me wide awake, his eyes softened, and he slid back into bed, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “Morning, beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “Do I get a reward? I did exactly what you asked last night—I didn’t touch Naomi once.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Ever since the daylight sleeping started, Elliott and I hadn’t been intimate. Not once. At first, he was too consumed by worry to even think about it. But at some point, the late nights started. Every evening when I woke up at dusk, the house was dark, empty, and silent. Unaware of my sudden terror, Elliott buried his face in the crook of my neck, breathing me in. His voice was low, teasing, and intimate. “Melanie, I’m skipping the office today. Let me just drop Toby off at school, and when I get back…” Before he could finish, our five-year-old, Toby, burst through the door. “Daddy! You’re hogging Mommy again!” “You broke our promise! You don’t have to work during the day, so you get her all the time. We agreed mornings belong to me!” I stared blankly at the scene playing out in front of me, feeling as if I’d been doused in freezing water. It all made sense now. Why Elliott, the CEO of his firm, worked so late every night. He wasn’t working. He was saving all his daylight hours to spend with Melanie, leaving only the dark, exhausting nights to Naomi. Elliott pecked Toby on the forehead, then leaned in to kiss my lips. I turned my head away sharply, a bitter lump rising in my throat. “Go help Toby brush his teeth first,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “You know he always gets his collar soaked when he does it himself.” Without waiting for a response, I threw off the duvet, practically bolted out of bed, and locked myself in the bathroom. By the time I unlocked the door and stepped out, Toby was already dressed in his preschool uniform, sitting at the kitchen island. Elliott emerged from the kitchen holding a warm skillet. “Here we go, sweetheart. Sunny-side up eggs and avocado toast, just the way you like them.” I stared at the plate. I had always preferred a simple bowl of warm oatmeal, but Melanie must have craved this instead. My chest felt heavy, as if a lead weight were crushing my lungs. Yet, in some twisted form of self-torture, I picked up the fork under Elliott’s expectant gaze and took a bite. It tasted like cardboard. “It’s good,” I lied. I needed to see how far they had gone for Melanie over the last three years. I needed to witness the full depth of their betrayal. Before they left, Toby wrapped his little arms tightly around my waist. “Mommy, can you bring me two lunchboxes today?” “I want to save one for dinner. I’ll ask the teacher to heat it up for me. I don’t want to eat the food the “other” mommy makes.” I stood frozen as Toby clung to me, my fingertips turning numb with cold. No wonder. Every night, I would wake up and pour my heart into preparing a beautiful dinner, only for Toby to take two bites, drop his fork, and run to his room. I thought he was just a picky eater. It wasn’t that. He had already eaten the dinner prepared by his “real” mother during the day. Elliott scooped Toby up into his arms, his brow furrowing slightly. “Toby, we’ve talked about this.” I snapped my gaze to Elliott, my fingernails biting hard into my palms. A tiny, desperate spark of hope flared in my chest. “Naomi is still your mother. You need to respect her enough to finish the dinner she makes you.” Seeing Toby pout, Elliott chuckled softly and pinched his cheek. “Besides, Daddy has found a way to let Mommy Melanie stay with us for much longer.” “Remember that spiritual medium who almost let Naomi find out the truth last year?” “He knows how to bind her soul so Naomi only wakes up once every seven days. Daddy’s assistant is already tracking him down.” A sharp, agonizing pain pierced my heart. The rest of Elliott’s words faded into a loud, ringing silence. I managed to whisper, “I’m going back to sleep,” before retreating inside and shutting the door on them. I sat alone in the quiet, echoing house. When the tears finally stopped flowing, there was nothing left inside me but an empty hollow. I pulled out my phone, scrolled to the very bottom of my contacts, and found the number I had saved months ago. To: Alistair “I will pay you triple your fee.” “But when you bind my soul, I need you to do one more thing.” … Later that morning, an emergency cropped up at Elliott’s firm. He went in to resolve it, wrapping up his other meetings while he was there. For the first time in years, he didn’t have to “work late” that evening. But when he and Toby returned at twilight, their warm, affectionate behavior from the morning had vanished completely. They looked at me as if I were a stranger occupying their space. “Hi, Mom,” Toby mumbled, skirting past me to head straight to his room. And Elliott, facing the wife he hadn’t seen all day, offered only a cold, practiced indifference. “Oh, you’re awake.” If this had been the past, I would have run to him, excited to ask about his day and share whatever little things had happened in my quiet hours. Today, I merely nodded. I turned my back on him and walked into the kitchen. At dinner, Toby pushed his food around, took two reluctant bites, and dropped his napkin. “Can I go to my room?” But with Elliott actually at the table tonight, he couldn’t let it slide. He cleared his throat, his tone firm. “Toby, sit back down. You don’t disrespect the effort your mother put into making this dinner.” I stared at them, finding the irony almost comical. Only hours ago, I had lovingly packed leftover roasted chicken and vegetables into two bento boxes and brought them to Toby’s preschool. He had devoured every bite with a massive smile on his face. Yet here we were, with the exact same ingredients, cooked the exact same way, and he refused to even touch it. It wasn’t the food. He just hated that the woman who cooked it was me. I stood up abruptly, snatched Toby’s plate from the table, and walked over to the sink, dumping it with a loud clatter. “If you don’t want to eat, go to your room. Don’t ruin everyone else’s appetite.” It was the first time I had ever spoken to Toby like that. No matter how difficult or spoiled he had been, I had always met him with infinite patience. Startled, Toby burst into tears. He cried loudly, casting covert glances at me, clearly expecting me to fold, to rush over and pull him into my lap the way I always did. But I only frowned. I turned around, went into the master bedroom, and shut the door, letting the wood block out his escalating wails. It took half an hour for the crying to stop, dying down as Toby cried himself to sleep. Shortly after, Elliott stepped into the room. He slid his arms around my waist from behind, pulling a small velvet jewelry box from his pocket and draping a diamond tennis bracelet over my wrist. My chest tightened. Earlier today, shortly after Elliott texted that he was heading to the office, his personal assistant had arrived at our house with several luxury boutique couriers in tow. “Mrs. Ward, Mr. Ward said he’s tied up today. Should we leave these apology gifts upstairs as usual?” Curiosity—or perhaps a grim desire for truth—led me to follow the assistant up to the 25th-floor penthouse closet. The first thing I saw on the wall was a massive portrait of Elliott, Toby, and me at Disneyland. Or rather, Melanie in my body, looking radiant. Inside the walk-in closet were rows of designer handbags, couture dresses, and three custom-built jewelry islands. When Elliott and I married, his startup was on the verge of bankruptcy. I remembered the night he proposed on one knee with a cheap silver band, swearing that one day he would buy me enough diamonds to fill an entire vault. But as his business grew, his time dwindled. His promises were deferred, year after year. And yet, another woman had stepped into my skin and claimed the life he had promised to build for me. I violently shook my arm, knocking the tennis bracelet from Elliott’s hand. It clattered onto the hardwood floor. I had seen the receipt for this exact bracelet in the boutique bags delivered this morning. It wasn’t a gift of love; it was a companion piece bought to meet a minimum spending limit for one of Melanie’s designer bags. Elliott stared at the fallen jewelry, his eyes shifting from confusion to a cold, familiar annoyance. Looking at him, I finally spoke. “Elliott, I want a divorce.” He froze, the word registering slowly. “No way. Absolutely not!” The panic in his eyes was real as he reached out to grab my hand. I saw my own reflection in his pupils, but I knew with absolute certainty that he wasn’t looking at me. He was desperate to keep the body that housed Melanie. “You love someone else, Elliott. I’m stepping aside so you can be with her. Isn’t that what you want?” Elliott blinked, stunned. “What?” Then, a harsh, dismissive laugh escaped him. “I wondered why you’ve been acting like this all day. You think I have a mistress?” I realized then that he had no idea I knew about Melanie. To him, the concept of two souls sharing one body was too bizarre to ever be discovered. If Melanie hadn’t revealed herself to me, I would have spent my entire life in the dark. I didn’t bother explaining. “Believe whatever you want.” My silence only hardened his contempt. He stepped closer, his voice dripping with condescension. “Naomi, be realistic. Do you really think you can walk away from this?” “You’re twenty-eight, not eighteen. You’re a mother who hasn’t worked a day in years. Without me, how are you going to afford a life like this?” “Go to bed. We have Toby’s birthday party tomorrow.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked out, heading to Toby’s room. I watched his back disappear, feeling nothing but a profound, exhausting emptiness. When I woke up the next morning, the atmosphere in the house had shifted completely. It was as if they were entirely different people. The impatience and irritation that usually shadowed Elliott’s face when he looked at me were gone, replaced by a soft, attentive warmth. Toby crawled into bed with me, snuggling close and whispering about how much he hated the “bad mommy” from last night who wouldn’t let him eat. He was talking to Melanie, of course, but his words only made my chest ache with a dull, hollow throb. Because they had both slept in, we had to rush to get dressed and drive over to the private dining club where Toby’s birthday lunch was being held. The moment we stepped into the private room, family members swarmed us. “Toby looks more and more like Elliott every day!” “Melanie, sweetheart, thank you so much for the plum wine you had Elliott send over. Your father-in-law and I absolutely loved it.” “She sent me some too! Oh, it was divine!” As Elliott’s mother and aunt chatted, none of the other relatives batted an eye. It was clear as day: Elliott had already introduced Melanie to his entire family under my name, or perhaps they simply knew and accepted her. They had built an entire life around her, while I, the actual wife, was treated like a ghost who had finally decided to show up. After lunch came the cake. Toby proudly cut the first slice and brought it directly to me. “For you, Mommy Melanie!” His eyes were bright with adoration. I looked down at the perfectly iced slice of cake. In the three years since Melanie had taken over my days, I hadn’t attended a single one of Toby’s birthday parties. The first year, I woke up in the evening to a smashed plate of half-eaten frosting and squished fruit. After that, they simply stopped saving any for me. After pressing the paper plate into my hand, Toby tugged on my sleeve, gesturing for me to lean down. He leaned in close and whispered in my ear: “Mommy Melanie, my birthday wish this year was for the bad mommy to go away forever. I only want you.” I stared at this little boy. When I was in labor with him, the doctors had told Elliott that my life was in severe danger and they might only be able to save one of us. I had begged them to save my baby. I endured forty-eight hours of excruciating labor just to bring him into this world. A bitter smile touched my lips as I reached out to ruffle his hair one last time. “Okay,” I whispered. “Mommy will make your wish come true.” “If you don’t want me, I won’t want you either.” Elliott walked over, joining us. He put a hand on Toby’s shoulder, then wrapped his other arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “What secrets are you two whispering about? Share with—” Before he could finish, a sudden, violent wave of nausea surged up my throat. I pushed him away and began to gag uncontrollably. The smell of his cologne, his touch, his breath—it all made my stomach heave. The room erupted into worried murmurs as relatives gathered around. Without answering their questions, Elliott scooped me into his arms, ushered Toby out, and drove at breakneck speed to the hospital. In the exam room, the doctor handed us the results. “Pregnancy: Five weeks.” Elliott’s hands shook with sheer joy as he read the paper. “Melanie, what do you want to eat? Tell me, I’ll get it right now.” “I’ll have my assistant order some top-tier organic supplements. And I’ll slice some fruit for you—how about I make those little apple bunnies you like?” I watched him, his eyes filled with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years. When I was pregnant with Toby, Elliott’s company was failing. We were so poor we lived on instant ramen and stale bread. He was never home, always running from meeting to meeting, too exhausted to even ask how I felt. Now, carrying a child in the exact same body, I was receiving the care I had desperately craved back then. But it wasn’t for me. It was for Melanie. I looked away, my heart entirely cold. Elliott’s phone buzzed. It was his assistant. “Mr. Ward, the spiritual medium, Alistair, has just arrived in the city. Should I bring him to the house now?” Before Elliott could speak, I cut in, mimicking Melanie’s soft, breathy cadence: “Elliott, let’s go home. I don’t want to only have twelve hours with you anymore. I want us to be together for good.” When we got back, Alistair was already waiting in the living room, surrounded by his bags of herbs and candles. Yet, Elliott, who had been so eager to initiate this, suddenly fell silent. His eyes drifted to the cheap, framed wedding photo hanging on the wall—a photo of me in a simple white dress, taken back when we had nothing. Alistair didn’t rush him, patiently waiting. After a long pause, Elliott spoke up, his voice tense. “If we do this… can we change it back later?” “Of course,” Alistair replied smoothly. “But my energy is limited. I can only perform the ritual once a year.” “Then do it,” Elliott decided. “If Naomi learns to accept Melanie’s presence, we can always switch back to sharing the days later.” Alistair began setting up his brass bowls and lighting the sage. Toby danced around me excitedly. “Yay! Mommy Melanie is going to put me to sleep tonight!” Elliott walked over, taking my hand in his. “Melanie, soon we’ll have all the time in the world.” I pulled my hand back gently and smiled at him. “Yes. I can’t wait.” I was smiling, but for some reason, the moment my hand left his, Elliott’s heart seemed to skip a beat. A sudden, cold dread flashed through his eyes. The ritual began. I could feel my soul being forcibly peeled away from my body. It was an agonizing, shredding pain, like a thousand tiny knives slicing through my consciousness. I collapsed onto the floor, screaming and writhing. Alistair hadn’t lied to Elliott. If it were a simple binding ritual, it could be undone in a year. But I hadn’t paid him to bind me. I had paid him to sever my soul completely. Once a soul is fully severed, it can never, ever return to the host body. A brilliant white light engulfed my vision, and I plunged into absolute darkness. At that exact moment, Melanie took full possession of the physical body. She opened her eyes, gasping, and immediately threw her arms around a stunned Elliott. “Elliott, it’s me!” “That idiot Naomi was the one playing tricks the last few days. But she just had the medium perform a full soul severance. She’s gone, Elliott! She’s never coming back!”

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I pulled three consecutive all-nighters to finish my research project early. I wanted to clear my schedule to celebrate Oliver’s birthday. But instead of a text from him, my sister Zora’s Instagram DM popped up first: “Oh my god, Chicago is so much fun!” The photo showed her and Oliver, heads tilted together, smiling. My smile froze. “You’re in Chicago?” “Yeah! Got here three days ago. Wanted to surprise Oliver for his birthday!” I stared at the screen, then calmly called Oliver. “Isn’t your defense in two days? I thought you said you were drowning in prep work and couldn’t make time for anything?” Oliver’s voice was perfectly level. “It’s not that hard for me, Lydia. But Zora rarely gets to travel. I knew you were buried in your lab work these past few days, so I figured I’d take care of her for you.” My eyes stung. A wave of bone-deep exhaustion finally crashed over me. To keep up with Oliver, I had never allowed myself to stop. What took him a day to master took me five. I thought if I just kept my head down and ran fast enough, I would eventually catch up and find a place in his heart. But the truth is, you don’t have to run for someone who actually wants you. I remembered the way he used to ruffle Zora’s hair, calling her “silly but cute” with a gentle warmth in his eyes that he had never, not once, shown me. I fell silent for a moment. Then, I opened my inbox and replied to the offer letter from Los Angeles that had been sitting there for three days. 01 I turned off my phone and crashed. The research project had been brutal. Starting from scratch, I had poured my heart and soul into getting these results. The deadline wasn’t even until tomorrow, but my lab partners knew I had planned a birthday surprise for Oliver. They had pushed themselves to help me wrap up early. When I finally woke up, my phone was blown up with over a dozen missed calls. From Zora, from Oliver, and from my mother. I only called my mother back. “What is wrong with you?” her voice boomed through the receiver. “Your sister rarely visits Chicago, and you’re throwing a tantrum? Call them back right now.” I blinked rapidly, trying to swallow down the sudden lump of hurt in my throat. “Mom, I didn’t even know Zora was coming. I just pulled three all-nighters. Am I really expected to drop everything and cater to her mood right now?” “She didn’t want to disturb you because she knew you were busy! She told Oliver, didn’t she? Why are you being so difficult today, Lydia?” “Difficult.” Growing up, “easy” and “mature” were the only words anyone used to describe me. I studied hard—I was mature. I got straight A’s—I was mature. I never fought for anything, never demanded attention—I was just so mature… But no one ever stopped to ask me if I actually wanted to be. My mother kept talking, but her words blurred into static. Except for the last sentence—the one I knew by heart. “Zora’s health isn’t great, you know that. Just look after her.” I calmly hung up. “I’ve looked after her enough.” My mom always said Zora was an unexpected miracle. She had been born sick, a constant visitor to hospitals. Naturally, my parents’ entire world revolved around her. And I, very early on, had learned to live in the quiet corners of their neglect. I opened Instagram. It was a photo dump. Nine photos, and Zora looked stunning in every single one. Right in the middle of the grid was her and Oliver. She was radiant, her smile splitting her face; his eyes were filled with soft, indulgent warmth. Underneath, a neighbor had commented: “Zora, your boyfriend is so handsome!” Zora had replied: “Oh stop, Mrs. Davis! That’s my sister’s boyfriend—my future brother-in-law!” To which the neighbor replied: “Ah, my bad… my eyes must be failing me.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. Her eyes weren’t failing her. Mine were. 02 When did Oliver start looking after Zora like it was his job? Probably around the same time everyone else decided she was the only one who needed taking care of. Her name was Zora—meaning “life”. My mother used to say they didn’t expect Zora to achieve greatness; they just wanted her to stay healthy and be happy by their side. At first, I felt the same way. I worked twice as hard, trying to give her the best of everything. But gradually, everyone forgot that I had needs, too. Our birthdays were only two days apart, but the family always celebrated them as one. When we were kids, I didn’t mind. Until the year Oliver brought over two gifts. Zora immediately grabbed the pink cashmere gloves. “I love these! Thank you, Oliver!” I froze. Oliver had promised me those exact gloves weeks ago. I looked at him. For a second, he seemed taken aback, too. But then he simply smiled, ruffling Zora’s hair. “If you like them, they’re yours, Zora.” I blinked back the sting in my eyes and lowered my head. “That’s fine,” I whispered. “I actually like the blue ones anyway.” A tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto my phone screen. Just then, my screen lit up with a text. It was from Henry, my senior in the lab. Henry: “I ran that dataset one more time for you. You can use it directly—no errors.” I stared at the message, a bit stunned. It was the set of data I had rushed through without double-checking in my hurry to finish. I hadn’t realized Henry had caught it. I bit my lip, and on a strange, sudden impulse, I typed back: “Thank you, Henry. Can I buy you lunch tomorrow to make up for it?” 03 My screen went quiet. Then, the bubble popped up: “Henry is typing…” It took him a long moment to reply. “Tomorrow? Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating Oliver’s birthday?” I smiled sadly. “No need.” As soon as I sent it, I felt a wave of guilt. It felt cheap, like I was using Henry as some sort of shield. I was about to unsend the message and explain, when his reply flashed on the screen. “Sure.” Now I was the one left speechless. Oh well. It was just a lunch. No big deal. Besides… Oliver probably wouldn’t bother reaching out to me tomorrow anyway. The next morning, I woke up with a bad case of cold feet. I wanted to back out. But before I could text him, Henry beat me to it: “What are we eating? Meet at noon?” Locked in, I had no choice but to get ready. I washed my hair, put on some makeup, and arrived on time. Henry was already there. When he looked up and saw me, he paused. “You look beautiful today.” “Thanks, Henry.” I felt a sudden flutter of awkwardness and avoided his eyes. But he caught me off guard by asking, “Is the look for Oliver?” I opened my mouth, surprised. Henry was our advisor’s star student, the golden boy of the department. He was one of those naturally gifted geniuses I could never hope to compete with. We weren’t particularly close. I honestly hadn’t expected him to accept my invitation, let alone ask such personal questions. Usually, I was too intimidated to even speak to him. “Not really…” I mumbled. Seeing my discomfort, Henry didn’t push. We ate in comfortable silence. But when the dishes arrived, I realized they were all my favorites—spicy, bold flavors. “How did you know…?” Henry smiled gently. “I noticed during our lab dinners. I tend to observe people.” It didn’t feel invasive. Instead, a quiet warmth bloomed in my chest. It had been a very long time since anyone had remembered what I liked. “Thank you,” I said, my voice suddenly thick. Henry noticed my glassy eyes but didn’t pry. He simply placed a piece of chili-seared beef onto my plate. Just then, the restaurant doors opened, and a familiar burst of laughter echoed through the space. I froze. I turned my head. It was Zora and Oliver. They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw me. “Lydia!” Zora squealed, running over to wrap her arms around my shoulder. “What are you doing here? You didn’t answer my calls, I was so worried!” Oliver’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Henry. A flash of something like hostility crossed his face before vanishing. He stepped closer, his voice cool and measured. “Lydia, what’s going on with your phone?” I forced a small smile. “Must be broken.” It was a terrible excuse, but it was a way out. Zora gasped, looking at Henry. “Wow, hello! You’re gorgeous. Are you my sister’s friend?” Henry ignored her outstretched hand, giving her a polite, distant nod. “Nice to meet you.” Zora looked momentarily embarrassed, but she quickly bounced back, turning to me with a bright smile. “Lydia, isn’t this place amazing? Oliver brought me here specifically! If we’re eating this for lunch, what are the plans for tonight?!” “Specifically.” I looked at Oliver. I knew he hated spicy food. He was highly disciplined, preferred bland, healthy meals, and couldn’t stand Sichuan cuisine. But Zora loved it. And so did I. But what I liked had never really mattered. 04 “I’m treating Henry to thank him for his help,” I said, trying to diffuse the sudden chill in the air. “Since you’re here, why don’t you join us? Henry, do you mind?” Henry smiled warmly at me. “Not at all.” The four of us sat down. Zora immediately took over the conversation, chatting animatedly about her sightseeing over the last few days. She was like a hyperactive puppy. That description wasn’t mine, of course. It was Oliver’s. It’s funny how, once your eyes finally open, all the ignored details of the past start rushing back to hit you. How had Oliver ever described me? “Lydia, you’re always so sensible.” That was it. Nothing more. They ordered more dishes, none of which were things I liked. Actually, I used to like them, but once Zora claimed them as her favorites, I stopped. Maybe it was just a pathetic, unspoken rebellion of mine—declaring I didn’t care for them until I actually believed my own lie. Take the sweet and sour ribs, for instance. I always claimed they were too greasy. But suddenly, a golden-brown rib was placed gently in my bowl. I looked up. It was Henry. As Henry served me, I saw Oliver’s jaw tighten. But why should he care? He had been busy putting food on Zora’s plate the entire time. The lunch ended on an awkward, strained note. I was the one to cut it short. “Thank you for coming, Henry,” I said. My words were polite, but my eyes carried a deep apology. Henry smiled, his gaze soft. “My pleasure. See you around, Lydia.” He didn’t bother saying goodbye to the other two. “Lydia, is he…” As soon as Henry walked out, Zora leaned in with a sly grin, nudging my shoulder. She knew Oliver was standing right there. Oliver, who was supposed to be my boyfriend. But Oliver wouldn’t care. I could see it in his eyes. He had never once lost his composure because of me. That evening, I dragged myself through dinner with them, followed by a walk and a movie. By the end of the night, Zora insisted she wanted a drink. I frowned. Even Oliver said, “Zora, don’t be reckless. Your heart.” “Oh, come on, Oliver! Just a little bit. I’m so happy today!” Oliver glanced at me, then sighed. “Fine. Just a sip.” I turned and walked away without a word. I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol. Zora didn’t have to face the consequences of a hangover, but our master’s defense was tomorrow. I couldn’t afford to mess up, and I assumed Oliver couldn’t either. But he drank with her anyway. And he drank a lot. By the end of the night, my job of “looking after Zora” morphed into dragging both of them back to the hotel. I was angry. I threw Oliver onto his bed, ready to leave. But as I turned toward the door, I heard him mumble. “Zora…” I froze, cold dread seeping into my bones. I didn’t play the part of the tragic heroine who runs away crying. Instead, I marched back to the bed and grabbed Oliver by his collar. “Oliver. Who did you just call?” Oliver was too drunk to answer. I had never checked his phone before. I had always thought it was beneath me. But tonight, I chose to be cheap. His text logs were clean. Everything looked normal. Until— I found a hidden album in his gallery. There were only two photos in it. I recognized the first one instantly. It was from when we were ten, playing in the snow. Zora was wearing a bright orange puffer jacket, looking like a little burst of sunshine against the white winter. The camera was centered entirely on her. I was barely visible, a blurry shoulder in the far corner of the frame. The second photo was a digital note. The top line was written in Zora’s messy, childish handwriting. The line beneath it was in a young Oliver’s sharp, elegant script. The background was decorated with cute, childish doodles. But to me, it looked like a knife. “Zora Loves Oliver.” “Oliver & Zora.” I let out a quiet laugh. It was so incredibly pathetic. But as I laughed, tears began to stream down my face. I didn’t close the album. I dropped his phone onto the mattress beside him. Then, I pulled out my own phone and sent him one last text. “Oliver, let’s break up.” 05 The brutal reality of adulthood is that even if you spend the night crying until your chest aches, you still have to wake up, put on a professional outfit, and deliver a flawless master’s defense the next morning. I channeled all my grief and anger into my presentation. The sheer adrenaline made my delivery sharper than ever, earning a round of thunderous applause from the committee. Down in the auditorium, my lab mates were waiting with a bouquet of flowers. Henry stood near the back, giving me a quiet, reassuring nod. I had never been the star student, but today, I had outdone myself. Oliver, on the other hand—the boy who was supposed to breeze through his defense—faltered. He was visibly unprepared, his voice flat and distracted. When he finished, the applause was sparse and polite. He apologized to the panel, his eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto me. But I had already turned my back, walking out to get ready for our department’s celebratory dinner. By the time I changed and walked down to the lobby, Oliver was waiting for me. He looked exhausted, a cigarette burning between his fingers—a habit he rarely indulged in. “Can we talk?” I kept my eyes forward. “There’s nothing to say.” Oliver looked down at his shoes. “About the photos… I can explain.” “Explain what? We grew up together, Oliver. Do you think I don’t recognize Zora’s handwriting? Or did you just think I was too stupid to care?” “Lydia, do you have to be so hostile? Zora rarely gets to visit. You’re ruining everything over a tantrum—” “Ruining everything?” I let out a harsh laugh, the dam inside me finally breaking. “I’m throwing a tantrum? Oliver, are you serious? Did Zora even bother to tell me she was coming to Chicago? I pulled three all-nighters just to clear my schedule for your birthday, and you think I’m the one throwing a tantrum? Did you mention to me, even once, that you were spending all your time with her? And those photos—did I hidden-archive them on your phone, or did you?” All the resentment I had buried for years spilled out in a bitter rush. Oliver stared at me, stunned. He had never seen me like this. He didn’t know what to do with a Lydia who wasn’t compliant. Then, he muttered, “She’s your sister. How can you be jealous of her?” “How can I be jealous?” I wiped a tear from my cheek, a cold, empty smile spreading across my face. The years I had spent chasing him suddenly felt like a massive joke. “I am jealous, Oliver. Go ahead and call the cops on me. To be honest, I’ve been jealous for a very long time.” I turned on my heel, ready to walk away. But then I stopped and looked back. “Oh, and don’t lay the blame for your terrible defense today on our breakup. You got cocky and lazy. That’s on you. And one more thing—I used to think you were brilliant. Today? You were mediocre.” I walked away, leaving him standing there in the cold wind. 06 I hurried away, only to collide with someone around the corner. I looked up. It was Henry. The bravado I had shown Oliver crumbled instantly. My mascara was running, and I was a total mess. Embarrassed, I tried to push past him, but his hand gently caught my wrist. “Where are you running? You looked so fierce a second ago.” He pulled out a tissue and gently dabbed at the tears on my cheeks. I stared at him, frozen. “Henry, do I look hideous right now?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them. Henry’s gaze held mine, his expression intensely serious. “No. You’ve always been beautiful. And I don’t just mean your face. You were beautiful during your defense today, you were beautiful when you were angry just now, and the way you work so hard… that’s the most beautiful thing of all.” I stared at him, my mouth slightly open, completely speechless.

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