Category: English

A month ago, my girlfriend went on a business trip with the man she’s spent years pining for—her “one who got away.” When they returned, I realized that in their eyes, I’d become a different person entirely. In the past, when she handed my hard-earned projects over to him, I’d be so livid I’d want to resign on the spot. Now? I was proactively drafting his proposals, working late with a smile. When she intentionally sabotaged a design I’d pulled three all-nighters for just so he could secure the year-end bonus, I didn’t fight to prove my innocence like I used to. Instead, I quietly took the fall, accepting whatever “punishment” she deemed fit. I even went as far as staying calm when she proposed a radical promotion to make him the Managing Director. I didn’t just bite my tongue; I handed over my own shares, telling her she could distribute them however she liked. Rachel was baffled by the change. She couldn’t understand why her once-rebellious boyfriend had suddenly become so compliant. Toby, on the other hand, was gloating. I overheard him whispering to her, “See? I told you. Give him the cold shoulder, make him realize he’s about to lose you, and he’ll fall right back into line.” Rachel looked at him like he’d just solved a complex riddle. She laughed, called me a “good boy,” and even mentioned a promotion. Then, she did something unprecedented: she told me I should finally propose to her. But she seemed to have forgotten one tiny detail. During our long cold war, she had already signed my resignation papers. And more importantly, I’d checked out of this relationship a long time ago. That day, Rachel—my soon-to-be-ex—tossed a thick stack of files onto my desk. Her voice was like ice. “This proposal is urgent. I want it finalized before you leave today.” She turned and swept away before I could respond. The moment she disappeared around the corner, my colleagues swarmed my desk like vultures. “Isn’t that Toby’s project?” “That one’s a nightmare. The requirements are impossible, and the data is a mess. There’s no way that gets done by tonight—not even by tomorrow night.” “Rachel is way too biased toward Toby. Why is she letting him pawn his work off on everyone else?” 1 I listened to them, my face a mask of indifference. I knew they weren’t actually on my side. They just enjoyed the drama. Everyone in the office knew that Rachel, the CEO, was my girlfriend, yet she blatantly favored my rival, Toby. She’d broken company protocol to install Toby as a department manager. She’d even taken a multi-million dollar project—one I’d spent a month landing and another month of sleepless nights preparing—and handed it to him on a silver platter. When I’d protested back then, Rachel had insisted on a public vote to “fairly” decide who should lead the project. Those same colleagues now pretending to pity me had all voted for Toby. Later, they’d whispered excuses about being intimidated by Rachel’s authority, telling me I should just “be the bigger person” and help the new guy out. This had happened a dozen times. As they continued to whine on my behalf, I didn’t storm into Rachel’s office to demand an explanation like I usually did. I simply reached out and took the project files. The vultures stared, their mouths hanging open, ready to stir the pot further. But then Rachel stepped back out of her office. The group scattered instantly, scurrying back to their cubicles. Rachel seemed to be in a rare good mood. She ignored the office politics and tapped my desk. “Leave the finished draft on my desk when you’re done.” I nodded. She spun on her designer heels and walked away without a backward glance. She was wearing a meticulously applied face of makeup and a skirt that was just a bit shorter than her usual professional attire. I didn’t need to be a psychic to know she was headed to a “dinner meeting” with Toby. It had been like this for years. It started when I caught her and Toby exchanging “goodnight” texts that felt a little too intimate. When I questioned her, she called me petty and insecure. To spite me, she hired Toby. She claimed it was “exposure therapy” for my jealousy. She’d take him to every social event, sit next to him at company dinners, and even reach over to wipe a stray crumb from his lip in front of everyone. If I got angry, she gave me the silent treatment. If I apologized, she’d use it as an opportunity to lecture me—often in front of others—about how I lacked the “emotional maturity” a man in my position should have. For a long time, I actually believed her. I looked inward, wondering if I was the problem, if I was truly too narrow-minded. Then I discovered the truth: Toby wasn’t just a friend. He was the ghost that had haunted our relationship since day one. He was the “one who got away” from her college years. All that talk about “desensitizing” me was just a smokescreen so she could keep her old flame close without feeling guilty. Even if I hadn’t seen those texts, she would have found another excuse to bring him into our lives. Since they returned from their “business trip,” the air between them had shifted. The lingering glances, the shared drinks, the late-night tennis matches—it was all more blatant now. But the best part? I didn’t care anymore. Five years of devotion was a long time, but I was finally at the end of the script. This farce was over. By the time I finished the proposal, the office was a tomb. I checked my phone and saw Toby had posted a series of photos on Instagram. The background was a high-end steakhouse. Romantic candlelight. A table for two. The photo showed Rachel’s elegant hands using a knife and fork to cut up a steak on Toby’s plate. The caption: “Steak always tastes better when the CEO cuts it for you.” The comments were flooded with coworkers gushing about how “sweet” they were. Toby was leaning into it, bragging in the replies about how Rachel—who usually never drinks—had shared a bottle of red wine with him to “celebrate his success.” Speculation about their relationship status was rampant. Rachel didn’t deny any of it. She just commented: “You deserved it.” One oblivious intern asked when they were getting married. Rachel replied with three dots; Toby replied with a “winking” emoji. A few months ago, this would have sent me into a spiral. I would have called her, she would have screamed at me for being “controlling,” and I would have spent the night on the couch. Instead, I sent her a brief text: Proposal finished. Left it on your desk. Heading home. It wasn’t until I pulled into my driveway that I saw her reply. “Jordan, it’s Toby. Thanks for the hard work on the project, man. I’ll buy you a beer sometime.” Rachel was the kind of person who never let her phone out of her sight. If I even glanced at it to check the time, she’d accuse me of invading her privacy. Now, she was letting Toby read our messages and reply for her. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. The hierarchy of her heart was clear. When you actually matter to someone, the rules are different. Strangely, I felt a profound sense of peace. Things that used to feel like the end of the world now felt like a light breeze. Emotions can change, but hard work and self-respect are the only things that don’t betray you. I opened my calendar. While Rachel and Toby were playing house on their “business trip,” I had quietly submitted my resignation via the company portal. Just as I’d suspected, she was so distracted by him that she’d digitally signed and approved the “administrative batch” without even looking at the names. I had three days of transition left. Then, I’d be a ghost. I pulled up a contact I hadn’t touched in years—my old mentor from a prestigious research institute in Europe. Back when I graduated, I was a rising star in the field of robotics. I had a standing offer at the institute, a high salary, and a brilliant future. But when Rachel told me she wanted to start her own company and needed someone she could trust at her side, I didn’t hesitate. I walked away from my dreams to build hers. My mentor had begged me to stay, but I was “in love.” What a fool I’d been. The call connected. I explained my situation, expecting a lecture. Instead, the old man just sighed. He told me he’d kept tabs on me and had been waiting for this call. “Are you sure this time, Jordan?” he asked. “I’m sure,” I said, my voice steady. “My resignation is already processed.” “Resignation? What resignation?” The sharp voice came from the doorway. I turned around to see Rachel standing there, her face flushed from the wine, her eyes narrowed in confusion.

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My father’s condition had just stabilized, and I was still at my parents’ house, exhausted from the weeks of bedside care, when my phone buzzed with a notification. It was a traffic violation alert. I tapped it open, and my heart skipped a beat. The violation—speeding and running a red light—had occurred in a small town nearly six hundred miles away. My husband’s hometown. My brain stalled; my car was supposed to be parked in our secure garage downtown, untouched while I was away. I called Mark immediately. I didn’t lead with small talk. I asked him if he had taken my car. On the other end of the line, his voice was breezy, dismissive. “Oh, that? It’s not a big deal, Lauren.” Then came the casual explanation that made my blood run cold. “Justin needed something decent to drive to impress some people back home. I told him he could take yours for the week.” He even managed a sharp, mocking laugh. “What? Is that old SUV of yours lined with gold now? He’s family. God, you’re so sensitive about your things.” I mumbled something about being busy and hung up, but my mind was a storm. My fingers were already flying across the screen, booking the earliest train ticket back home. I decided right then: I wasn’t going to tell him I was coming. I needed to see exactly what “family” was doing to my life. 1 It was 11:00 PM when I dragged my suitcase through the front door, the fingerprint lock chirping a greeting that felt like a mockery. The moment the door swung open, I was hit by a wall of stale air—a sickening cocktail of cheap cigars, old beer, instant noodles, and body odor. I actually gagged, covering my mouth with my hand. I slapped the light switch in the living room. The sight was devastating. My cream-colored rug was littered with takeout containers and empty cans. Pieces of clothing that didn’t belong to me or Mark—dirty socks, a stained t-shirt—were strewn across the sofa like trash. I put on my slippers, my skin crawling. The master bedroom door was cracked open. From inside came the rhythmic, heavy sound of snoring and the grating noise of someone grinding their teeth. I pushed the door open, the light from the hallway spilling across the bed. It wasn’t Mark. It was his younger brother, Justin. He was sprawled out in his boxers, shamelessly hogging my side of the bed. His greasy hair was pressed into my silk pillowcase, leaving a yellowish, oily stain on the fabric I had just replaced before leaving. In that heartbeat, the heat of pure rage surged to my head. BANG! I slammed the bedroom door with every ounce of strength I had. The sound echoed through the apartment like a gunshot. Seconds later, the door to the home office swung open. Mark stepped out, his face twisted in a scowl of pure annoyance. “What the hell is wrong with you? It’s the middle of the night!” he hissed, not even looking at who it was yet. “People are trying to sleep!” He stopped dead when he realized it was me. The irritation flickered into a brief moment of shock before hardening back into anger. “Lauren? Why are you back early?” He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t say a word. What, were you trying to catch me in something? Checking up on me?” Almost simultaneously, the guest room door creaked open. My mother-in-law, Evelyn, poked her head out. When she saw me, she forced a thin, sugary smile. “Oh, Lauren! You’re back!” “Why didn’t you call, dear? We could have picked you up from the station.” I ignored her, my eyes locked onto Mark. My voice was trembling, brittle. “Explain to me why Justin is sleeping in our bed. Right now.” Mark looked away, waving a dismissive hand. “Justin went out with some friends last night. He had a few too many.” “My mom is in the guest room, and I’ve been crashing in the office to finish some work, so I let him have the master. What’s the big deal? It’s just a bed, Lauren. Do you really have to go nuclear over a mattress?” Evelyn jumped in immediately, her voice taking on that condescending lilt. “Exactly, Lauren. We’re all family here. What’s mine is yours, what’s yours is ours. Justin is your brother. He rarely gets to come to the city. Let him enjoy a little comfort for once.” She sighed, looking at me like I was a difficult child. “You’ve always been so… particular. So precious about your things.” I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat. “Family”? This was their version of it? Seeing my silence, Mark’s tone turned sharp. “Alright, enough. Stop standing there like a statue. It’s a bed. My brother is a guest. Can’t you be a little more gracious as his sister-in-law?” His lip curled. “Is this a city person thing? You think my brother is ‘dirty’ because he slept in your bed? Let me tell you something, Lauren—my family is cleaner than anyone with a heart as small as yours.” I took a deep breath, forcing the fire in my chest down into a cold, hard knot. “Where is my car?” I asked, my voice dangerously level. “I got a ticket. Speeding. Fifty percent over the limit. Running a red light. In your hometown.” “The fine is one thing, but he could have killed someone. That is my car. The car I bought with my own money before we even met. How dare you let him take it without asking me?” At the mention of the car, the master bedroom door opened fully. Justin emerged, yawning and rubbing his head, radiating the sour stench of a hangover. “Hey, Lauren. You’re back.” He gave me a lopsided, greasy grin. “Don’t worry about the ticket. Mark said he’d take care of it. Besides, that car is a dream. Way better than the junk my friends drive—really made me look like a boss back home.” My eyes dropped to his arm. There was a fresh, jagged scratch scabbing over on his forearm. My stomach dropped. “Where is the car parked, Justin? Did you hit something?” 2 “Hit something? Watch your mouth!” Justin’s face flushed a deep, guilty red, his voice jumping an octave in defensive reflex. Mark stepped in front of his brother instantly, glaring at me. “Lauren, listen to yourself. Justin is standing right here, isn’t he? If the car was totaled, would he be fine?” He softened his tone slightly, though it still felt like he was talking to someone he found exhausting. “Look, he clipped a wall while backing up. It happens. I already checked with a shop; it’s a few hundred bucks for some paint and buffing. You don’t need to act like the world is ending or curse my brother’s safety over a dent.” Evelyn chimed in, her voice full of theatrical pity. “Honestly, Lauren! People are more important than things! My son was kind enough to use your car to help the family image, and you’re here hoping for an accident?” She stepped toward Justin, stroking his shoulder as if he were the victim. “A car is just a piece of metal. You could scrap the whole thing and it wouldn’t be worth a single hair on my son’s head!” A chill ran down my spine as I looked at them. To them, I wasn’t a person. I was a resource. My property was their communal pot. “A clip?” I repeated, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Fine. I’m going down to the garage. I want to see exactly what a ‘clip’ looks like.” Mark’s patience snapped. He grabbed my wrist, his grip uncomfortably tight. “Are you done? I told you, we’re fixing it! It’s the middle of the night. You’re going down there now just to make a scene? To make the neighbors laugh at us?” “Lauren, I married you to have a partner, not someone who spends her life looking for reasons to be miserable.” The pain in my wrist flared. I wrenched my arm away from him without a word, turned on my heel, and walked straight out the door. Mark and Justin traded a panicked look—a flash of “she’s actually going to see it”—and scrambled to follow me. The elevator ride was a suffocating silence, broken only by Evelyn’s muffled grumbling. “You’re so stubborn, Lauren. Mark works so hard, and you just want to pick fights over trifles. Justin is about to get engaged; he needed that car to show his fiancée’s family he’s doing well. It was for the family honor.” I didn’t hear her. The moment the elevator doors slid open, I sprinted toward my parking spot. Even from a distance, I saw my white SUV. But it wasn’t my car anymore. It was a wreck. The front right side was completely caved in. The bumper was hanging off, partially resting on the concrete. The headlight was shattered, wires exposed like raw nerves. A deep, jagged scratch screamed along the entire length of the passenger side, and the rear door was buckled and warped. This wasn’t a “clip.” This was a high-speed collision. I stood there, shaking so hard I thought my bones might break. I slowly turned my head to Justin. He looked at his shoes, his bravado finally dissolving into cowardice. Mark stepped up beside me, trying to pull my arm, his voice suddenly desperate and soft. “Honey, look… I didn’t know. Justin didn’t tell me it was this bad.” “Don’t worry. I’ll pay for it. I’ll make it look brand new, I promise.” I didn’t answer him. I pulled out my phone and started taking pictures. The flash strobed in the dim garage—click, click, click—capturing the ruin they had made of my life. 3 Mark was spiraling now. “Lauren, what are you doing with the photos? I told you I’d handle it!” He reached for my phone, but I pivoted away, my movements cold and sharp. “Handle it? How?” I looked at him like he was a stranger I’d met on the street. I didn’t wait for his answer. I hit the speed dial. Mark’s face went ghostly pale. “Who are you calling?” “Who do you think?” My voice was like ice. “The police and the insurance company. This is a major accident. I need an official report, or the insurance won’t cover a dime. Unless you were planning on paying thirty thousand dollars out of pocket?” “Don’t!” Mark and Evelyn screamed the word at the same time. Mark lunged, pinning my hand down to stop me from finishing the call, his fingers trembling against mine. “You can’t call the police! Absolutely not!” Evelyn threw herself at me, her voice breaking into a sob. “Lauren, please! You’ll ruin him! You’ll ruin Justin!” I stared at Mark, watching the way his eyes darted around, the way the sweat was starting to bead on his forehead. “Why can’t I call? What are you so afraid of?” “It’s an accident. Why are you terrified of the police?” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Unless… he wasn’t supposed to be driving at all.” I turned to Justin, who looked like he was about to vomit. “Justin. Do you even have a valid driver’s license?” The silence that followed was my answer. Justin’s knees seemed to buckle; he looked at his brother like a drowning man. The last of Mark’s facade crumbled. The “protective brother” act vanished, replaced by a raw, ugly fury. He spun around and slapped Justin across the face so hard the sound echoed through the garage. “You idiot! You absolute moron!” Mark roared. “What did I tell you? Drive careful! Keep a low profile! Don’t cause trouble!” “Now you’ve ruined everything!” While they were distracted by their own chaos, I walked to the car and opened the glove box to find my registration. But my hand brushed against something that didn’t belong there. It was a thick packet of A4 paper, held together by a heavy binder clip. I pulled it out, and the bold, black header at the top of the page felt like a physical blow to my chest. PRIVATE VEHICLE EQUITY LOAN AGREEMENT. With shaking hands, I flipped through the pages. Collateral: White SUV, License Plate XXX-XXXX. Loan Amount: $40,000. At the bottom, on the line for Borrower/Grantor, was a signature I knew intimately, yet it looked fundamentally wrong. It was my name. Lauren Matthew. But the handwriting was a forced imitation. A forgery. “What is this?” I asked. The color left Mark’s face entirely. 4 “Lauren… honey… let me explain!” Mark scrambled toward me, trying to snatch the contract, his eyes wide with panic. I stepped back, clutching the papers to my chest so hard the edges cut into my palms. I didn’t feel it. “Explain?” I looked at him, and for the first time, I felt the sheer weight of the man I had shared a bed with. “Explain that you forged my name to take out a forty-thousand-dollar loan against a car you don’t even own?” “Mark, what else is there? What else have you done behind my back?” Justin, seeing the walls closing in, realized there was no more lying. He dropped to his knees, literally grabbing my jeans, wailing like a child. “Lauren! I’m sorry! It’s all my fault! Don’t blame Mark!” “I wanted to open a franchise—a coffee shop—but I didn’t have the capital. Mark just wanted to help me get on my feet! We were going to pay it back before you ever found out! We just didn’t expect… we didn’t expect the crash…” Evelyn pivoted instantly, her tears flowing with practiced ease as she hovered over Justin. “Lauren! We were desperate! Justin’s girlfriend’s family… they wanted a huge deposit for the wedding, or they wouldn’t let it happen. We didn’t have the money!” “Mark did it for the family! For his brother’s happiness! Just forgive him this once! We’ll pay it back, I swear on my life!” I watched them—this pathetic, coordinated performance—and felt nothing but profound disgust. I kicked Justin’s hand away and pointed at Mark. “Where is the money? The forty thousand. Where is it?” Mark’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. He looked like a landed fish. In that silence, I knew. The money was gone. Probably blown on “investments” or debt or the lifestyle Justin wanted to pretend he had. I was done. I turned and walked back to the elevator. I couldn’t spend another second in that smoke-filled, toxic apartment. I ran into my home office—the only room that still felt like mine. I needed to think. I sat at my desk and instinctively pulled the drawer where I kept my passport and birth certificate. The drawer was empty. It wasn’t just the passport. My property deed copies, my tax records—everything was gone. A wave of cold dread washed over me, starting at my toes and ending at my scalp. They had my IDs. They were forging my signature. What else had they touched? I stood up and ran to the walk-in closet. My vanity was a mess. The velvet boxes where I kept my jewelry had been tossed aside, lids open, insides hollow. My heart hammered against my ribs. I turned to the corner, to the small floor safe where I kept the real valuables. The door was slightly ajar. I pulled it open. The pearl necklace my mother had left me. The vintage gold watch from my grandmother. Every piece of history I had left of my family was gone. This wasn’t just theft. This was a ransacking. They had picked my life clean like vultures. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. I had to get to the bank. I had to get to the county records office. I had to stop the bleeding. “Where are you going?” Mark was blocking the front door, his arms spread wide. “Lauren, sit down. Let’s talk like adults. Don’t be impulsive!” “It’s not what you think!” “Get out of my way,” I said, my voice low and vibrating with a power I didn’t know I possessed. I shoved him with such force that he stumbled back, and I ran out into the night.

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For five agonizing years, I withered away in the dim, stale air of an illegal basement casino, serving drinks and swallowing my pride, all just to scrape together enough for a ticket out. Today, I thought I had finally made it. But as I stood there, my mother met my gaze with a smile so twisted it made my skin crawl. With a sharp snap, she broke my debit card in two. “Moving out?” she purred. “Did you actually believe we were broke, Casey? This basement… it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.” My father stood beside her, his eyes like chips of ice. When he spoke, the words were serrated, designed to draw blood. “We go back to the estate every night, you know. We watched you struggle on the security feeds. It was a necessary performance—to make sure Bess understands she’s the only daughter who truly matters.” A violent tremor took hold of me. My throat felt like it was filled with broken glass; I couldn’t even force out a sob. From the shadows behind them, my brother, Ted, let out a sharp, derisive snort. “I even hand-picked the ‘guests’ you had to serve,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “I needed your reputation dragged through the gutter so you’d never have the standing to bully Bess again. Learn your place, Casey.” “Why?” I finally choked out, my voice a thready whisper. “I’m your flesh and blood. I’m your biological daughter…” “Shut it!” My mother finally looked at me, but there was no recognition in her eyes, only a deep-seated loathing. “In my heart, Bess is my only daughter. If I’d known you’d be such a burden, I never would have brought you back from that foster home in the first place.” Without another word, the three of them turned and walked out, slamming the heavy steel door behind them. I stood frozen in the damp silence, staring toward the direction of the main house. Through the tiny, high-set window, I saw the lights flicker on—a warm, amber glow that felt like a slap in the face. I retreated to my corner of the basement and reached under my thin pillow. I pulled out the bottle of sleeping pills I’d been hoarding for five years. I didn’t hesitate. I swallowed them all. They would never know that from the very first day they sold me to this place, I had never planned on leaving this sickening world alive. … I am dead. My body lies on the concrete floor, a pale, greyish husk. A thin trail of dried blood stains the corner of my mouth. My eyes are half-open, pupils blown wide and vacant. It has been three days. No one has come for me. Meanwhile, the estate next door is ablaze with light. Bursts of laughter drift through the vents, and like a moth to a flame, my spirit finds itself drifting toward the sound. They are having dinner. My parents are swirling expensive Pinot Noir in crystal stems. On the table sits a spread of lobster bisque and pan-seared scallops. Bess pushes a spoonful around her bowl before waving it away, untouched. A phantom ache of hunger gnaws at me. I realize that in the forty-eight hours before I took the pills, I hadn’t eaten a single bite. A guest had complained I was too slow with his scotch, and as punishment, I was forced to kneel in the hallway for hours—no food, no water, no standing until he gave the word. Bess pouts at my mother, her voice a practiced honey-sweet trill. “Is Casey still not back yet? It’s been three days. Maybe I should go apologize to her?” Ted drops his fork with a heavy thud. “Apologize? For what? She doesn’t have the right to be angry.” “We just played a little trick on her,” he continued, leaning back. “It’s not like she was actually suffering. I told the manager at the den to look after her, to make sure she was fed and watered. We’ve probably just spoiled her too much.” “But still…” “There is no ‘but,’ Bess,” my father interrupted, his brow furrowed as he set his glass down firmly. “You’re too kind-hearted. It was a wake-up call, a way to show her where she stands. If she wants to throw a tantrum and play truant, fine. Let her stay away forever for all I care.” My mother glanced toward the basement with a look of pure derision. “Better if she doesn’t come back. After how she treated you when she first arrived? This is just karma.” She paused, pulling out her phone. With a few taps, she sent a fifty-thousand-dollar transfer to Bess. “Go buy that Chanel bag you wanted, sweetie. Since Casey’s ‘savings’ are sitting in my account anyway, consider it a gift from her.” My ghostly eyes flew open. Fifty thousand dollars. Five years of work. That was the money I had earned through forced smiles and broken spirits. It was the money I had saved while being forced to drink until my stomach bled, every cent of which I had transferred to my parents because they told me they needed it to save our family from ruin. It wasn’t a debt. It was Bess’s fun money. My chest tightened with a sob that couldn’t escape. When they first brought me back to the city after my grandmother died, they told me the business had collapsed. I dropped out of college, desperate to help. But the moment I complained about Bess’s reckless spending, I was “sold” to the gambling den the very next day. For five years, the abuse I endured was a constant needle against my nerves. I wanted to die a thousand times, but the thought of “saving” my family kept me breathing. It was all a lie. Ted’s phone suddenly lit up. My name flashed on the screen. He smirked. “See? Here comes the plea for mercy.” He hit the speakerphone with an air of smug triumph. But the voice on the other end wasn’t mine. It was a man, cold and professional. “Hello, this is Officer Winston from the 4th Precinct. Am I speaking with a relative of Casey Whitman?” My heart—or what was left of it—clenched. I watched them, waiting for the crack in their armor. “What is this?” Ted asked, his posture stiffening. “A body was discovered this morning. We’ve identified her as Casey Whitman. We need a family member to come down and identify the remains.” The room went deathly silent. Ted froze, then bolted toward the door. But Bess’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “This has to be a scam,” she said, her voice trembling perfectly. “Casey just posted on her Instagram story ten minutes ago.” She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh my god… did I just out her? I wasn’t supposed to be following her secret account.” My mother immediately pulled up the app. Her face contorted with rage. “That little brat! She’s faking her own death to extort us? How did I raise such a monster!” The screen showed a photo of “me” in a mirror, sticking my tongue out and flashing a peace sign. The caption read: Once I scam enough cash out of the old folks with this ‘death’ stunt, it’s straight to the Maldives for me. My father clutched his chest. “She’s a goddamn animal!” I stood there, invisible and screaming. That’s not me! It was an AI-generated deepfake, a composite Bess must have made. But no one could hear me. Ted dialed my number over and over, but it went straight to voicemail. He roared into the phone, “Casey! Listen to me! This is your last chance. If you aren’t home by tomorrow morning, don’t ever bother showing your face at this house again! You’re dead to us!” The next morning, my mother went to the precinct. She didn’t go to identify a body. She went to make a scene. “My daughter isn’t dead! This is a scam and I want to report you for harassment!” she screamed, slamming her fist on the intake desk. The young officer looked bewildered. “Ma’am, we have the body. We’ve confirmed the identity. Please, just look at the photo…” My mother slapped the photo out of his hand before he could even turn it over. It landed face-down on the tile—a polaroid of my grey face, flecked with white foam. “Stop lying! We’ve seen her social media! She’s alive and well, and if you keep helping her play this sick joke, I’ll sue this entire department for defamation!” “But the DNA matches…” the officer stammered. “I don’t care about your DNA! I’m telling you, Casey Whitman is alive, and I am finished with her!” She turned on her heel, her stiletto heels clicking sharply against the floor like gunfire. I drifted behind her, my spirit trembling with a sorrow so deep it felt like I was dissolving. Mom, I’m right here. I’m dead. Why won’t you just look at me? By noon, Ted got a call from the gambling den. “Mr. Whitman, Casey hasn’t shown up for her shift in four days.” When Ted arrived at the basement, his eyes landed on the “decor” in the hallway. There were photos pinned to the wall—staged, degrading photos of me being handled by men, my clothes torn, my dignity stripped. I shrieked, trying to tear them down, trying to block his view, but my hands passed through the paper like smoke. Ted’s hands were shaking. He grabbed the manager by the throat. “How dare you do this to my sister! You’re dead!” Security guards swarmed in. Bess arrived moments later, breathless. The manager didn’t blink; he just straightened his tie and sneered. “Mr. Whitman, we didn’t ‘do’ anything. She took those photos herself. She was our top girl. She told everyone she had a… ‘condition.’ Said she needed five men a night just to feel something. It was all her, man.” I saw the corner of Bess’s mouth twitch upward for a fraction of a second before she masked it with a sob. “Ted, don’t be mad. We have to find her. Maybe she… maybe she had a reason for all this?” “A reason? What possible reason?” Ted slammed his fist into a desk. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a terrifying red. “Casey… you are absolutely disgusting.” Bess hesitated, then whispered, “Actually, I noticed she was acting strange a while ago. She… she even tried to hit on my boyfriend.” Liar! I screamed. I hadn’t even met her boyfriend. But it didn’t matter. Bess was a master of the smear campaign. “Ted, why does she hate me so much? If I leave the family, will she come back? Is it my fault?” Ted pulled her into a protective embrace. “No. This has nothing to do with you. She chose to be trash. She chose the gutter.” Bess looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. “I have an idea on how to find her. If we… if we put those photos online? She’d have to come back and explain herself, right? She’d have to apologize.” Ted was silent for a long time. “Do it.” Behind them, my mother’s voice rang out. “Don’t even bother blurring the face. I want the world to see what she’s become. I want to see how much shame she can actually handle.” She reached out and covered Bess’s eyes. “Come on, honey. Let’s get you out of here. You shouldn’t have to see such filth.” I drifted in the air, hollowed out. The moment those photos hit the internet, I knew it was over. My face was clear, unblurred, broadcast to the world. The comments sections were a feeding pool. Isn’t she supposed to be a college grad? How pathetic. Once a whore, always a whore. Typical trust fund brat gone wild. Bess played the victim perfectly. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I forgot to click the blur tool. I was just so upset…” My mother gripped her phone, then pulled Bess closer. “It’s fine. She brought this on herself.” My father didn’t even look. He just turned off his screen. “We should have never brought her back.” Then, my mother’s phone buzzed. It was the funeral home. “Is this the Whitman family? We need a signature for the cremation of Casey Whitman. If you could just—” “Will you people stop it!” my mother screamed into the receiver. “Casey, how far are you going to take this ‘death’ act? Since you don’t care about your reputation, neither do we! From now on, you are nothing to us!” The voice on the other end turned ice-cold. “Ma’am, are you actually her mother? Who fakes a suicide? If you don’t believe me, I’ll have the precinct email you the full autopsy report. Now.” My mother slammed the phone down, her eyes rimmed with red. “How can she be so reckless? What did we ever do to her?” Ted spoke up, his voice uncertain. “Mom… maybe I should go to the funeral home. Just to be sure.” “You will stay right here! She’s trying to force us to crawl to her. If you go, she wins!” My father put a hand on my mother’s shoulder. “Forget about her. From this moment on, we only have one daughter. Bess.” The next day, the Whitman Group issued a formal press release disowning me. But then, Ted received an email. It was a digital copy of the death certificate. His pulse quickened. “Another fake? Casey, you’re really committed to this.” He printed it out, tore it into pieces, and drove to the funeral home anyway. “I’m looking for Casey Whitman. Tell her to get out here now!” The receptionist looked at him with a mix of pity and horror. “You’re finally here. Please, sign the release. Do you want the ashes, or are you taking the body?” Ted froze. “How much did she pay you? To forge these documents? I’ll have you arrested. I’ll have this place shut down!” The woman snapped. “I don’t know what kind of family you are, but the police brought her in. You want to see her? Fine. Go see.” She led Ted to the cold room. She walked over to a stainless steel gurney covered in a white sheet. Ted’s hand trembled as he reached for the fabric. But before he could pull it back, his phone chimed. From Bess: Ted, look what Casey just sent me! It’s a deepfake of me with another man. She’s threatening to leak it unless I leave the house! What do I do? Ted’s hand dropped from the sheet. “Don’t panic. I’m coming home.” He turned and ran, never seeing what was under the shroud. I watched him go. The “leaked” video was a file Bess had made herself. She sat in her room, deleting the creation software and smiling. “Oh, Casey,” she whispered to the empty room. “You really were just… extra baggage.” Back at the house, Bess was “hysterical.” Ted held her as she sobbed. “It’s okay. If she wants to play dirty, we’ll destroy everything she ever loved.” They tore through my old backpack. Hidden at the bottom, wrapped in a scrap of red silk, was the silver locket my grandmother had left me. It was the only thing I had left of her. I lunged forward, trying to scream, trying to push Ted away. With a look of pure coldness, Ted threw the locket onto the marble floor and crushed it under his heel. He recorded a video for me, his voice a low growl. “Casey, this is just the start. Every little trinket that old woman left you… I’m going to find them and I’m going to burn them.” The red silk lay on the floor. On it, my grandmother had embroidered a few shaky words: For my little fish. May you always find your way to the deep blue. My mother looked at it and scoffed. “So melodramatic.” She walked to the kitchen, clicked on the gas stove, and dropped the silk into the flame. It vanished in a puff of black smoke. My spirit shook with a rage so violent my vision turned red. I felt tears of blood prickling my eyes. How dare they? How dare they touch her things? I reached into the blue flame, but I felt nothing. I was a ghost, a witness to my own erasure. Bess watched the silk burn, a tiny, secret smile playing on her lips. “Thank you, Ted. For standing up for me.” My mother patted her cheek. “Let’s not talk about Casey anymore. Today is your birthday, Bess. Let’s not let her ruin your party.” The gala began that evening. Bess stood on the stage, the picture of grace. “I’m standing here tonight because I want to ask for my sister’s forgiveness,” she told the crowd. “Casey, I know you’re hurting. But our parents love you. Please, just come home. If you want me to leave, I will. I just want our family to be whole again.” My parents stood by her side, beaming. They looked into the cameras. “Casey, enough is enough. Look at your sister. Look how much more mature she is than you.” The live-stream comments were a wildfire. Bess is an angel. Casey is a brat. She grew up in some trailer park with a senile grandmother, what do you expect? The old lady is dead, right? Good. One less trashy person in the world. A scream of agony built in my throat, choking me. Suddenly, a comment flashed across the screen in bright red. Casey Whitman isn’t ‘refusing’ to come out. She’s dead. The internet erupted. Ted saw it and frowned. “What do you mean, dead?” The doors to the ballroom burst open. A squad of police officers entered, led by Officer Winston. Bess stepped forward, her face a mask of concern. “Officers? Has something happened? Has my sister committed a crime? Is she in trouble?” Ted’s face darkened. “If she broke the law, take her. We won’t bail her out this time.” He laughed, though his fingers were white-knuckled. “I guess she finally played herself into a cell.” Officer Winston didn’t look amused. He pulled a folder of photos from his bag. The photos showed me. Cold. Pale. Foaming at the mouth. Beside them was the coroner’s report. Cause of death: Acute toxicity. Overdose of sedative medication. Suicide. The officer’s voice cut through the music like a blade. “The girl you’re talking about took her own life over a week ago.”

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For the past year, living a thousand miles away from my husband, I spent every waking moment counting down the seconds until our reunion. That was until I ran into one of his colleagues at the upscale mall downtown. Her bright, enthusiastic smile felt like a shard of ice driven straight into my chest. “You are so lucky! I can’t believe the baby is already a month old. She’s an absolute doll!” She pressed a thick, cream-colored card with gold-foiled edges into my hand. Her voice was thick with envy. I forced my hands to stay steady as I took the invitation. My eyes blurred as they swept over the elegant script. Under Father, it read: David Lawrence. Under Mother, the name Jessica sat there, cold and unfamiliar, mocking me. I memorized the address of the hotel, my face a mask of practiced composure. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, my smile feeling like it was stitched onto my face. On the day of the celebration, I stood at the entrance of the crowded ballroom. I watched a beautiful woman, glowing in silk, cradling an infant while she charmed the guests. “You must be one of David’s colleagues,” she said, stepping toward me with a graceful, practiced warmth. “Please, come in. He’s always saying how incredible the women on his team are.” She held that baby with the ease of someone who belonged there, while I stood there feeling like a ghost haunting someone else’s happy ending. … 1 A storm was raging inside me, but my face remained a blank slate. I looked down at the infant in her arms. The baby was fair, delicate, with the unmistakable curve of David’s brow. “Where is David?” I asked. My voice was hollow, stripped of all inflection. I scanned the room. He was nowhere to be seen, but I spotted several familiar faces—his aunts, a few cousins. People I hadn’t seen since our own wedding seven years ago. I have a photographic memory for faces. I remembered the way his Uncle Joe laughed, the specific way his mother’s sisters whispered. My heart hammered against my ribs. David hadn’t just cheated; he was bold enough to parade his secret life in front of his entire extended family. “He went to pick up my in-laws,” Jessica said, her voice tinkling like wind chimes. “They should be here any minute.” The air left my lungs. It felt like a physical blow to the solar plexus, a sharp, suffocating pain. Two days ago, David’s parents told me they had booked a senior citizens’ bus tour—a two-week trip through the Pacific Northwest. I’d been so worried about their fixed income that I’d tucked two thousand dollars into a card for his mother, calling it their “adventure fund.” They’d spent years complaining about their health and their mounting pharmacy bills; I’d been the one encouraging them to finally see the world. For seven years, I’d treated them like my own flesh and blood. I was the “perfect daughter-in-law,” the one they praised to anyone who would listen. I realized now that they hadn’t just been lying to me. They’d been laughing at me. Jessica didn’t notice the fire in my eyes. She led me over to a cluster of David’s work friends. As we approached, a middle-aged man grinned at her. “I tell David all the time, he’s the luckiest man alive. A gorgeous wife and an even more gorgeous daughter.” The group chimed in, a chorus of adulation. “Jessica, you really made the right call. I was worried when you left the firm to be a stay-at-the-home mom, but look at you.” “Six years later, and you and David are still the gold standard. And now, finally, the new addition. I’m so happy for you guys.” My hands curled into fists, my nails biting into the soft skin of my palms. My marriage to David had lasted seven years. He had been with Jessica for six. The sheer scale of the deception was dizzying. Even this morning, he’d sent me a text: Good morning, beautiful. Counting down the days until I’m home. I miss you so much it hurts. For seven years, I thought we were the “it” couple. He never raised his voice. He made a six-figure salary and “budgeted” himself to a pittance of pocket money, giving the rest to me for our “future.” Every anniversary, he bought me a gold bracelet. I had a jewelry box full of them, a shimmering timeline of our love. A year ago, he’d sat me down with a serious face. “The regional office wants to relocate me,” he’d said. “It’s an extra fifty thousand a year, plus bonuses. Think of what that means for our son. College, a wedding, his first house. I can do the long distance if you can. For him.” I’d cried, but I’d agreed. I wanted that future for our son, Max. Now I realized the “long distance” was just the final piece of a masterpiece of lies. 2 “David is a legend,” one of the men was saying. “Top of the leaderboard every quarter. With his base and those commissions, the guy is bringing in half a million a year, easy.” The room tilted. The “salary” he had been reporting to me—the one I had been carefully saving—was just his base pay. The commissions, the real money, had been funding this life. This house. This woman. Jessica beamed, adjusting the baby’s lace blanket. “We’re very blessed.” “Time flies,” another woman sighed. “I remember your wedding six years ago like it was yesterday. And now, a baby!” They’d had a wedding. A real, public wedding with colleagues and champagne. When I married David, we’d had a small, private ceremony in his parents’ backyard. He told me he wanted something “intimate,” something that was just for us. He hadn’t invited a single coworker. I stood there, a ghost at the feast, listening to the secrets of the man I thought I knew. A younger woman leaned in, touching Jessica’s arm. “Seriously, Jess, give us the secret. How do you keep him so devoted? He’s obsessed with you.” I found myself leaning in too, my eyes fixed on Jessica. She looked radiant, untouched by the wearying grind of real life, the bills, the chores, the sleepless nights I’d endured alone with our son while David was “traveling.” “He’s just a good man,” Jessica said, her voice soft with genuine affection. “I’m lucky. But if you want my advice? Communication is key. And keep the finances transparent. David gives me his entire paycheck. He keeps a few hundred for gas and coffee, and that’s it.” She touched a heavy gold cuff on her wrist. “Every year, his bonus goes straight into gold for me. He says a man’s heart is where his money is.” The jagged edges of my broken heart shifted, cutting deeper. His bonuses went to her. Then what had he been giving me? The emotion was a tidal wave, rising in my throat. I stood there like an ice sculpture, frozen and out of place, while the world around me celebrated my destruction. Jessica’s phone buzzed. She checked the screen and giggled. “It’s David.” She turned to me, casually shifting the infant. “Could you hold her for a second? I need to take this.” I went numb. Before I could process it, the warm, soft weight of the baby was in my arms. She was quiet, her dark eyes wide and curious, looking up at me without a care in the world. I looked down at her, a beautiful, innocent manifestation of my husband’s betrayal. I should have felt rage. I should have wanted to pull away. But I just felt a cold, devastating clarity. Jessica was right next to me, her voice a sugary coo as she answered. David’s voice came through the speaker, crisp and clear: “Hey, honey. You’re not overdoing it, are you? You’re still recovering.” “I’m fine, David. Don’t worry about me.” “I’ve got my parents in the car. Traffic is a nightmare, so don’t stress if we’re a few minutes late. I love you.” “I love you too. Drive safe.” She hung up, and the women around her sighed in unison. “He is literally too much,” one said. “He texts her every hour at the office. Even after six years, it’s like they’re in the honeymoon phase.” “He’s terrified of losing her,” another added. “If there’s one man in this city who would never, ever stray, it’s David Lawrence.” I used to think that about him. Every night, a five-minute check-in call. Every morning, a “thinking of you” text. Short, efficient, but constant. I’d never doubted him. Between my career, our son, and managing the household and his parents, my life was a blur of responsibility. I thought he was busy. I thought he was working for us. I didn’t realize he was sharing the minute details of his life with someone else. 3 I sat down in an empty chair, still holding the child. My eyes caught on something sparkling on the baby’s wrist. It was a custom gold charm bracelet. The centerpiece was a small, intricately carved phoenix. My breath hitched. I recognized that design. Seven years ago, when I found out I was pregnant with twins—a boy and a girl—my mother had commissioned a pair of “Dragon and Phoenix” charms. She’d traveled to a monastery to have them blessed, praying for their protection. But the world is a cruel place. There were complications during delivery. Only my son survived. I had been shattered. The doctors told me I couldn’t have more children. I kept the dragon charm for my son, and the phoenix… I kept it locked in a safe, a golden ghost of the daughter I never got to hold. I used to take it out and cry until my eyes were swollen shut. My fingers trembled as I turned the charm over. Three words were engraved on the back: Felicity Rose. The name I had chosen. The name I had spent months dreaming about while rubbing my pregnant belly. “Her name is Felicity,” Jessica said, returning and sitting beside me. “David picked it out. He’s always wanted a daughter.” The world seemed to splinter into a million sharp pieces. I forced my voice to remain steady. “He sounds like a devoted father.” Jessica smiled, clearly enjoying the conversation. “Are you new at the firm? I used to know everyone, but David mentioned they’d hired some fresh talent lately.” “I started recently,” I lied, the word tasting like ash. “The company is great, but the travel used to be brutal,” Jessica said. “David was on the road every other week. It’s only been this past year that he’s finally been able to stay local. It was a long road, but we made it.” I felt a bitter, jagged laugh bubbling in my chest. Before he was “relocated” a year ago, David had “traveled” for work constantly. I’d handled everything. Every fever our son had, every hospital visit for his parents, every broken pipe in the house. I’d done it all so he could focus on his career. I’d even stayed silent as our intimacy faded, blaming it on his exhaustion. He wasn’t traveling. He was coming home to her. Jessica didn’t reach for the baby. She kept glancing around, greeting newcomers. She noticed how still the infant was in my arms. “Wow, she really likes you. Usually, she screams if anyone but me or David holds her. You have a magic touch.” “I have a son,” I said quietly. “You learn a few things.” “That explains it!” she chirped. “Would you mind holding her just a few more minutes? I need to check on the catering.” I nodded. I looked up at the massive banner hanging across the ballroom: CELEBRATING THE 100-DAY ANNIVERSARY OF FELICITY ROSE LAWRENCE. My throat felt like it was full of broken glass. My son never had a party. David had insisted it would be too painful because of the baby we lost. My parents had protested, but David had been firm. He said he couldn’t celebrate while his heart was still grieving for his daughter. And yet here he was, celebrating a new daughter with my daughter’s name and my daughter’s gold. 4 My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a call from my mother-in-law. I didn’t hesitate. I answered. “Mara, did you see my text?” Her voice was perfectly normal, the same tone she used when asking me to pick up her prescriptions. “No,” I said, my voice as cold as a winter morning. “Are you at the market? It’s loud there. Look at the text I sent you. I can’t hear you, just reply on WhatsApp.” She hung up. I opened the message she’d sent twenty minutes ago: Mara, a relative back in the old neighborhood just had a baby. I need to send a gift. I’m a little short on cash this month, can you Venmo me two thousand? It’s important for the family’s reputation that we don’t look cheap. I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. They weren’t just deceiving me; they were using me as an ATM to fund the lifestyle of his secret child. I laughed, a sharp, jagged sound that didn’t reach my eyes. I didn’t reply. She texted again five minutes later: Are you going to send it? We can’t be late with this. I still didn’t reply. I was waiting. I was waiting for her to walk through those doors. A third text popped up. I’ve always thought you were the bigger person, Mara. I’m disappointed. Fine, if you won’t help, I’ll find another way. I looked at the phone and felt a surge of pure, unadulterated disgust. All those years of “You’re like the daughter I never had,” and “We’re so lucky David married a woman like you.” It was all a script. A long-con. Jessica came back, and her phone rang. She answered it with a glowing smile. I could hear David’s voice through the receiver: “Hey babe, Mom has a surprise for the little one. Another piece of gold.” “Oh, David, she has too much already!” “This one is special,” David said. “It’s a dragon charm. It’s been blessed. It’s a collector’s piece, really. One of a kind.” The blood roared in my ears. Two days ago, before my son Max left for summer camp, my mother-in-law told him to take off his gold dragon pendant so he wouldn’t lose it while swimming. She told him she’d keep it safe in her jewelry box. She was giving my son’s birthright to a mistress’s child. “Tell your mom thank you for me,” Jessica said. “She’s so thoughtful.” Then I heard my mother-in-law’s voice in the background: “Don’t thank me, dear. It’s what a grandmother does. You gave me a beautiful granddaughter; it’s the least I can do. We’re pulling up now.” Jessica hung up and reached for the baby, but then spotted more guests and waved them over. I sat there, holding the secret child, feeling the weight of seven years of wasted devotion. “Your party,” I whispered to the infant, “is going to be unforgettable.” Finally, I heard them. The familiar voices of David and his parents, loud and cheerful as they entered the ballroom. I stood up. I walked toward the stage where the microphone was set up for the toasts. David was looking around, scanning the room. “Honey? Where’s the baby?” he asked Jessica. I stepped up to the mic. The feedback shrieked for a second, silencing the room. My voice cut through the air like a blade. “David,” I said, my eyes locking onto his. “Your secret is in my arms.”

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After the catastrophic car accident that ended my previous life, I woke up to find myself back in the humid, electric summer following high school graduation. And I wasn’t alone. My best friend, Belle, had come back with me. In our first life, she was the “other woman”—the shadow that loomed over my marriage, the one who eventually shattered my family. This time, she swore things would be different. She looked me in the eye and promised she would never touch my life, never look at my husband again. She lived that promise with a performance that earned my trust. She chose a college on the opposite side of the country, thousands of miles away. She married young, started a family, and lived a life that seemed entirely separate from mine. Reassured, I let myself fall for Damian. Our life together felt like a hard-won victory. I thought I had finally escaped the nightmare of double betrayal—no more depression, no more losing a child, no more mental collapse. I thought the cycle was broken. Then came the holiday weekend this May. A colleague of mine caught her husband cheating and dragged me to a hotel, hysterical and desperate for a witness. I held up my phone, ready to record the evidence for her, but my movement caught a reflection in the hallway mirror. At the far end of the corridor stood Damian. The man who was supposed to be three states away on a business trip. And the woman standing before him, laughing as she toyed with his tie, was Belle—the woman who had sworn a blood oath never to ruin me again. It turned out that the tracks of destiny hadn’t shifted at all. We were still heading for the cliff. … 1 I don’t remember how I got down the stairs or how I managed to follow them to their room without being seen. My mind was a blur of static. Why was Damian here? He was supposed to be in Chicago for a week-long conference. He’d kissed me goodbye at the door, his suitcase in hand, smelling of the expensive cologne I’d bought him for his birthday. And Belle. My “sister.” The girl I’d shared a bunk with in the foster system when we had nothing but each other. She was already unbuttoning his shirt before the door even closed. The shock was a physical weight, a nausea that rose in the back of my throat. I ducked behind a corner just as Damian glanced back. “Belle, I’ve missed you so much,” his voice drifted down the hall, thick with a hunger I thought was reserved for me. “I told Janet the conference was mandatory. She didn’t suspect a thing. I have the whole week. It’ll be like a mini-honeymoon.” Belle giggled, a sound that used to represent safety to me. “Perfect. As long as she stays in the dark, I don’t care what lies you have to tell.” The door clicked shut. My feet felt like they were made of lead as I crept toward the room. The door wasn’t fully latched, leaving a sliver of an opening. I saw rose petals scattered on the carpet and the jagged remains of a discarded dress. Then came the sounds—the heavy breathing, the soft moans—stabbing into my ears like shards of glass. My hands shook so violently I had to grip the wall to stay upright. This was a carbon copy of the moment from my first life—the day I found them together in the back of a car. I reached for the handle, wanting to burst in, to scream, to burn it all down. But I stopped. I thought about the necklace Damian had given me that morning. A little something to keep me close while I’m away, he’d whispered, tucking it under my collar. Every word out of his mouth was a calculated performance. Every sacrifice Belle had made—the distance, the fake life—was just a long con to keep me complacent while they built a world behind my back. I wiped my eyes, turned around, and walked away. Downstairs, my colleague Cassie was a wreck. She’d found her husband in bed with some twenty-something, and the scene had been explosive. “Janet, how can people be so cruel?” she sobbed, her mascara running in black rivers down her cheeks. “I’ve been with him since we were seventeen. I gave him everything!” She grabbed my hand, looking for an anchor. “I’m divorcing him. I have to. God, Janet, you’re so lucky. Damian is one of the good ones. He’s so devoted to you and Sally. He works himself to the bone just to give you guys a better life. I wish I had what you have.” I forced a smile. It felt like my skin might crack. She didn’t know. Nobody knew. Damian was exactly like her husband. He just had a better script. “Without him,” I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else, “I can still give myself and Sally a good life.” I wasn’t going to give him a chance to “fix” this. Not this time. 2 I went home to our small, perfectly curated apartment. Every piece of furniture, every framed photo, represented a memory I now wanted to incinerate. I remembered when we first moved in. The place was a shell, and we’d sat on the floor and cried with joy. We’d worked double shifts, skipped meals, and fought for every square inch of this home. Damian had always looked after me. He’d cook elaborate meals, insisting I eat even when I was stressed. When I gained weight from the comfort of his care, he’d hidden the scale. “Janet, you’ve been through enough,” he’d say, kissing my forehead. “I don’t want you worrying about your body. I just want you happy. I’m going to work harder, buy us a house with a studio for your painting and a big yard for Sally. Just wait.” I had believed him. I thought we were the success story. I thought Belle had her own life. I walked toward Sally’s room. She was three, sleeping soundly, her thumb tucked near her mouth. Then, I heard a voice from the bathroom. My mother-in-law, Martha, had been staying with us to help with Sally. I paused by the door, hearing the low murmur of her phone conversation. “Damian, when are you going to bring Max over to see me?” she whispered, her voice warm with a grandmother’s affection. “I love the video calls, but I want to hold my grandson.” A cold chill settled in my bones. Max. “And listen,” Martha continued, “be careful when you’re out with Belle. Make sure you check in with Janet so she doesn’t get suspicious. You know how she gets.” Then, a voice came through the speaker—Belle’s voice, sweet and cloying. “I’ll bring him soon, Martha. He loved the toys you sent! He asks about his grandma all the time.” Max was their son. Martha’s grandson. I stumbled back, my shoulder catching the edge of the hallway console. A glass vase tipped over and shattered. Belle had told me four years ago that she’d had a baby with her “husband.” That meant Damian had been living a double life since before Sally was even born. And Martha—the woman who called me the daughter she never had—had been the architect of the lie. Martha rushed out of the bathroom, her face pale. “Oh, Janet! My goodness, you’re bleeding!” I looked down. A shard of glass had sliced my wrist. The pain was distant, muffled by the roar in my head. She grabbed the first-aid kit, her wrinkled hands trembling as she cleaned the wound. “You have to be careful, honey. This could get infected. Don’t you do a lick of work for the rest of the week, you hear? Damian would be heartbroken if he saw you like this.” She looked up at me, a practiced, motherly smile on her face. “You didn’t… hear anything strange just now, did you? My phone was acting up.” I was an orphan. I’d spent my life looking for a mother, and I thought I’d found one in her. She’d always taken my side. She’d told me I was the strongest woman she knew. It was all a lie. I was just the wife who kept the household running while they played family with the “real” heir. “I just walked in,” I lied, my voice flat. “I didn’t hear a thing.” She exhaled, the tension leaving her shoulders. “Good. I was worried the neighbors’ cat was bothering Sally.” That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the dark and searched for the man Belle had claimed was her husband—Damon. She’d sent me photos of their “wedding” years ago. He was a musician, edgy, nothing like Damian. I found his social media. He was living in Austin with another woman. When I messaged him, he didn’t hold back. Look, I’ll be straight with you, he wrote back. Belle and I were never married. She paid me five grand to pose for those photos and sign some fake papers. It was a gig. I heard she’s been with some guy from back home for years. That’s probably your husband, isn’t it? 3 Everything clicked into place with a sickening finality. Belle had never let go. She hadn’t moved away to protect our friendship; she’d moved away to create a theater where she could have Damian without me seeing the curtain. They had orchestrated a decade-long deception just to have their cake and eat it too. I spent the dawn hours drafting a divorce agreement. My eyes were burning when Sally toddled into the room, holding my phone. “Mommy,” she whispered, pointing at a social media reel. “The cherry blossoms are so pretty. When is Daddy coming home to take us to the park?” She’d been asking for weeks. Damian had promised her a trip to the botanical gardens as soon as he “returned” from his trip. She didn’t know the blossoms were already falling, dying in the spring rain. Then, she gasped, holding the phone closer to her face. “Mommy, look! Is that Daddy? He’s wearing the hair tie I gave him!” I felt my heart stop. I looked at the screen. It was a local “Day in the Life” video posted by a travel blogger at the park. In the background, clear as day, was Damian. A little boy—Max—was perched on his shoulders. Damian was holding Belle’s hand, looking at her with a radiance I hadn’t seen in years. They looked like a commercial for the perfect American family. He wasn’t too busy for the cherry blossoms. He just had another daughter’s-worth of memories to make with someone else’s son. I gripped my hands into fists, gently taking the phone from Sally and turning it off. “Sally,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Let’s go to the park ourselves, okay? Just us girls. We can see the flowers and find some ice cream.” Her face fell. “But… are we waiting for Daddy?” She was three. Her world was a tripod—Mommy, Daddy, her. I was about to kick one of the legs out. Before I could answer, Damian’s face appeared on my phone. A video call. Sally lunged for it, hitting ‘accept.’ Damian was a master. He was sitting in a coffee shop, his laptop open, stacks of folders surrounding him. He’d even used makeup or stayed up late to create dark circles under his eyes to look exhausted. If I hadn’t seen him in that hallway yesterday, I would have reached through the screen to comfort him. “Daddy!” Sally cheered. “Are you still working?” “Almost done, peanut,” Damian said, his voice dripping with fatherly warmth. “I’m working hard so I can come home to my two favorite girls. Remember to take care of Mommy, okay? Remind her to take her vitamins—she always forgets.” He looked at me through the camera, his expression softening into that fake, devoted gaze. “Is Mommy missing me? Is she eating enough?” Sally giggled. “She was crying earlier! She misses you so much!” He smiled, a perfect, handsome lie. He’d been with his other family minutes ago, and here he was, playing the doting husband. 4 I took the phone from Sally. “Damian. When exactly are you coming back? I have something important to tell you.” He leaned in, looking excited. “A surprise? Janet, don’t tease me. I’m already dying to get back to you. I might try to catch an earlier flight.” “Just get here,” I said. “Everything is ready.” I hung up before he could say another word of “love.” Then, I called a lawyer a colleague had recommended—someone known for being a shark in custody battles. The next day, I took Sally to the park. The cherry blossoms were fading, the ground covered in a shroud of white and pink petals. Sally didn’t care; she ran through the trees, laughing. I turned my head for a split second to grab a water bottle from my bag. Then I heard the scream. I spun around to see Sally on the ground near a stone planter. A jagged scrape ran down her arm, bleeding freely. A boy stood over her, pointing and laughing. “You’re so stupid!” the boy yelled. “I barely touched you and you fell like a baby!” I froze. I knew that face. It was Max. I rushed over, scooping Sally into my arms. “It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s got you.” Sally was trembling, trying not to sob. My blood began to boil, a cold, predatory heat. Max wasn’t done. He stepped forward and poured a bottle of blue tempera paint right over Sally’s white Sunday dress. He grinned, a cruel, entitlement in his eyes that he could only have learned from his parents. “Now you’re an ugly baby! Cry more!” The rage hit its peak. I grabbed his wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop him. “Who do you think you are? Is this how your parents taught you to treat people?” “Let go of me!” he screamed. “My daddy and mommy are right there! They’ll get you!” He looked toward a nearby bench. “I’m Max! My grandma says I’m the prince! You can’t touch me!” The realization was a punch to the gut. While I was struggling through Sally’s infancy, Martha had disappeared for a week, claiming my father-in-law had a stroke. Damian had told me to stay home, to rest. Now I knew—Martha had been gone to help Belle with him. Their “prince.” “Fine,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Call your parents. I’d love to meet them.” “Mommy! Daddy!” Max shrieked. Belle’s voice rang out first. “Max? Honey, what happened?” Then Damian’s voice, closer now. “Max, buddy, come to—” He stopped dead. The color drained from his face so fast I thought he might faint. Belle stood behind him, her eyes widening in pure horror.

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I spent three years at a specialized, private “academy” learning exactly how to worship Celine Blackwood. I studied her favorite vintages, the precise way she liked her espresso at four in the morning, and the subtle physical cues that would make her melt in my arms. I was a master of her heart—or so I thought. I was confident that my devotion, combined with the refined techniques I’d perfected to please a woman of her stature, would eventually break through her icy exterior. And it worked. When she finally proposed, I thought I had reached the finish line. I thought I had finally earned my place in her world. But on our wedding day, as we stood under a canopy of white peonies in the Hamptons, the world started to glitch. Strange, translucent lines of text began to drift across my vision like a ghostly social media feed. They called me a “manipulative side-character.” They said a journalist had already leaked my history, exposing the “Charisma Institute” where I’d spent years training to seduce her. The text scrolled by, cold and mocking: Celine hates being lied to more than anything. He’s a fraud. He used a playbook to get her. Wait until she destroys him. Just as the words flickered before my eyes, Celine turned to me. Her expression was unreadable, her voice chillingly calm. “Juile,” she whispered, the diamond on her finger catching the light. “Tell me you aren’t like those pathetic men in the news lately. Tell me you didn’t play me.” Before I could even find my voice, a man named Logan Burke—a tabloid shark I’d seen lurking at charity galas—burst through the floral arches, a microphone in one hand and a smartphone in the other. “Juile Callahan!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the stunned silence of the elite crowd. “Why don’t you tell everyone what it was like spending three years in the ‘High-Society Husband’ program? Give us a review of the curriculum!” In an instant, the massive LED screens behind the altar—which were supposed to show a montage of our romance—flickered. Instead of photos of our trip to the Amalfi Coast, they displayed “course modules.” Powerpoint slides on How to Mirror Celine Blackwood’s Vulnerabilities and Physical Escalation Techniques for Guarded Personalities. I watched Celine’s eyes. They didn’t fill with tears. They turned to stone, freezing over as the slides detailed exactly how I’d engineered our “perfect” life. I let out a hollow, helpless laugh. My heart felt like it was being crushed by a lead weight. What the screens didn’t show—what the “course modules” could never explain—were the seven jagged scars on my back from the time I pulled her out of a wreckage, or the three bullet wounds I’d hidden from her because I didn’t want her to feel the burden of my sacrifice. But in her world, perception was reality. And right now, I was a con artist. … 1. The gaze of every socialite and power player in the state was pinned on me, heavier than Celine’s silence. They weren’t just shocked; they were hungry for the kill. I gripped the fabric of my tuxedo trousers, my throat closing up. The phantom text shimmered in front of my face again. [The con artist has gone mute. Did the ‘Playbook’ not have a chapter for when you get caught?] [Look at Logan—our hero. A simple journalist taking down the most calculated gold-digger in the city.] [Brave reporter exposes the fraud. The ‘ice queen’ is about to go scorched earth.] Celine began to walk toward Logan. My heart climbed into my throat, thumping against my teeth. “Mr. Burke,” she said, her voice like a razor. “Turn off the camera on your lapel. Now.” Logan stiffened, his smug grin faltering for a split second before he puffed out his chest. “Celine, this man is a ‘Diamond Tier’ graduate of the Charisma Institute. Your entire four-year relationship has been a long-con. He’s a ‘Pig-Butcher’ in a designer suit.” Celine didn’t respond to him. I took a breath, trying to salvage the wreckage of my soul. “Logan, anyone with enough money can dig up those course files. It doesn’t mean our life was a lie. I love my wife. We are compatible because I made myself the man she deserved.” Logan sneered. “Still clinging to the script, I see.” He pulled out his phone and flashed a contact number on the screen. My stomach turned. It was my burner phone—the one I used to contact the Institute’s private investigators. Last year, I’d hired them to tail Celine during her business trip to London. Not to spy on her, but because I knew she was being threatened by a rival firm and she was too proud to tell me. I just wanted to know she was safe. Logan looked at her with feigned pity. “This number has only one frequent contact: the head of the Institute.” I had no defense that wouldn’t sound like another lie. The air around Celine seemed to drop twenty degrees. “Mr. Burke,” she said, her tone lethal. “I won’t ask you again. Turn it off.” Reluctantly, Logan darkened his screen. Celine turned back to me, her face a mask of terrifying composure. “Exchange the rings,” she commanded. I stared at her, bewildered. The phantom text mocked me again. [The con artist actually thinks the wedding is still happening?] [Celine is a woman of stature. She won’t give these vultures the satisfaction of a scene. She’ll play the part until the cameras are gone.] In a daze, I felt her slide a heavy platinum band onto my finger. The screens behind us were now playing our highlight reel again—smiling faces, sunset kisses, staged perfection. But the moment we retreated from the reception to our estate, the performance ended. Celine locked herself in the study all night. I watched her personal assistant, a woman who usually treated me with deference, carry orange folders in and out of the room. Those folders only appeared when Celine was preparing for a corporate takeover—or an execution. I sat in the dark living room, the weight of the day pressing into my lungs. I had memorized her soul. I’d learned French until I was fluent because she grew up in Lyon and missed the sound of her mother tongue. I joined that academy because I was a nobody who loved a queen, and I thought I needed a map to reach her heart. Yes, I had used “methods.” But my love for her was the only thing in my life that was real. The bedroom door finally opened at dawn. Celine walked in and tossed a stack of documents onto the bed. I had spent years rehearsing the moment I’d tell her the truth, imagining a quiet night by the fire where she’d laugh and call me a fool for being so insecure. I didn’t expect her to strip me bare like a piece of trash. “Celine, please, just let me explain…” [How does he still have the nerve to speak? I hope she destroys him.] “Don’t call me that,” she snapped, her voice trembling with a rare, raw anger. “It’s pathetic. It makes me sick.” I went silent. ‘Celine’ was what she’d begged me to call her in private, away from the ‘Mrs. Blackwood’ of the world. The bitterness rose in my throat. When I stopped talking, she slammed the door and left. The next time I heard about her, it was through a headline for a high-end art auction. Sitting in the front row beside her was the man who had ruined my life: Logan Burke. He wasn’t carrying a camera this time. He was wearing a bespoke suit, sitting in the seat that belonged to me. When Logan pointed at an emerald pendant, Celine didn’t hesitate. She bid the room into silence, buying it for him without a second thought. 2. My chest felt like it was filled with wet sand. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to tell myself she was just hurting. Anyone would be angry after being deceived. And Celine Blackwood was a woman who tolerated zero flaws. That night, I spent hours in the kitchen. I made everything she loved—Coq au vin, the specific truffle risotto she craved when she was stressed. I sent her a photo with a simple message: I want to talk. Properly. I waited until 1:00 AM. The reply didn’t come from her. It came from Logan’s Instagram. A photo of him and Celine at a candlelit dinner, their glasses touching. The phantom text screamed in my eyes. [Is the lead guy finally going to get lucky tonight?] [They’ve had so much wine… it’s definitely happening.] I looked at the bottle of red on my table—the one Celine and I had bottled ourselves at a vineyard, promising to save it for our tenth anniversary. The tears finally broke. I grabbed the edge of the tablecloth and yanked. The porcelain shattered against the floor, a cacophony of broken dreams and wasted effort. I collapsed into the mess, sobbing, mocking myself for thinking years of devotion could survive a single scandal. The house staff thought I’d lost my mind. The head housekeeper, a woman who had been with the Blackwood family for twenty years, came to sit beside me. “Sir,” she whispered. “In houses like this, these things are inevitable. You have to protect yourself.” I sat on the floor until my legs went numb and the world turned gray. I didn’t even notice when a piece of broken plate sliced into my palm. The staff eventually called her. She arrived thirty minutes later, her heels clicking sharply against the marble. I looked up at her, my hand bleeding, my spirit gone. She didn’t offer a hand. She grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at her. “Is this the next chapter, Juile? The ‘Broken Man’ routine?” “You’ve charmed the staff, I see. Very effective.” She leaned in, her voice a cold hiss. “This is a Blackwood estate. if you’re planning on a dramatic suicide to guilt-trip me, do it somewhere else. I won’t have you staining the floors.” She saw the white bandage the housekeeper had wrapped around my hand. She squeezed it until I winced. “Cutting your palms? If you’re going to act, at least make it look like you mean it.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t tell her I was in pain. I didn’t cling to her like I used to whenever I was hurt. I just pulled my hand away. I looked at this woman—this stranger—and realized that Logan Burke’s words had more power than four years of my life. My devotion was just “technique” to her now. The next day was her grandmother’s gala. Usually, Celine would wait for me, insisting we arrive together. This time, she left hours early. I arrived exactly ten minutes before the start. I saw her almost immediately, but she wasn’t alone. Logan was there, wearing the watch Celine had custom-ordered for my birthday. When the guests saw him on her arm, they swarmed. “Is this the journalist from the wedding? He’s stunning in person!” Celine laughed, a bright, social sound. “I’m just showing him the world.” I watched from the shadows. There were more people here than at our wedding. The elite of New York and the old money from London—everyone was watching Celine publicly humiliate her husband of less than a month. Logan saw me standing alone and waved. When I didn’t respond, he walked over, smug and untouchable. “What are you so afraid of, Juile? Celine didn’t even kick you out. You’re still living the dream, aren’t you?” [Yeah, what’s he moping for? He should do something crazy so the ‘hero’ can finally feed him to the sharks.] [He’s just jealous of Logan’s talent and looks.] Celine didn’t even glance my way as she pulled Logan into a circle of her billionaire friends. I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to ruin her grandmother’s night. I sat in a corner and ate a piece of cake that tasted like ash. 3. I heard Celine’s voice floating over the music. “In two days, I’m taking the group to the Maldives. Everything is already arranged—villas, private guides, the works.” I froze. That was our honeymoon. The “arrangements” she was bragging about were the result of three sleepless nights I’d spent meticulously planning every detail to ensure she wouldn’t have a single worry. I looked away. My phone buzzed. It was an email from my lawyer with the draft of the divorce papers. The frosting in my mouth turned bitter. This was what it felt like to give up. When Celine returned home that night, smelling of gin and expensive cigars, she had hickeys visible on her neck. I took a breath. “Celine. Let’s get a divorce.” She stopped on the stairs, a mocking smile playing on her lips as she turned back. She saw the papers on the coffee table but didn’t touch them. “Is this the new move, Juile? The ‘Pull-Away’ technique?” “Do you think if you play hard to get, I’ll suddenly fall at your feet and beg for forgiveness?” I pointed a trembling finger at the marks on her throat. “You want Logan. I’m letting you have him.” She laughed, stepping closer to tilt my chin up. “You can’t handle this? I thought a graduate of the Charisma Institute would have thicker skin. Logan is just the first of many, Juile.” She picked up the papers with two fingers and dropped them into the trash can. “I’m not signing. I want to see what else you have in that little playbook of yours.” I gave her a tired smile. I didn’t have any more tricks. Everything I had done—becoming the “perfect” husband, learning her language, anticipating her every need—had been fueled by the one thing she refused to believe in: my heart. “I’ve already signed my part,” I said quietly. “I’m done, Celine.” I walked into the guest room and closed the door. I heard her scoff behind me, convinced I was still just “performing.” I bought a one-way ticket to France. All those years of studying the language, and I’d never actually seen the country. It was time to go for myself. I met my friend, Toby, before I left. He was the only person from my “former life” who knew the truth—that I had loved Celine long before I ever stepped foot in that academy. Seeing me so broken, he insisted I go to a wellness clinic he managed. But when the doctor took my pulse and looked at my recent bloodwork, his face went pale. “You’re ill,” he said. “Stress is one thing, but you can’t keep ignoring this.” My heart sank. I spent the rest of the day at the hospital. When I finally returned to the Blackwood estate to pack my last bag, Celine was actually there for dinner. She glanced at the medical report sitting on the foyer table and curled her lip. “Martha,” she called out to the maid. “Get this trash off the table. It’s disgusting.” The maid swept my oncology results into the bin. Logan popped his head out from behind her, grinning. “Don’t you get tired of the ‘terminally ill’ trope, Juile? It’s so overdone.” I just smiled at him. “The spot is yours, Logan. Enjoy it.” I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the door. Celine watched me, her eyes narrowing. “Nice acting,” she spat. “You almost look pale enough to be dying.” I didn’t answer. I had a plane to catch. 4. The sky opened up as I reached the driveway. The housekeeper ran after me, frantic. “Ma’am! He looks terrible, and it’s pouring! Please, don’t let him leave like this!” Celine watched my retreating back through the window, her jaw set. “Let him go. A man that calculated won’t stay away for long. He’ll be back in three days with a new sob story.” [Go on, con artist, get lost! Stop blocking the real romance!] I walked into the rain, the phantom text flickering one last time before fading into the gray. I felt nothing. Three days passed. Then a week. Celine started coming home earlier than usual, but the house was silent. She found herself walking through the wings of the estate, subconsciously looking for me. The anger began to boil over. She kicked the door to our bedroom open, expecting to find me hiding there. But the room was untouched. My watches, my designer clothes, the jewelry she’d bought me—everything was still there. I hadn’t taken a single thing. “Fine! You want to play high-stakes? Let’s play!” She ordered her staff to list every one of my belongings on a luxury resale site for one dollar. Everything was gone in minutes. But the buyer she was hoping to provoke—me—never showed up. Another two weeks passed. When the housekeeper confirmed I still hadn’t called, Celine felt a sharp, sudden pang of anxiety. “Find out where he is,” she told her assistant. “Check his accounts. I don’t want him dying in some gutter and embarrassing my family.” The assistant returned an hour later with a file. “Sir’s last known location was a meeting with a friend for tea.” Celine scoffed, feeling relieved. “See? He’s fine. Having tea while I’m worried about the PR.” The assistant hesitated. “But ma’am… after the tea, he went to Blackwood Memorial Hospital. He was… he was there for a stage-three screening.” Celine froze.

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It started during rehearsal, when I casually pointed out that Brianna, the undisputed golden girl of our class, was half a beat behind the music. The words had barely left my mouth before her childhood-best-friend-slash-not-so-secret-admirer charged across the room and shoved me down the risers in front of the entire theater company. “What the hell is wrong with you, Gina?” he yelled, pointing a finger an inch from my nose. “The choreographer didn’t say a word. Who do you think you are, picking her apart from the back row?” Before I could answer, he whipped around to face the director. “I say we kick her out of the showcase. She’s just going to drag Brianna down and wreck our pacing.” Right on cue, Brianna turned around, her eyes instantly brimming with glossy, photogenic tears. “Maybe we should just let Gina be the lead dancer,” she told the director, her voice trembling with manufactured grace. Her loyal watchdog practically bent over laughing. “Are you kidding me? I’ve known her since we were kids. The girl trips over her own feet walking down the hallway. If she can lead a dance routine, I’ll eat dirt on a livestream!” A chorus of snickers rippled through the cast. I didn’t say a word. I just slowly picked myself up off the linoleum, dusted off my leggings, and shot him a dead-eyed stare. “Cool. Grab a spoon.” 1 The absolute flatline of my voice sucked the air out of the room. One second, the studio was echoing with laughter; the next, you could hear a pin drop. Connor’s smug grin morphed into ugly, blotchy rage. He vaulted down the wooden steps of the risers, his hand snapping out to grab my upper arm. He leaned in, his jaw ticking. “Gina, can you just drop the attitude for once?” he hissed through his teeth. “I knew you were plotting something. I was wondering why you—of all people—suddenly volunteered for the showcase when you usually don’t give a damn about this stuff. But you had it all figured out, didn’t you? You just wanted to steal Brianna’s spot.” He sneered, his voice rising for the audience. “When did you get so toxic?” Just like that, he slapped a label on my forehead, bold and permanent, right in front of everyone. The entire junior class knew that Connor and I were the ultimate cliché: the inseparable neighbors, the childhood best friends. We practically shared a sandbox. And right now, his words were the hammer driving a completely fabricated narrative straight into my chest. The looks the rest of the cast were giving me shifted from amused to suspicious. “Connor, stop it!” Brianna pushed her way to the front row, her eyes beautifully red-rimmed. She tugged gently at the hem of Connor’s hoodie, playing the role of the wounded martyr perfectly. “Even if Gina was just being petty and spoke out of turn, you shouldn’t yell at her like that. Just apologize to her, and let’s forget the whole thing happened.” She bit her lip, offering him a sad, forgiving little smile. It looked like she was trying to calm him down, but anyone paying attention could see it was gasoline on a fire. “Why the hell should I apologize to her?” Connor flared up, right on cue. “She should be apologizing to you!” He jerked my arm, nearly making me stumble, and barked an order for me to apologize to Brianna in front of the entire room. Apologize? For what? “I stated a fact,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. I used every ounce of strength I had to rip my arm out of his grip. I let my eyes drift over to Brianna, who was still clutching her metaphorical pearls. “Brianna,” I said, the syllables crisp and cold in the quiet room. “Have you suddenly reached a level of artistic divinity where no one is allowed to give you a note? Because if you’re going to break down sobbing over someone telling you that you’re off-tempo, what are you going to do when you actually get on stage? If the audience doesn’t give you a standing ovation, are you going to throw yourself off the balcony?” “And you—” I didn’t wait to watch Brianna’s face flush a furious, humiliating crimson. I turned my attention back to Connor, whose expression had gone rigid. I didn’t know when the boy I grew up with had turned into this defensive, irrational stranger, but I hoped to God he hadn’t forgotten that I held grudges. He wanted to try and humiliate me? Fine. I’d hand it right back to him. I took a slow, deliberate breath. “I know you’re in love with her, Connor. It’s high school. A guy playing the white knight for the girl he’s obsessed with is a tale as old as time. But do me a favor and stop acting like a rabid dog barking at everything that moves. It’s not romantic. It’s pathetic.” A smirk ghosted across my mouth. I didn’t hide the venom in my voice, and the collective gasp from the theater kids was immediate. The gossip mill ignited in real-time. “Wait, Connor likes Brianna? Since when?” “Gina’s known him forever. If she’s saying it, it’s definitely true.” Dozens of eager, drama-starved eyes began ping-ponging between Brianna and Connor. Connor’s face went scarlet, then a deep, furious purple. “Gina! Shut the fuck up!” “Oh,” I said softly, tilting my head. “So you don’t like her, then.” 2 I let the silence stretch, watching Connor choke on his own rage. He was trapped. Brianna looked utterly panicked. The delicate redness around her eyes gave way to genuine alarm. She darted a look around the room, then visibly took a large step away from Connor. “Connor,” she said, her voice high and breathless. “I only see you as a classmate. Please don’t let people spread rumors like this.” Now it was Connor’s turn to panic. “Brie… I—” “Enough!” Ms. Valera, the showcase director, slammed her clipboard against a music stand. The sharp crack killed the murmurs instantly. She surveyed the room, her gaze finally landing heavy on me. “Gina,” she said, her voice strictly professional. “You said you’d be willing to try the lead spot. Fine. Get up here. Show me the sequence where you claim Brianna was off-beat. After that, the class votes. You cast your ballots, and we settle this lead dancer nonsense right now.” It was a brutally fair ultimatum. I didn’t hesitate. Under the weight of thirty whispering teenagers, I walked to the center of the floor, preparing to mirror the choreography Brianna had just butchered. As I brushed past Connor, he leaned in, dropping his voice to a venomous whisper. “I can’t wait to watch you humiliate yourself.” Humiliate myself? My eyes darkened. I ignored him, hit my starting mark, and nodded at Ms. Valera to cue the track. The bass dropped, and I moved. I didn’t have Brianna’s formal training, but my body remembered. I let the music pull me, sweeping my arms, snapping through the turns, mapping the geography of the stage entirely from memory. I mirrored the sequence flawlessly, hitting every single beat right in the pocket. When the music cut out and I froze in the final pose, I caught Connor in my periphery. His smugness had been wiped clean, replaced by blank shock. Brianna was staring at me, her hands clenched at her sides. For the first time, her eyes weren’t just annoyed; they were flooded with a stark, undeniable sense of threat. Ms. Valera’s eyes were shining. She nodded enthusiastically. “Not bad. Not bad at all! You’re a little rough around the edges, Gina, but your musicality—the way you breathe through the transitions—is incredibly grounded. Give you a few weeks of real rehearsal, and you’d be phenomenal.” She clapped her hands, turning to the risers. “Alright, no more drama. We vote now. Who leads the class performance for the Centennial Gala: Gina or Brianna? Raise your hands.” It wasn’t a shock. High school is a hierarchy, not a meritocracy. When Ms. Valera called Brianna’s name, nearly the entire room raised their hands. When my name was called, only two or three sympathetic hands went up in the back. Brianna exhaled a long, shaky breath, the tension leaving her shoulders. The triumphant gleam returned to her eye, masked quickly by a sickly-sweet, apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Gina,” she cooed. “It looks like the class just feels safer with me in the front. After all, the lead represents all of us. If someone messes up out there, it’s not just their own reputation on the line. But really, for an amateur, you did a great job.” A chorus of sycophants instantly chimed in to agree with her. Connor, emboldened by the vote, couldn’t resist a parting shot. “See? I told you. Who cares if you can string a few steps together? Flailing around with your amateur hour moves is just going to embarrass you.” Ms. Valera shot me an apologetic look, a silent plea not to take it to heart, telling me there would be other chances. Honestly, I wasn’t crushed. In a twisted way, Brianna wasn’t wrong. I was an amateur. I knew exactly where my limits were. I opened my mouth, ready to tell Connor exactly where he could shove his opinion, when a voice cut through the noise from the shadowy corner of the room. A voice that was clear, quiet, and impossibly sharp. “Actually, I think Gina danced it better.” Every head in the room snapped toward the sound. Even though I knew exactly who it was, even though my heart recognized the cadence of his voice before my brain did, my breath still caught when he stepped into the light. Kieran. “Kieran, what are you talking about?” Brianna’s smug smile shattered. She looked completely derailed. Kieran was notorious for keeping his head down and staying out of high school politics. He never spoke up. And he certainly never spoke up for me. “I said, Gina dances better than you,” Kieran repeated, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. He stepped out from the shadows of the lighting rig. “Her technique is raw. That means she hasn’t practiced this. She just watched you do it a few times and replicated it purely by sight. Are we really pretending that isn’t incredibly impressive?” He shifted his gaze to Brianna, pinning her in place. “You, on the other hand, have been drilling this exact eight-count for two weeks. Half a month, Brianna. Half a month, and you still can’t find the downbeat. You have absolutely no right to call anyone an amateur.” 3 It was a surgical strike. In two sentences, he systematically dismantled her golden-girl halo in front of everyone. Nobody argued. They couldn’t. Everyone knew Kieran had spent the last decade accumulating national dance titles like spare change. When he was fifteen, he’d received a rare, early-admission invitation from Juilliard—he was a legitimate, undisputed prodigy. But he treated dance like a private religion, refusing to compete for the school or monetize his talent. “Kieran, you don’t know what you’re talking about!” Brianna’s voice cracked, tears welling up again—real ones this time, born of pure humiliation. Seeing the girl he worshipped crumbling, Connor turned his fury on Kieran. He glared at him, practically vibrating with hostility. But Kieran didn’t even flinch. He just looked back at Connor with the mild, detached interest of someone observing a bug. “Just stating facts,” Kieran said smoothly. “Unless you’re questioning my professional critique, Connor?” That was the kill shot. Brianna broke. She let out a choked sob, shot me a look of pure, unadulterated venom, covered her face, and ran out of the studio. “Kieran. Gina.” Connor spat our names like curses. “You’re both unbelievable.” He shot us one last murderous glare before sprinting out into the hallway after his queen. Despite Kieran’s endorsement, Ms. Valera looked torn. Brianna had put the time in, and stripping her of the role now would be a massive blow to her ego. But at the same time, a director knows raw talent when they see it, and she didn’t want to let me slip back into the shadows. Especially not after what Kieran said. It was true—I had never practiced that choreography before today. The dilemma resolved itself the very next morning. Brianna formally resigned as the lead for the class performance. “The administration just got word that the school board and a few local arts scouts are attending the Centennial Gala,” Ms. Valera announced to the room, clapping her hands for attention. “Because of that, they’ve added a special duet slot to the program. They’re hosting an open, school-wide competition to cast it. Brianna, being on the pre-pro track, has decided to focus entirely on auditioning for the duet. So, the class lead is open.” She looked right at me, a hopeful spark in her eye. “Gina? Are you willing to step up?” I had originally provoked the situation out of pure spite, just to knock them down a peg. But now, with the spot practically handed to me on a silver platter? I wasn’t going to turn it down. When I walked into homeroom later that day, the air felt thick. The whispers followed me to my desk. Before I could even drop my backpack, Connor stormed through the classroom door, his face a thundercloud. He planted his hands on my desk, leaning over me. “What the hell did you say to the counselor and the director, Gina?” he demanded, his voice echoing off the cinderblock walls. “Why are you suddenly the lead?” “Have you completely lost your mind?” he continued, not letting me speak. “Do you just get off on stealing things from other people? Look in a mirror! So what if you can memorize a few steps? You’ll never be as trained as Brianna!” He was shouting now. The entire homeroom had gone dead silent, watching the trainwreck. “You’re going to take your little YouTube-tutorial dance moves and embarrass yourself, and you’re going to take the rest of us down with you!” “Yeah, Gina, seriously, it’s pathetic. Stop stealing other people’s spotlight!” “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. Turns out you’re just a thief.” The Greek chorus of Brianna’s orbiters chimed in from the back row, their faces twisted in identical sneers. And right in the center of them sat Brianna herself. She was biting her lip, softly murmuring, “Guys, don’t be mean,” but her eyes betrayed her. They were bright, cold, and triumphant. “Get up,” Connor ordered. “We are going to the principal’s office right now, and you are going to tell them you’re giving the spot back to Brianna.” Before my brain could even register the threat, his hand clamped around my wrist like a vice. He yanked upward, dragging me out of my chair. “Connor, let go!” I scrambled to find my footing. “I said let go of me, do you hear me?!” His grip was bruising. He was literally dragging me down the aisle in front of thirty people. My voice cracked, a humiliating tremor of genuine pain breaking through. “Connor, it hurts!”

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They say I stole twenty years of Delia’s life, so five years in a cage was simply the universe balancing the scales. To ensure I played the part of the sacrificial lamb, my parents stood before the world and piled every sin, every shadow, and every lie onto my shoulders. My own brother, Larry, was the one who forced the caustic lye down my throat, searing my vocal cords so that I couldn’t scream my innocence to the rafters. And Parker—the man who once promised to be my sanctuary—was the most brutal of all. He was the one who broke my spirit and my bones, ensuring I didn’t even have the strength to run. Now, five years later, the gates have opened. I am a hollowed-out shell, moved only by a numb, reflexive obedience. I never expected that the very people who destroyed me would end up on their knees, weeping, begging for a single glance. … 1 “Inmate 15623, you’re clear. Try to stay on the right side of the law this time.” The heavy iron door groaned open. The sunlight was a physical assault, a jagged blade of brightness that forced me to shield my eyes. For nearly two thousand days, the sun had been a myth, something that happened to other people. “Isabel, stop the theatrics and get over here.” The voice hit me like a plunge into ice water. My skin crawled. As I lowered my hand, I saw the one person I hoped never to see again. My brother, Larry. He was the man who once declared to the world that I was his precious little sister, the one who swore to shield me from every storm. Even when the truth came out—that Delia was the biological daughter and I was the “mistake”—he had held my hands and promised nothing would change. But the moment Delia caused the accident that left the Blackwell heir in a coma, Larry didn’t hesitate. He pushed me into the path of the oncoming train of justice. He was the one who held me down, his eyes cold as stone, and forced that burning liquid into my throat. I had been beaten, cursed, and interrogated by the Blackwell family, but all I could produce were pathetic, wet wheezes. Larry marched toward me now. He caught sight of the jagged scar near my hairline and flinched for a micro-second before his face curdled into a mask of disgust. “What, did you carve that yourself just to look pathetic? You really are desperate, aren’t you, Isabel?” Pathetic? I wouldn’t dare hope for pity from the man who stole my voice. Especially since these scars were the “lessons” he had specifically requested the other inmates give me. I opened my mouth. My voice, once clear as a bell, came out like dry leaves skittering over a grave. “No need. I can walk.” Larry’s face registered a flicker of shock. He remembered the girl who used to beg him to drive her two blocks because her heels were too high. Now, I wouldn’t even look at his car. He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Isabel, drop the act. You lived Delia’s life for twenty years. This is the penance you owe. Get in.” He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. I looked at his hand, then at the desolate stretch of road outside the prison. This facility was chosen by the Blackwells specifically for its isolation—a place where the shadows are long and the help is non-existent. If I didn’t go with him, I’d be walking for hours before I saw another living soul. I reached for the car, but instead of the back seat, I pulled open the front passenger door. The driver, Mr. Miller, jumped. “Miss Isabel… maybe you should sit in the back with Mr. Larry?” I stared straight ahead, my voice a jagged rasp. “A person as low as me? I wouldn’t want to ruin the upholstery for a Blackwood.” “Isabel!” Larry’s voice turned lethal. “Get in the back. Stop being a martyr or you can rot on this curb.” I saw the winced expression on Mr. Miller’s face. I didn’t want him to catch the fallout. I gritted my teeth until I tasted copper, then climbed into the back seat. The car moved. Silence settled over us, thick and suffocating. Mr. Miller tried to break it, his voice forced. “Your parents… they’ve missed you, Isabel. Once we get home, we can all be a family again.” Missed me? I remembered the way they testified against me, their voices steady as they told the judge I was a jealous, unstable girl who had tried to kill the Blackwell heir. They didn’t want a daughter. They wanted a ghost. “Mr. Miller,” I said softly, my eyes fixed on the passing gray trees. “Just drop me at the next bus station. I’m not a Blackwood. And that house… it was never my home.” The words weren’t even cold before Larry roared, “Stop the car!” The tires screeched. My head slammed into the back of the driver’s seat. Before I could find my bearings, the door was ripped open. A heavy boot caught me square in the ribs, the force of it launching me out of the car and onto the gravel. “You want to play the stranger? Fine. Rot out here!” Larry stood over me, his shadow looming. “You think we need you? You owe Delia. You owe this family. If you’re going to walk around with that dead-eyed stare, do us all a favor and just finish the job.” The door slammed. The engine roared. I was left alone in the dirt of the outskirts. The pain radiated through my side, but the tears wouldn’t come. I had cried them all away years ago. Now, there was only the dull ache of existence. I dragged myself up, shaking. A car pulled up beside me—a sleek, dark sedan. The window rolled down to reveal a face that still haunted my dreams. Parker. I didn’t stop. I kept walking, my limp heavy and pronounced. “Isabel. Stop.” His voice was like velvet over gravel. “Get in the car.” I stopped and turned, a jagged smile cutting across my face. “Shouldn’t you be with your fiancée, Parker? Or did you come back to check your work?” I pointed to my scarred wrists and the way my leg dragged. “Afraid I might be healing too well? Do you want to break them again?” We had grown up together. He was the one who had seen the real me, or so I thought. I believed our love was the only thing that was real. Then Delia came back. And when I refused to confess to her crime, Parker was the one who systematically crushed my fingers, one by one, so I couldn’t even write a plea for help. “This is for Delia, Izzy. Don’t make it harder by running.” I had begged him. I had crawled on the floor, kissing his shoes, praying for a shred of the man I thought I knew. He had simply handed me over to the Blackwells like a piece of spoiled meat. Parker’s face darkened with a familiar arrogance. “Five years and you’re still unrepentant. If you hadn’t tormented Delia, she never would have been in that position. She never would have been forced to defend herself against the Blackwell boy. People like you deserve to rot.” He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “If it weren’t for your grandmother being on her deathbed and begging to see you, I wouldn’t be within ten miles of a woman as venomous as you.” The world tilted. “What? Nana is sick?” Parker sneered. “She’s dying, Isabel. The stress of what you did five years ago shattered her. She’s been in and out of the hospital ever since, and now she’s insisting on seeing you one last time. God knows why.” I didn’t care about his insults anymore. I lunged for the car door, my heart hammering against my bruised ribs. “Take me to her. Now.” He looked at me with pure loathing but started the engine. The drive was a blur of silence and suppressed rage. He didn’t speak, and I didn’t breathe. When we reached the hospital, I didn’t wait for him. I scrambled out, tripping over my own feet, and ran toward the ward. But as I reached the door to her room, my hand froze on the handle. Five years. Everyone believed I was a monster. Would she even look at me? “Isabel? Is that my girl?” The voice was thin, like parchment, but it was hers. My vision blurred. I pushed the door open and collapsed at her bedside, burying my face in her blankets. “Nana… I’m here.” Her frail, trembling hand found my face. Her touch was the only kindness I had felt in half a decade. “I knew you’d come. I knew. They’ve put you through so much, my poor girl.” I shook my head, unable to speak through the lump in my throat. “Isabel,” she whispered, her eyes searching mine. “Tell me the truth. Did you really do it? Did you hurt that boy?” She was the only one. The only one who wanted to give me a chance. I knew if I said ‘no,’ she would spend her last breath fighting for my justice. “Mom, who else could it have been?” The door swung open. My adoptive parents, Larry, and Delia walked in. The room suddenly felt very small and very cold. “They were the only two in the room,” my mother said, her voice dripping with artificial sorrow. “If it wasn’t Isabel, are you suggesting it was our Delia? Isabel spent twenty years in our home; she couldn’t handle losing her status. She was desperate to latch onto the Blackwells.” Nana’s eyes flashed with a spark of her old fire. “Quiet! Even if she isn’t your blood, she is my granddaughter. I provided for her when I was well, and I will not let her suffer now that I am dying!” My mother threw her designer bag onto the chair. “Mom, listen to yourself! Delia is your flesh and blood. You’re going to leave our legacy to a criminal stranger?” Larry stepped forward, his eyes burning with a terrifying intensity. “Isabel, what kind of spell have you cast on her? You should have stayed in that cell. Why did you have to come back?” The words were like daggers. Delia stood in the corner, a small, triumphant smirk playing on her lips before she hid it behind a handkerchief. “Mom, don’t be hard on her. She just got out of prison. She’s… fragile.” Nana let out a rasping cough that shook her whole frame. “Enough! Did Isabel choose to be switched at birth? The family that raised Delia died saving her life in that car accident. Isabel is alone in this world. If you won’t love her, I will.” She looked at my parents, her gaze icy. “My anniversary gala is in two weeks. I will be attending with Isabel by my side. I want everyone in this city to know that my girl still has someone in her corner.” My parents tried to protest, but Nana roared at them until they retreated. Once they were gone, she stroked my hair. “Don’t be afraid, Isabel. I have you.” To protect me, Nana checked herself out of the hospital and took me straight to her estate. During those days, the messages didn’t stop. My “parents,” Larry, and Parker all sent warnings. Isabel, Nana is old. You wouldn’t want to give her a stroke by telling her lies, would you? Keep your mouth shut. The harassment triggered the memories I had tried to bury. The beatings in the showers. Being forced to eat food that had been stepped on. The nights I spent fighting off hands in the dark. I had spent five years asking what I did wrong. But now, looking at Nana, I realized I wouldn’t tell her the truth. Not because I was scared, but because it would kill her. My parents and Larry would never admit the truth, and the Blackwell heir was still a vegetable. No one would believe me anyway. I decided to let the secret be the price of the twenty years I spent as a “Blackwood.” … The night of the gala arrived. I looked in the mirror. The emerald silk gown was stunning, a masterpiece of draping, but it couldn’t hide the map of trauma on my skin. My shoulders and arms were a tapestry of cigarette burns and jagged scars. I put on a matching bolero jacket to hide the evidence and went downstairs. The party was in full swing. I stayed in the shadows, letting Nana handle the guests. I just wanted to find a quiet corner, but as I turned a hallway, a server “accidentally” collided with me, drenching my dress in wine. I brushed off the apologies and headed upstairs to change. But the moment I stepped into the gallery, Delia was waiting. “Isabel. I have a homecoming gift for you.” I took a step back. Then, a voice from my nightmares spoke from behind me. “Hey there, baby sister. It’s been a long time. Let’s catch up.” My body went rigid. Duke. The man my family had paid to “watch over me” in prison—the man who had made my life a living hell—was standing in Nana’s house. I tried to run, but a hand clamped over my mouth. The smell of cheap tobacco and malice filled my senses. Delia smiled, her eyes bright with cruelty. “You got lucky in prison, Isabel. You survived. But you won’t survive tonight.” I fought like a wild animal, but he slammed me into a side room. As I hit the floor, I heard Larry’s voice in the hallway. “Delia? Is Isabel in there? I thought I saw her.” Hope flared in my chest. But then Duke grabbed me. “What’s the matter, Princess? Think your brother is going to save you? I’ve been waiting five years to finish what I started.” I grabbed a heavy crystal lamp from a side table and smashed it against the door. The crash echoed through the hall. “What was that?” Larry’s voice. “Who’s in there?” I held my breath, praying they would burst in. … But Delia’s voice drifted through the wood, sweet as honey. “It’s just Isabel. I tried to talk to her, but she’s so bitter. She told me I was just ‘lucky’ to be found. She said she deserves to be the Blackwood heiress, not me. She’s locked herself in to throw a tantrum.” I wept, my heart shattering. They had grown up with me. They knew I would never say those things. But the voice that responded was cold enough to freeze my blood. “She’s the one who shouldn’t have come back,” Larry said. “Does she think we don’t know what she did in prison? She’s trash.” “She lived your life, Delia,” Parker added. “She’s a parasite. Her real parents probably died of shame knowing what kind of daughter they raised. She doesn’t belong here.” A parasite. The man I loved was calling me a parasite while I was being hunted by a predator three feet away. “Hear that?” Duke whispered, pinning me down. “They want you gone. Just be a good girl and maybe I’ll make it quick.” The memories flooded back. The hands. The laughter. The feeling of being less than human. As Duke lunged to tear the silk from my body, my hand closed around a jagged shard of the shattered crystal lamp. I didn’t think. I just drove the glass into his neck.

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I grew up in the kind of suffocating Appalachian rust-belt town where people spoke with a heavy, unpolished drawl. Keith Crawford treated me like a ghost he was paying to haunt his own bedroom. “When you’re with me,” he would command, his voice dropping to a glacial whisper, “don’t make a sound.” He hated my voice. The moment I opened my mouth, the illusion shattered. I sounded absolutely nothing like Cecilia, the untouchable golden girl he had spent his entire life pining for. But if I actually managed to stay perfectly silent, he’d find ways to punish me for it. Often, right at the breathless precipice of things, his hands would bite into my hips. “You might be a cheap imitation of her in every other way,” he’d murmur, his breath hot against my skin, “but you definitely know how to pull a man under in bed.” Then he’d ask, “Is this your master plan? F**k me so well I can’t let you go?” I’d just roll my eyes in the dark. I was working three jobs a day. When you hustle that hard, your “technique” naturally gets pretty flawless. 1 I had two other patrons just like Keith. One was Theo Gilbert, the gentle, universally beloved A-list actor. The other was a walking taboo. He shared Keith’s last name but sat a generation above him on the family tree—Keith’s uncle. The man rumored to play the stock market like a grand piano, Gideon Crawford, the youngest guest professor of finance at Kingsley University. All three men were roughly the same age, and all three shared the same agonizing heartbreak: Cecilia DuPont, the award-winning actress who had fled to Europe, leaving a trail of shattered egos in her wake. That was the only reason a girl like me could hold down three lucrative arrangements at once. Among them, Keith was the billionaire CEO, yet somehow the most remarkably stingy. He only required my presence once a month. The compensation? Thirty thousand dollars. A drop in the bucket—barely a tenth of my total monthly income. And for that, I had to jump through hoops. I had to bathe in specific oils, burn a certain incense, and cater to a laundry list of his ridiculous, neurotic demands. If his garbage personality wasn’t bad enough, his performance in bed was… fine, at best. Honestly, if I didn’t have the phantom ache of poverty etched into my bones—if I didn’t treat every dollar like a lifeline—I wouldn’t have bothered with him. I gritted my teeth and viewed it as a character-building exercise. When it was over, I selfishly rolled myself into the Egyptian cotton duvet. Keith, however, refused to let the moment end. He yanked me back against his chest, burying his face in the crook of my neck. “What, are you still sulking about what happened this afternoon?” “Bianca is just a kid. She broke a bracelet. Is it really worth all this attitude?” His tone was dismissive, laced with that lazy, post-coital softness. “I don’t even remember when I bought you that thing. Why are you so hung up on it?” Bianca was Keith’s spoiled younger sister. When she found out her brother was keeping a blue-collar canary in his gilded cage, she made it her personal mission to make my life hell. With my back turned to Keith, I let out a massive, silent eye roll. Keep flattering yourself, buddy. That vintage Cartier emerald tennis bracelet? Gideon had bought it for me at a Sotheby’s auction for three million dollars. If that dark, controlling psychopath found out his gift had been smashed into pieces, I didn’t even want to imagine what kind of psychological torture he’d inflict on me. When the bracelet shattered, I had practically shoved the certificate of authenticity into Bianca’s perfectly contoured face. But Keith, the absolute bastard, had intercepted it. “It’s just a cheap bauble,” he had said, waving it off. “I’ll buy you another one.” Gee, thanks. As long as he was willing to write the check, I didn’t care. It saved me the retainer fee for a lawyer. Sensing my utter lack of enthusiasm, Keith’s mood darkened. “Maeve, have I been spoiling you too much lately? Is that why you’ve forgotten your place?” Me: ??? Psycho. 2 What was my place? I was a nobody. A trailer-park kid who dropped out after middle school to scrape together money so my deadbeat brother could pay off his gambling debts and get married. If I hadn’t gotten lucky and bumped into Keith while picking up extra shifts at an upscale nightclub, I probably would have been married off to the sleaziest mechanic in my hometown by now. When I agreed to be his little secret, he laid down the law. “Don’t harbor delusions about things that don’t belong to you. Be a good girl, do as you’re told, and I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.” I had nodded so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “Don’t worry about it! Knowing our place is a core value where I come from.” I pride myself on my professional ethics. Besides, the man only said I couldn’t fall in love with him. He never explicitly forbade me from finding other investors. Carrying a heart full of gratitude, I held onto Keith even after I secured my two premium upgrades. My master plan was simple: stockpile cash for a few years. Then, use that war chest to finally get my education. “Knowledge changes your destiny.” That phrase is practically grafted onto the DNA of every kid who grew up wearing hand-me-downs. For the past two years, I had been teaching myself the high school curriculum. Even right after getting railed, I didn’t miss a beat. I pulled out my heavy Princeton Review SAT prep book and started running drills. I was staring daggers into a multivariable calculus problem, my brain completely blank. Beside me, Keith let out a condescending scoff. “I don’t understand why a girl with your… limited capacity wastes her energy on this.” I was about to snap back, but he reached over, took my pencil, and slashed a single, elegant auxiliary line across the graph. Instantly, the entire equation unlocked in my head. “I got it!” I looked up at him, a genuine, unguarded smile breaking across my face. Keith blinked, clearly caught off guard by the brightness of it. He turned his head away and cleared his throat. “If you get stuck again, you can ask me.” He had been his prep school’s valedictorian. To him, this was elementary math. He couldn’t fathom what this foolish woman was so thrilled about. Seeing him offer an olive branch, I immediately pushed my luck. I crawled over, draped my arms around his neck, and gave him my best sultry gaze. “Does that mean I can see you more often?” I didn’t care about the romance; I just wanted a free Ivy-league tutor. Private tutors in the city charged eight hundred bucks an hour. Keith’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Whatever he imagined I meant, it made a dark flush creep up his neck. He abruptly shoved me away. “Stop using these cheap, low-class tricks on me.” Fine, be a jerk about it. If he didn’t want to help, I’d just find someone who would. 3 Speaking of my first meeting with Theo Gilbert, I actually had Keith to thank for playing matchmaker. Back when I first became his kept woman, Keith purposely paraded me around high-society galas. The goal? To make the exiled Cecilia insanely jealous. While Keith’s juvenile tactics yielded zero results with his ex, they did allow me to learn that Cecilia had left behind an entire roster of broken-hearted admirers. I smelled a business opportunity. So, at one particular charity gala, I cornered Theo Gilbert while he was standing alone by the terrace. The man was tall, lean, and breathtakingly gorgeous. He possessed this warm, magnetic aura that effortlessly drew the entire room’s gaze. He was a movie star, after all. God, he was beautiful. I marched right up to him and delivered my opening pitch: “Hey handsome. Are you in the market for a stand-in?” Yes, my Appalachian roots made me brutally direct. Theo, clearly having never been propositioned with such bizarre bluntness, froze. I doubled down on the sales pitch. “If you’re not, no worries. I’ve got a list to get through.” Cecilia had plenty of orbiters; I wasn’t going to starve. When he didn’t speak for a solid ten seconds, I pivoted to leave, ready to hunt down my next target. Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my wrist. Theo’s eyes flickered with a dark, unreadable emotion. It took him a long time to finally speak. “Yes,” he said. And just like that, I secured my second job. Compared to Keith, Theo was a dream. Generous, gentle, an absolute saint. Every single transfer was exactly $52,000. He always asked for my consent before coming over, and he treated me with borderline reverent care. In bed, he catered to my every need. If I even shifted uncomfortably, Theo would immediately stop and check on me. There was only one catch: he always tied a black silk ribbon over my eyes. Because the one feature I absolutely didn’t share with Cecilia was her eyes. Hey, the customer is always right. If a guy this generous and considerate has a blindfold kink, who am I to judge? 4 Keith only summoned me once a month. That left me with an abundance of free time, all of which I dedicated to Theo. For convenience’s sake, I started hosting Theo at Keith’s sprawling penthouse. Keith never showed up unannounced, so it was the perfect way to save on hotel fees. I was quite proud of my little logistical triumph. But if you play with fire long enough, you’re bound to get burned. One evening, I had just kissed Theo goodbye at the elevator. Not twenty minutes later, the front door clicked open, revealing a heavily intoxicated Keith. It was the very first time he had ever broken our schedule. The air in the living room still hung heavy with the sweet, damp scent of sex, and I hadn’t even bothered to cover the fresh red marks blooming across my collarbone. Thank God Keith was practically blind-drunk. He didn’t connect the dots. Instead, he just stared at the bruises on my neck, his brow furrowing in irritation as his thumb dragged over the sensitized skin. “Are the mosquitoes getting worse?” He stumbled over to the nightstand, grabbed a bottle of soothing lotion, and began rubbing it into my skin. For a fleeting second, his expression mirrored genuine concern. “You need to be more careful. Why didn’t you plug in the repellant?” The lotion was cool against my flushed skin, but Keith’s fingers were burning hot. The atmosphere suddenly shifted, growing dangerously intimate. I caught his wrist. “Mr. Crawford, are you in a bad mood?” “Is it because of Cecilia?” Reading a patron’s emotional state is the baseline requirement for this line of work. I was terrified he was going to start making a habit of dropping by unannounced. Where I come from, getting caught cheating in the very bed your sugar daddy pays for is generally considered bad form. Keith didn’t like the question. He grabbed my chin, his grip tightening. “Don’t try to play mind games with me. Remember what you are.” He squeezed harder, and a small gasp of pain slipped past my lips. A second later, he shoved me back onto the mattress. The red marks on my collarbone made his eyes darken, and he leaned down, biting right over the same spot. “Stop using her face to do these cheap, dirty things.” Keith was urgent and vicious that night. Considering I was now working a double shift, my legs were physically trembling by the time morning rolled around. Seeing the state I was in, Keith actually looked a flicker of guilt. He reached into his tailored suit jacket, pulled out a velvet box, and tossed it onto the blankets. I opened it. A massive, blinding pink diamond stared back at me. I instantly recognized it. It was the ten-million-dollar diamond Keith had won at an auction a few weeks ago—the one he intended to give Cecilia for her birthday. Looked like the gift had been rejected. No wonder he was drinking. But what did I care? It was ten million dollars. Overjoyed, I practically launched myself at him, planting a massive kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Keith! You treat me so well!” Keith sat there, stunned, his fingers brushing the spot I had just kissed. He watched as I treated the diamond like a holy relic, carefully sliding it onto my finger. The corner of his mouth twitched upward before he forcibly yanked it back down into a scowl. “You make a fuss over nothing. So uncultured.” He didn’t buy it for me. But Cecilia didn’t want it, so the scraps fell to me. 5 After that night, Keith didn’t contact me for a long time. I honestly thought the gig was up and was already drafting plans to find a replacement for his time slot. Then, the incident with Bianca and the shattered bracelet happened. I had raised such hell about it that Keith was forced to step in and handle the mess personally. When I saw him, he seemed to be in a surprisingly good mood. His lips were permanently fixed two millimeters higher than usual. In bed that night, he was uncharacteristically gentle, whispering soft, coaxing things into my ear. But the moment a soft, contented sigh escaped my lips—just like it always did—he froze. We both stared at each other, eyes wide in the dark. Wait a minute. Has it even been ten minutes? We laid there in absolute, agonizing silence. I couldn’t tell if the look on Keith’s face was sheer humiliation or violent rage. Whatever it was, he clamped his hand over my mouth. “From now on, when we do this, you don’t make a sound,” he warned, his voice tight. “The second you open your mouth, you ruin her.” Oh. A wave of realization hit me. I was being too loud and it was ruining his concentration. Tears welling in my eyes, I nodded frantically. For the rest of the night, I bit my lip and stayed completely silent, but Keith couldn’t quite shake off the awkwardness of his early misfire. When a man is embarrassed, he tries to look very busy. Keith put in overtime that night, and he was unusually chatty. “You don’t hold a candle to her, but God, you know how to work a man in bed.” “Tell me, is this your grand strategy? F**k me so well I can’t leave you?” … By the time Keith got out of the shower, I had already fallen asleep clutching my SAT prep book. In the hazy space between sleep and waking, I felt someone carefully slide the heavy book out of my arms. I heard Keith whisper against my ear, “Maeve.” “I am never going to fall in love with you.” His words were cold and absolute, yet the way he pulled me flush against his chest was incredibly practiced and natural. I instinctively snuggled deeper into his solid chest and smacked my lips. Whatever you say, buddy. Your pecs are warm. 6 I slept in until noon the next day, long after Keith had left for the office. When I checked my phone, the very first notification was a $520,000 transfer from Theo. It was his bat-signal. I hummed a happy tune as I took my time getting ready, putting extra effort into my makeup. Honestly, out of my three patrons, Keith was the most emotionally taxing and stingy. Gideon was the most generous, but he was a terrifying, unpredictable predator. Only Theo was gentle, empathetic, and took genuine care of me. Out of the three of them, he was easily my favorite. Sure enough, by the time I glided down the stairs of the penthouse, there were four steaming dishes laid out on the dining table. All my favorites. Theo was just walking out of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of soup. The moment he set it down, I practically threw myself into his arms. Theo caught me by the waist, his strong hands stabilizing me so I wouldn’t fall. “Careful, wild thing.” His words were a scolding, but his eyes were melting with absolute adoration. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in the crisp, clean scent of cedarwood. “It smells incredible. I’m starving.” Theo effortlessly lifted me and set me down on a dining chair. “The food is ready. Let me just clean up a bit and we can eat.” He reached back to untie the little pink apron he was wearing, but I hooked my arms around his neck and pulled him down. “Theo,” I whispered. “I’m not talking about the food.”

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As a senior advisor in the field of Artificial Intelligence for the federal government, I had been stationed overseas on a high-level research fellowship for the past year. During that time, security protocols were airtight. My contact with the outside world was sparse, restricted to encrypted check-ins and the occasional brief letter. The moment the program concluded, my first instinct wasn’t to celebrate; it was to call my daughter, Daisy. She had been grinding for two years to pass the Bar Exam, and the results were due any day. I dialed her for a video call, my heart thumping with a mix of pride and nerves. When she picked up, the sight of her shattered me. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot—she had clearly been sobbing for hours. “Sweetie, it’s okay,” I whispered, my voice thick with maternal instinct. “Don’t worry about the results. Mom has plenty of money. We can pay for another prep course, another year—whatever it takes.” As I spoke, I noticed the background. She wasn’t in her sun-drenched bedroom. She was in the cramped, windowless pantry behind the kitchen. Worse, I saw a flash of silver on her ear. A cheap piercing was buried in her lobe, and the skin around it was angry, red, and oozing with infection. I didn’t want to push her while she was so fragile, so I hung up and immediately called her father, Jonathan. Jonathan answered with a huff of impatience, acting as if my concern was a nuisance. “You’ve been gone a year, Catherine. Don’t start micromanaging from across the ocean. Girls like to play dress-up; a piercing is normal.” Then came the sting. “Daisy’s been prep-testing for two years and still can’t cut it. Meanwhile, Marina—my star student—aced her boards on the first try. I swear, sometimes I wonder if Daisy really carries my genes with a brain that slow.” My blood ran cold. After I hung up, a notification pinged on my phone. My secondary credit card—the one Jonathan used—had just been swiped for $28,000 at a boutique in Beverly Hills. A designer handbag. Something was horribly wrong. I didn’t hesitate. I resigned from my seven-figure consultancy role effective immediately and booked the first flight back to the States. 1 The moment I boarded the plane, I pulled up Marina’s Instagram. She had blocked me. Fortunately, I had followed her burner TikTok account months ago out of professional curiosity. I refreshed her feed. There she was, preening in a video, posing from every angle with a brand-new, charcoal-grey Hermès Birkin. “Thank you to my favorite person for the best gift ever. I’m obsessed,” the caption read. $28,000. My money. A sickening dread coiled in my gut. Since I’d been abroad, we had hired a live-in housekeeper, Mrs. Higgins, to take care of Daisy and Jonathan. I called her, hoping for some clarity, but what I heard was worse than I imagined. “Ma’am, I… I was let go. Miss Marina insisted on it.” “Marina? Since when does a guest have the authority to fire my staff?” My voice rose an octave, drawing stares from the first-class cabin. “She told me she’s the lady of the house now. She said I was too old, too slow, and that I didn’t ‘cater’ to the Professor’s needs properly. She said… from now on, she’s the one in charge.” I nearly cracked my phone screen from gripping it so hard. A houseguest—a student Jonathan was supposedly “mentoring”—had staged a coup in my own home? “Ma’am, please,” Mrs. Higgins whispered, her voice trembling. “Just watch your back. Things aren’t what they seem.” She hung up before I could ask more. Trembling, I called our long-time driver, Bill. Bill had been with Jonathan for years, and I didn’t entirely trust his loyalty, so I changed my tactics. I kept my voice casual, maternal. “Bill, I’m a little worried about Daisy’s spending lately. Is she buying all these luxury items because she’s stressed about the Bar?” Bill let out a short, dry chuckle on the other end. “Oh, that? Yeah, she’s been on a bit of a spree. But honestly, ma’am, you’ve got the money. Even the Professor said it’s fine, so I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.” I fell silent. I knew my daughter. Daisy had been raised with a silver spoon, yes, but she was disciplined. She worked summer jobs. She used to say, “Mom, that’s your hard-earned money. I want to build my own empire.” Daisy wouldn’t suddenly become a shallow shopaholic, especially not while failing the exam she’d sacrificed her social life for. Every red flag in my mind was screaming. This had Marina written all over it. I couldn’t wait. I paid the exorbitant fee to move my flight up to a direct red-eye. When the plane touched down, it was 2:00 AM. I didn’t call a car. I didn’t tell Jonathan I was coming. I wanted to see the truth of this house with my own eyes. The mansion was silent when I let myself in. I walked straight toward Daisy’s room, but through the cracked door, I saw a world that didn’t belong to her. The walls were lined with shelves of expensive, limited-edition vinyl toys and designer “blind boxes”—hundreds of them. Daisy hated clutter. I walked to the bed and touched the sheets. Silk. Cold, slippery, charcoal silk. Daisy only ever slept on organic cotton. The room was empty. Daisy wasn’t there. At 2:30 AM, she should have been asleep in her bed. The panic I’d been suppressing flared into a full-blown fire. I remembered the video call—the dark, cramped background. I walked to the hallway and pushed open the door to the small utility mudroom behind the laundry. The smell of dampness hit me first. It was pitch black. “Daisy?” I whispered. “Mom… Mom is that you?” 2 Out of the darkness came a voice so thin and terrified it barely sounded human. I fumbled for the light switch. When the bulb flickered on, the breath left my lungs. The tiny room was overflowing with discarded boxes, old newspapers, and broken appliances. And there, tucked between a rusted water heater and a stack of winter tires, was a thin cot on the floor. My daughter, the girl I had raised to be a queen, was curled into a ball under a moth-eaten blanket. Her face was gaunt, her hair a matted mess. She looked like a trapped animal, blinking at the light with sheer terror in her eyes. The moment she recognized me, the dam broke. She began to sob, great racking heaves that shook her entire frame. “Mom… you finally came back. You’re finally here.” My heart didn’t just break; it turned to ash. I lunged forward, pulling her into my arms, feeling how bony her shoulders had become. Before she could utter a single word of explanation, the door to the utility room slammed open. “Catherine? What on earth are you doing here?” Marina stood in the doorway, her face pale with shock. Behind her stood Jonathan, rubbing sleep from his eyes, looking annoyed rather than happy to see his wife. Daisy’s body went rigid in my arms. She began to shake so violently her teeth chattered. She gripped my forearms, her knuckles white, but she didn’t say a word. I looked at them—the “star student” in her silk pajamas and my husband with his practiced frown—and I felt a cold, murderous clarity. “Jonathan,” I said, my voice vibrating with rage. “Explain this. Now. Why is my daughter sleeping in a closet?” Jonathan sighed, crossing his arms. “Catherine, don’t be dramatic. Daisy’s had a rough go. She failed her exams again, she’s been depressed. She told us she needed a ‘minimalist space’ to reflect on her failures. She chose to move in here. The girl is just being hard on herself.” He said it so casually, as if it were perfectly normal for a girl to move from a master suite to a windowless pantry. “Reflect on her failures?” I stood up, keeping Daisy behind me. “You think I’m an idiot? I know my daughter. She would never choose this. You’re lying through your teeth.” Jonathan’s face darkened. “Catherine, watch your tone. She’s my daughter too.” Marina stepped forward, reaching out a hand as if to comfort me. “Mrs. Archer, please don’t be upset. Professor Hart is right. Daisy’s been very unstable lately. We’ve all been so worried—” I slapped her hand away so hard the crack echoed in the small room. “Shut your mouth. You have no standing in this house.” Marina gasped, stumbling back toward Jonathan. “Get out,” I hissed. “Both of you. Out!” Marina’s face twisted between a fake pout and genuine fear as she looked at Jonathan. He scowled at me, his ego clearly bruised. “Fine. Take her to a room if you want. We’ll deal with your hysterics in the morning.” “To a room? Which room, Jonathan? Because it looks like this girl is living in Daisy’s suite.” Jonathan hesitated. “Well—” “I’m staying there,” Marina whispered, her voice regained its edge. “The Professor said it was a waste for such a large suite to sit empty while Daisy was… ‘reflecting.’” “You’re staying there? On what authority? You are a guest. You are nothing.” “Catherine, enough!” Jonathan shouted. “Marina is my lead researcher. She’s staying here for the project. It’s temporary.” I didn’t answer him. Daisy was trembling so hard she could barely stand. I put my arm around her, guiding her out of that hole. “Don’t be afraid, Daisy. I’m here now. No one is touching you ever again.” I led her to the guest wing. After I got her into a warm bath and tucked her into a clean bed, I sat by her side, watching her sleep. This wasn’t my daughter. Her eyes were sunken, her skin sallow. She looked haunted. I stroked her hair, my mind racing. I was going to burn Marina’s world to the ground, and Jonathan was going to pay for every second of this. The next morning, I sat Daisy down. “Tell me about the Bar Exam, honey.” Daisy kept her head down, picking at her cuticles until they bled. I took her hands in mine and forced her to look at me. The tears started instantly. Brokenly, the story came out. Marina hadn’t just been “mentoring.” She had decided she wanted Daisy’s life. When the exam registration window opened, Marina had used her access to the house to log into Daisy’s account and change her elective modules to subjects Daisy hadn’t studied. “Dad told me I didn’t have the brains for it anyway,” Daisy sobbed. “He said I shouldn’t compete with his ‘star student.’ And on the day of the exam… the pens I brought, the ones Marina ‘checked’ for me… the ink vanished from the paper within an hour. I handed in a blank exam, Mom. I had nothing.” This wasn’t just a rivalry. This was a calculated assassination of my daughter’s future. I didn’t say another word. I stood up and stormed into Daisy’s original bedroom. 3 Marina was standing in front of the walk-in closet, which was now bursting with designer clothes that weren’t hers. “How did you afford all this, Marina?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. “The $28,000 bag? The $5,000 shoes?” Marina looked at Daisy, who was hovering in the doorway. “Daisy, tell your mom. Didn’t you say you were overwhelmed by your things? Didn’t you ask me to take them?” Daisy shrunk back, her spirit so crushed she couldn’t even find her voice. Marina smirked, sensing her victory. I walked over to her and grabbed her wrist, twisting it so the watch she was wearing caught the light. “The Cartier Tank. My graduation gift to Daisy. Why is it on your wrist?” She tried to pull away, but I held her in a vice grip. I was a second away from showing her exactly how an Archer handles a thief when Jonathan appeared, grabbing my shoulder. “Catherine, stop this! What is wrong with you?” “What’s wrong with me? You brought this parasite into our home to gut our daughter! Look at this watch, Jonathan! You gave it to her!” “Catherine, Daisy changed,” Jonathan snapped. “She told me she didn’t care about these ‘material baubles’ anymore because you make ‘too much’ money. I thought it was a waste to let it sit in a drawer, so I gave it to Marina as a reward for her hard work.” Daisy was shaking behind me. I stood my ground, my heart cold as stone. “Now, move,” Jonathan said, trying to push past me. “Marina has her final character and fitness interview for the Bar today. It’s a big day. Don’t ruin it with your delusions. We’ll talk when I get back from the lab.” He tried to shove me aside, but I didn’t budge. “Catherine, don’t be petty,” he hissed. “If word gets out that my doctoral student was harassed in my own home, my reputation is ruined. Is that what you want?” Marina started to squeeze out fake tears, clutching Jonathan’s arm. “Professor, I’m going to be late. What am I going to do?” Jonathan actually pushed me—hard enough that I stumbled back. “Go. I’ll handle her.” He led Marina out, leaving me standing in the wreckage of my family. I forced myself to breathe. To think like the strategist I was. I took Daisy to the kitchen, but the new cook—a woman I didn’t recognize—didn’t even look up. “Breakfast is over. The Professor and Miss Marina ate early. There’s nothing left.” “Excuse me?” I stepped into her space. “This is my house. You will cook for my daughter, the lady of this house, right now.” The woman rolled her eyes. “One meal won’t kill her. I’ll get to it when I’m done cleaning the Professor’s study.” As she turned, I caught a glimpse of her profile. She looked remarkably like an older version of Marina. I immediately texted my assistant, Sarah. “Run a background check on our new cook and Marina Cross. I want to know every blood relation.” After a silent, tense breakfast, I took Daisy to a private clinic. The doctor was a woman I’d known for years. After two hours of tests, she pulled me into her office, her expression grim. “Claire, your daughter is in a bad way. She’s showing clear signs of PTSD, severe clinical depression, and anxiety.” She handed me a folder. “But that’s not all. Her blood work… she has elevated levels of lead and mercury. It’s not enough to kill her quickly, but it’s enough to cause brain fog, memory loss, and extreme fatigue. It’s consistent with long-term, low-dose exposure.” I felt the room tilt. I held onto the desk to stay upright. In the safety of the doctor’s office, Daisy finally opened up. She told me how Marina would hide her textbooks. How she would put sewing needles in Daisy’s chair. How she would “borrow” Daisy’s clothes and return them ruined. And Jonathan? He didn’t just ignore it. He weaponized it. He told Daisy she was a disappointment. He cut off her allowance, telling her she had to “earn her keep” by doing Marina’s laundry and cleaning the house while I was away. But the final blow was what Daisy whispered at the very end. “Mom… I saw her coming out of Dad’s room at night. She was wearing your robes. I tried to call you, but they took my phone. They said they were ‘monitoring my mental health.’ If I fought back, Dad would let her hit me.” The world went white. My husband wasn’t just neglectful. He was a predator, and he had turned our home into a house of horrors. “Daisy,” I said, my voice like tempered steel. “Today is Marina’s final interview for the Bar, right? Come on. We’re going to give her a gift she’ll never forget.”

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