Category: English

There were two cameras in my bedroom. One was mounted in the corner, angled toward the bed to capture the entire room. The other was clamped to my desk, focused tightly enough to catch every misspelled word on my practice tests and the minute shifts in my facial expressions as I worked. The feeds were wired directly to my mother’s phone. Whenever my mind wandered, her voice would crackle through the two-way speaker. “Joanna, what are you staring at?” “Why did you only score second on the pop quiz today?” “Do another practice test. I’ll check it when I get home.” 01 The moment the lock turned on the front door, my spine went rigid on instinct. I started the silent countdown in my head. “Five.” The heavy front door clicked shut with a muffled thud. “Four.” “Smack—” Her keys and leather tote bag were slammed onto the console table. That meant their owner was in a foul mood today. “Three.” The sound of her taking off her heels and sliding into her house slippers. The soles were worn thin, making a soft, rhythmic “snick-snack” against the hardwood. “Two.” The owner of those slippers marched through the living room, down the hall, and stopped dead outside my room. Without a second of hesitation, she pushed the door open. “Bring me your homework. While I’m grading it, you need to memorize two Shakespeare soliloquies and thirty AP vocabulary words. I’ll quiz you in an hour.” “One.” The countdown ended. I turned slowly, looking toward the doorway. My mother, Vanessa, looked exhausted. Her sharp, calculating eyes did a full sweep of my body from head to toe, then meticulously scanned my immaculate bedroom. Once she confirmed everything was in its proper place, the tension in her jaw relaxed by a fraction of an inch. “Come to the kitchen,” she said. “I bought you that organic detox juice.” The juice was impossibly bitter. It tasted like swamp water. I hated it. But my mother said, “It’s flu season. You need the antioxidants to keep your immune system up. You can’t afford a sick day.” I sat at the kitchen island, staring blankly at the dark green liquid. My mother was a highly respected, fiercely disciplined teacher at the most prestigious magnet school in the county. The classes she taught consistently boasted the highest average test scores. The trophies and plaques she brought home crowded our living room shelves. She was dedicated to a fault, staying hours after the final bell to offer free tutoring to the failing kids. Every student who passed through her classroom swore she was the best teacher they’d ever had. This brilliant, flawless woman was my mother. Therefore, whatever my mother said was the absolute truth, and demanded unconditional obedience. She said I needed the green juice. So, I must need it. “Tap. Tap.” My mother knocked her knuckles against the marble countertop, snapping me out of my daze. “Why are you drinking so slowly today? Chug it. You have studying to do.” I held my breath and tipped the glass back, forcing the rest of the sludge down my throat. The acidity hit the back of my mouth, and my body reacted violently. I gagged, my stomach lurching. “Do not spit that out!” she snapped. “Swallow it!” I slapped a hand over my mouth, forcing my throat to work against its own reflexes. Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Once the nausea was finally shoved down into my gut, I forced a tight smile. “Thanks, Mom. I’m going to study now.” She gave a stiff, approving nod. “Good.” 02 “Your recitation is sloppy.” “You missed a letter on ‘sycophant.’ Write the word out a hundred times. Then I’m shuffling the deck and we are doing the entire spelling quiz again.” When I finally passed her inspection, she nodded. “Alright. Go eat your dinner.” I quietly rubbed my aching wrist and practically sprinted to the dining table. I was starving. But halfway through my plate, my mother suddenly stopped eating. She stared at me, her brow furrowing. “Why is your mouth so big when you chew?” I froze. A sudden, inexplicable wave of shame washed over me. The heat rushed to my cheeks. I didn’t know whether to swallow the food in my mouth or spit it into my napkin. On instinct, I tightened my lips, trying to make myself smaller. I swallowed the half-chewed bite whole. She didn’t look away. She stared at me like I was a grotesque specimen pinned to a corkboard. The corners of her mouth turned down in disgust. “I was just… a little hungry today,” I whispered, trying to defend myself. “I was eating too fast.” She didn’t say a word, her eyes continuing to slowly dissect me. “Sit up straight. You’re slouching like a hunchback.” “Just eat. Why do you keep looking at me? You’re so timid. It’s embarrassing. Have some confidence.” I picked up my fork and took a tiny bite. She let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Opening your mouth that small? It’s going to take you all night to finish one plate.” I dropped my head, thoroughly humiliated. My appetite vanished. The rice that had tasted so sweet a moment ago now felt like sawdust on my tongue. My mother, however, seemed to find her appetite. She ate with relish, pulling out her phone and opening the school’s Parent Portal app. Our homeroom teacher uploaded photos of the class every day for the parents. Things like: “Math teacher working with students after school.” “A student utilizing their lunch break to ask questions about the lecture.” My mother tapped on each photo, zooming in, hunting for my face in the background. When she found me, she scrutinized the pixels. “What is this expression on your face? Why do you look so miserable? Look at the other kids, chasing down the teachers to ask questions. And you? You just sit at your desk like a lump of wood. So dull.” “No wonder you didn’t get into the magnet school.” Westfield Magnet was the best school in the state—and the school where my mother taught. “Why are you smiling so big in this one? That girl sitting next to you—you can tell just by looking at her that she has no academic future. She’s always distracting you. Stop hanging out with her.” She swiped to the next photo. “Why are you staring in that direction? Who are you looking at?” I tried to explain that I was just spacing out. I wasn’t looking at anyone. She didn’t believe me. She stared at that photo for half an hour. Finally, she turned on me, her voice cold and accusatory. “Are you looking at that boy sitting diagonally from you? Joanna! Are you dating someone? How many times have I told you? No dating! Absolutely no boys! Do you hear me?!” It took me swearing to God and the universe that I wasn’t dating anyone before she finally, suspiciously, put the phone down. “I doubt you’d have the guts anyway.” I let out a breath. Then, she glanced down at her screen again, a strange, twisted look passing over her features. “Besides, this boy is actually quite handsome. Looking the way you do, a boy like that would never look twice at you anyway.” I just stared at her, stunned into silence. She seemed to suddenly realize what she’d said. She shifted uncomfortably and averted her eyes. “Mom was just making a joke.” I lowered my head, silently picking up the empty plates and carrying them to the kitchen sink. As I turned on the faucet, she followed me, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. “Joanna, everything Mom does is for your own good. You have to understand that.” “You were barely a year old when your heartless father abandoned us. We’ve had to rely on each other all these years. I’ve worked myself to the bone, waking up before dawn and coming home in the dark, just to make enough money to put you through a decent school.” “You have to make something of yourself. You have to leave that son of his—the one he had with “that woman”—in the dust. Do you understand?” “I want him to regret it. I want him to see how catastrophically wrong he was to leave us!” “Joanna, Mom is the only person in this world who truly, wholeheartedly wants what’s best for you.” … It was a familiar script. She’d recited it a thousand times. I turned the faucet on full blast. The rush of the water drowned out the sound of my ragged breathing and washed away the hot tears threatening to spill. “Don’t cry.” “Don’t let her see you cry.” “Just hold it in. Wait until you’re in bed. Wait until you can pull the covers over your head.” 03 In the pitch black of my bedroom, the camera let out a faint, mechanical “whir-click” as it panned. It was incredibly soft. If you weren’t listening for it, you’d never know it was there. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, keeping my breathing even, pretending to be dead asleep. A long time passed. When the mechanical sounds finally ceased entirely, I faked a heavy shift in my sleep, pulling the edge of the comforter up over my face. Then, I let out a long, trembling exhale. The tears I had been holding back for hours finally broke free, fat drops soaking instantly into my cotton pillowcase. Suddenly, my bedroom door flew open. The comforter was ripped away from my face. My mother stood there in her bare feet, the blue light of her phone illuminating her expressionless face. “What are you crying for?” My heart slammed against my ribs. I tried to play it off, blinking rapidly like I’d just been jolted awake. “Mom… I had a nightmare.” But she just glared down at me, her eyes like ice. “You’re hiding under your covers crying just because I criticized you earlier?” She was so sharp. She pierced right through my fragile little lie. “Are you resenting me?” I frantically shook my head. I was just… hurting. I didn’t even fully understand why. I just felt like I couldn’t breathe. I don’t know what it was that triggered her, but she suddenly reached down, grabbed my arm, and yanked me out of bed. “I put food on the table, I put clothes on your back, and you dare resent me?!” “I’ll beat the ungratefulness right out of you!” The slaps rained down—on my head, my shoulders, my face. I didn’t dare dodge them. I didn’t dare cry out. If I cried, if I tried to protect myself, she would only hit harder. When the storm finally passed and she had exhausted her rage, she collapsed onto the floor, pulled me into her arms, and began to sob. “Joanna, Mommy didn’t mean it.” I sat there, numb, letting her crush me against her chest. I raised a trembling hand and gently patted her back. “I know, Mom. I know.” “I don’t resent you.” “I really just had a bad dream.” She stayed like that for a while until her breathing leveled out. Then she stood up, brushing off her pajamas, completely composed. “Go to sleep. You have an early morning tomorrow.” She turned and walked out the door. As if nothing had ever happened. 04 During study hall the next day, I glanced out the classroom window and saw my mother. She was standing in the hallway, smiling warmly, chatting like an old friend with my homeroom teacher. But from the corner of her eye, she kept shooting glances into the classroom. Some landed on me. Others swept the room, using my desk as the epicenter. A cold sweat broke out on my neck. My entire body went rigid. Right then, my mother locked eyes with me and smiled. It wasn’t the warm, collegial smile she’d just given my teacher. It was the terrifying, tight-lipped smirk she gave me when I failed a test or disobeyed a rule. The corners of her mouth curved up, but her eyes were dead, glittering with a bizarre, almost manic excitement. It chilled me to the bone. The morning sun was pouring through the window, warm and blinding, but I couldn’t stop shivering. Mia, my desk-mate, nudged me. “Hey, you okay?” I gave a tiny shake of my head. “I’m fine.” A few minutes later, my homeroom teacher walked in and called a name. “Noah, can you step out into the hall for a minute?” It was the boy from the photo yesterday. She still didn’t believe me. I looked out the window at my mother, silently begging her with my eyes. “Please. Please don’t humiliate me.” She just raised an eyebrow, completely ignoring my plea. Fifteen minutes later, Noah stormed back into the classroom. His face was an angry, mottled red. He marched straight to my desk and slammed his palms down onto the wood. “Joanna! What the hell did I ever do to you? Why did you have your crazy mother come here to humiliate me?” I stared up at him, utterly paralyzed. “I don’t know,” I stammered. “I didn’t do anything.” The other kids started turning around in their seats, whispering. “Whoa, what’s going on?” Noah was breathing so hard his chest heaved. He pointed a shaking finger at my face. “Your mother just stood in the main office, in front of all the teachers, and called me a shameless predator! She accused me of trying to seduce her precious daughter!” “Joanna, tell them! When have I ever tried to hit on you? We’ve been in the same class for three years, and I swear to God I haven’t spoken more than five sentences to you! Tell them! How exactly did I seduce you?!” Gasps rippled through the classroom. “Holy shit.” “This is unhinged.” I was drowning in embarrassment. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. “I’m so sorry. My mom misunderstood a picture. I tried to explain it to her, but she wouldn’t listen…” Right on cue, my mother stepped into the classroom. “Misunderstood what?” She leveled a venomous glare at Noah. “Your principal and I go way back. If you try anything inappropriate with my daughter again, I will know about it. Keep your distance. Do not interfere with her academic future.” Noah’s neck was flushed purple with rage. “You are out of your mind!” She ignored him. Instead, she pivoted and fixed her glare on Mia. “And you. The second the bell rings, you’re always chattering away at Joanna. It’s obnoxious. Stop distracting her from her work.” She looked Mia up and down with blatant disgust. “For a young lady, you certainly have a big mouth. It’s incredibly unappealing.” Mia was the sweetest, most soft-spoken girl in our grade. At my mother’s words, her face crumpled, flushing scarlet. She cast an uncomfortable, embarrassed look in my direction. I felt like I was going to throw up. I grabbed my mother’s sleeve, my voice breaking. “Mom, please. Stop it. Just stop.” She yanked her arm out of my grip. She swept her gaze over the entire room of wide-eyed teenagers, delivering her final warning. “That goes for all of you.” “If I find out that any single one of you is negatively impacting Joanna’s grades… there will be consequences.” 05 Once my mother finally left, I dragged myself over to Noah to apologize. “I am so, so sorry.” He let out a harsh laugh and took a step back. “Don’t. Just stay away from me. I don’t need your mother ruining my life.” When I walked back to my desk, Mia instinctively shifted her chair an inch closer to the aisle, putting physical distance between us. I looked at her, my heart breaking. “I’m sorry.” She gave me a hesitant look, then quietly turned her face toward the chalkboard. “I guess I do talk too much,” she murmured. “I’ll go to the guidance counselor later and ask for a seat change.” I opened my mouth to say something. To beg her to stay. But my mother’s face flashed in my mind—her mouth moving, her eyes judging. I slumped back in my chair, defeated. After that day, wherever I walked, the students around me would physically part, backing away like I was carrying the plague. They’d snicker behind their hands, avoiding me like a landmine. “Keep your distance, or her mom will come back and go psycho on us.” “Right, right. Can’t distract the “Valedictorian” from her studies.” My actual name was replaced by the sarcastic title of “The Valedictorian.” When I went to the cafeteria, no one sat with me. No one initiated a conversation. If I tried to speak to someone, it was met with exaggerated groans or mocking fake-coughs. An invisible, bulletproof glass box had been dropped over me, cutting me off from the rest of the school. My mother was thrilled. “You are a student,” she said. “This is exactly how you should be living. Total focus on your academics.” I looked at her, my face completely numb. “But I don’t have any friends left.” She scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “You go to school to get into college, not to socialize.” I withdrew into myself. I became a ghost. In the daily photos the teachers posted, I was always the girl sitting quietly at her desk, head buried in a textbook or a worksheet. My mother stared at the screen, finally somewhat satisfied. “At least you finally have the right attitude.” But my grades were tanking faster than ever. When I stared at my textbooks, the words swam on the page. I couldn’t retain a single sentence. I’d spend hours on a single homework assignment, my mind entirely blank. Just walking onto the school grounds made my chest tighten in panic. I felt like a monkey stripped bare, placed in a cage for everyone to point and laugh at. The phantom sounds of their mocking laughter were carved into my brain. Whenever I heard people chatting or laughing in the hallway, my instinct was to curl into a defensive ball. Even though logically I knew they probably weren’t talking about me, I couldn’t stop the paranoia. I became terrified of eye contact. Whenever a teacher walked by, my spine snapped straight on reflex, my expression going dead and serious, terrified that their phone might be raised to snap a candid picture. The only time I could breathe was the walk from the school gates to our front door. But even that freedom was strictly rationed. My mother had mapped the route. She knew exactly how long it took. If I took too long and didn’t trigger the camera in the entryway by her designated time, there were punishments. 06 One Tuesday, I unlocked the front door and immediately noticed the lights were on. My mother had come home early. When she saw me, her brow furrowed. “Your homeroom teacher emailed me your latest test scores. Joanna, what is wrong with you? You dropped fifteen ranks!” I lowered my eyes, my body bracing for the inevitable screaming match. But, entirely out of character, she didn’t yell. Instead, she reached out, her tone sickeningly sweet, and took my hand. “Come here. Starting today, I’m personally overseeing your tutoring.” I was stunned. She was famous for prioritizing her own students over me. I hesitated. “But… don’t you have to stay after school to tutor your students?” The moment the words left my mouth, I noticed a boy sitting in our living room. He leaned around the armchair, flashing a bright, charming smile. “Hey there.”

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Ten years into our marriage, Viola finally posted a photo of us on her social media. Not to celebrate an anniversary, but to clear her male co-founder’s name from an infamous rumor. She dug up a snapshot from our wedding eight years ago and posted it with a caption: “Happily married and stronger than ever. Please stop harassing my innocent colleague.” Once it was live, she passed her phone across the dining table to me. “Leave a comment underneath. Once you verify it, this whole mess will blow over.” For ten years, I had begged her to acknowledge our marriage in public. She always told me that love was between two people—that there was no need to put on a show for the world. During our worst fight, I tore down every couple’s photo in the house and threw them in the trash. She picked them out piece by piece, cleaned off the dust, and placed them back in her drawer, yet still refused to let anyone know I was her husband. Now, she was finally willing to pull me into the light. Not because she loved me, but because another man was taking heat on the internet. Seeing me sit motionless, Viola’s brows knitted into a tight line. “I gave you the public recognition you always wanted. He gets his clean slate, and you get your validation. It’s a fair trade.” A sudden memory hit me. All those nights over the past decade when she hadn’t come home, I was the one who covered for her with our families, making sure everyone believed she was a loving, devoted wife. This wasn’t the first time she had used me as a human shield to protect someone else. The only difference was that this time, she treated the validation she owed me as a bargaining chip. I took the phone and typed four words: “I cannot verify this.” Viola lunged to grab the phone back, but I pulled it out of her reach. “Starting today,” I said quietly, “you don’t need me to prove your innocence. And you don’t need me to prove our marriage, either.” … The moment my comment posted, the phone began to vibrate incessantly in her hand. By the time Viola snatched it back, a dozen replies had already flooded the thread. “What does her husband mean by that?” “So those hotel photos of Elton and her are real?” “I thought Elton said Viola was single?” Screenshots spread instantly across finance blogs and tabloid forums. Several major media outlets were already calling her company’s public relations department. Viola dialed her head of PR right in front of me, her voice cold and commanding. “Bury the trending topics. File copyright claims on every repost. I want the internet clean before the market opens tomorrow morning.” She slammed the phone down onto the table between us. “Delete your comment and post a new one. Say you were confused about corporate PR arrangements and that you were just throwing a temper tantrum.” “That would be a lie too.” “Jonah, this isn’t just about the two of us!” “When you posted our wedding photo without my consent,” I said, “did you ask if it was about the two of us?” She went quiet for a few seconds. When she spoke again, her voice softened into that practiced tone she used to manage difficult clients. “I know I’ve let you down over the years. Once this PR crisis passes, I’ll take you to the company anniversary gala. I’ll introduce you to everyone as my husband. If you want to retake our wedding photos, we can do that too. Anything you want.” I pushed the phone back across the table. “You still don’t get it.” “Then tell me what you want,” she demanded, her patience wearing thin. “Just say it directly.” “If I were the one being dragged online today,” I asked softly, “would you have posted that photo to save me?” Viola didn’t answer. Her phone rang again. It was PR. She listened to the update, her fingers pressing hard against the bridge of her nose. “Two key partners suspended their contracts? And someone reported Elton’s project to the oversight board? Do you have any idea how many employees will be affected if the company gets audited?” She hung up and looked at me. “Is this what you wanted?” “So I’m required to perjury myself for him?” “Elton’s boundary issues are just part of how he works—he didn’t ruin our marriage,” she said, her voice tight. “If you just tell the truth, nobody will come after him anymore.” “I have no idea if you two crossed the line or not,” I replied. “How am I supposed to clear his name?” “We didn’t.” “Then clear it yourself.” Viola’s gaze drifted toward the center of the table, finally noticing the lit candles and the small cake with a number on it. “Is today our anniversary?” “Ten years,” I said. She stepped over and touched the edge of the plate. The medium-rare ribeye was already ice-cold. Beside the plate lay the velvet box I had picked up that morning; inside was my wedding ring, freshly re-engraved with our original wedding date on the inner band. “I got so caught up in work, I forgot,” she murmured, picking up the ring. “Let me resolve the company emergency, and I’ll make it up to you. A weekend trip, a dinner at that restaurant you liked—whatever you choose.” “Are you coming home tonight?” The phone chimed in her hand again. “Elton” flashed across the screen. She picked it up, listened for ten seconds, and immediately grabbed her car keys. “Elton took a bottle of sleeping pills. They’re taking him to the ER right now. Just rest at home and stop replying to comments. I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll have a proper talk.” At the doorway, she paused and looked back. “Keep the ring on. I promise I won’t hide our relationship anymore.” The heavy front door clicked shut. I took off the ring and placed it inside the top drawer of the sideboard. I scraped the cold steak and untouched side dishes into a trash bag. The handmade noodles I had prepped for her late-night meal went straight into the disposal. While cleaning out the dining cabinet, the stack of photos she had once retrieved from the trash slipped off the shelf and scattered across the floor. I sorted them chronologically, packed them into a cardboard box along with our original wedding album, and taped it shut. On top of the box, I wrote her name. I booted up my laptop and pulled up our financial records. I listed every joint property, savings account, debt, and equity allocation. During the first three years of the company, every ledger had passed through my hands. I had pawned my late mother’s vintage jewelry just to make payroll for our first six hires. Later, when the firm stabilized, Viola asked me to step back, claiming a company didn’t need both spouses in the spotlight. So I became her invisible, unpaid back-office support—handling vendor contracts, procurement, and administrative overhead without a formal title or a salary. At three in the morning, the printer hummed to life, spitting out two copies of a divorce settlement. I signed my name at the bottom. As I capped my pen, my phone screen lit up with a text from an unknown number. It was Elton. He had sent a photo and a 59-second voice note. In the photo, Viola was asleep on the leather couch in his private office, covered by a heavy men’s trench coat. I tapped the voice note. “Hey, Jonah… Viola spent the whole night managing the press, and her stomach ulcer flared up again. I made her some broth, and she just drifted off. Please don’t be mad at her. Yesterday was entirely my fault. If you want to blame someone, blame me. Just… don’t make things harder for her than they already are.” He had sent messages like this before. Sometimes it was a photo of two coffee cups; other times it was a shot of Viola’s silk scarf left on his passenger seat. Every time I confronted him, he would apologize profusely and gently remind me to ‘trust my wife.’ I deleted the audio, blocked his number, and then did the same to Viola’s cell, her work line, her personal email, and her socials. At nine o’clock the next morning, I sent a formal resignation letter to the HR director. The HR manager called back almost instantly. “Jonah? The system doesn’t show an active employment contract for you. I’m not sure how to process an offboarding request.” “As of today,” I said, “I am terminating all procurement audits, vendor settlements, and budget approvals I’ve been running informally. Please archive that email.” “But Viola hasn’t briefed us on a handover—” “That’s her concern, not mine.” A long pause on the line. “Could you maybe wait until Viola gets back to the office? There are legacy accounts only you know how to navigate.” “Tell them to follow standard operational protocol.” I hung up and packed a single suitcase. My mother’s papers, a few changes of everyday clothes, and my early business journals filled most of the space. Every luxury suit, watch, and pair of shoes Viola had bought me over the years remained hanging untouched in the closet. At dusk, the electronic lock on the front door beeped. Viola walked in, her eyes falling first on the suitcase by the entryway, then on the half-empty closet in the master bedroom. “Why did you block my number?” “There’s no reason for us to stay in touch.” “I was stressed last night, and my tone was harsh,” she said, stepping in front of the suitcase to block my path. “We can talk about this rationally. I publically acknowledged our marriage, and I promised to bring you to the gala. What more do you want from me?” I picked up the divorce agreement from the coffee table and set it in front of her. “Sign it.” Viola flipped to the asset division page, her eyes scanning the lines twice. “You’re giving up the house, the cars, and the bank accounts?” “Yes.” “What about your equity stake?” “My legal counsel will execute that separately.” She closed the folder with a sharp snap. “Jonah, I know you don’t actually want a divorce. You just think I took Elton’s side this time, and you’re trying to force me to apologize.” “I made my position clear last night.” “Ten years of marriage doesn’t end over a petty argument,” she said, her voice dropping into a lower register. “You don’t have an official corporate title, and you don’t have an independent income stream. If you walk out that door, how do you plan to survive? I’m not looking down on you—I just don’t want to see you ruin your life out of spite.” “Just because I wasn’t paid a salary doesn’t mean I didn’t build that company.” “You helped me in the early days, yes. And precisely because of that, I’m not going to let you throw your life away right now.” “You’re not refusing to let me go because you care,” I said quietly. “You’re refusing because you still can’t process that I’m actually leaving.” Viola squeezed the papers so tightly the heavy bond paper creaked in her grip. Her phone rang twice on the counter, but she ignored it. “Give me three days,” she said. “If you still feel this way in three days, we’ll talk.” “I don’t need three days.” “Well, I do.” She tore the contract down the center and dropped the pieces onto the glass table. “Elton has a psychological evaluation scheduled for this afternoon. The doctor said he’s still at risk for self-harm, and I need to be there. Stay in the house until I get back.” “Viola, he has doctors. He has a family.” “This public fallout was caused by company matters, so I can’t just abandon him,” she said coldly. “If you care at all about this marriage, don’t force me to make a choice right now.” She pulled a black credit card from her wallet and set it on top of the torn paper. “The PIN is our wedding date. If you want to stay at a hotel for a couple of days, fine. But don’t go anywhere foolish. Call me when you’ve cooled down.” I didn’t touch the card. After she walked out, I left my set of house keys with the building manager and rolled my suitcase out to the street. I found a modest one-bedroom apartment in the older part of town—the neighborhood where Viola and I had rented our very first basement office when we were twenty-four. I paid three months’ rent in cash and moved in that night. At 3:00 AM, a blinding, searing tear in my abdomen woke me from sleep. My stomach felt as if it were being carved open with a dull blade. By the time I managed to roll off the mattress, the sheets were already stained deep crimson. My fingers trembled as I dialed 911. The phone slipped from my hand just as the operator answered. By the time the paramedics kicked the apartment door open, I couldn’t even stand up. “Where is his emergency contact?” the paramedic yelled to her partner. “There’s no one here,” I wheezed. “Sir, we need a spouse or a family member on the line!” “I can sign my own consent forms.” The ambulance rushed me through the rain to a nearby private hospital. The attending physician in the ER took one look at my scans, his face turning gray. “Acute gastric perforation with severe internal bleeding,” he snapped, hanging a bag of saline. “We need you in the OR immediately. If we wait, sepsis will set in.” I pressed my hand against my abdomen, my vision blurring at the edges. “Can it wait… an hour?” “No. The tear is substantial, and your abdominal cavity is already showing signs of infection.” Ten weeks ago, Viola’s mother had come over for dinner. At the table, she held my hand and offered to lend us seed money so I could start my own logistics firm, begging me to stop playing administrative shadow for her daughter. “A man needs his own standing,” she had told me. “What kind of life is it, spending every waking hour catering to your wife’s shadow?” When Viola came home late that night smelling of bourbon, I asked if she had been out drinking with prospective investors. She murmured a vague confirmation and passed out cold on the bed. We hadn’t shared a bed since. The surgeon held out the consent form. “You’re an adult, so you can legally sign for yourself. But we strongly advise listing an emergency contact. Someone needs to be in the recovery room.” “Leave it blank.” “Does your wife know about your condition?” “Don’t notify her.” A nurse hooked up an IV line and unlocked the wheels of my gurney, pushing me down the corridor toward pre-op. To get to the surgical floor, we had to pass through the VIP clinical wing. Just as the elevator doors slid open, a small group emerged from the adjacent hallway. Viola was supporting Elton, whose right wrist was wrapped in thick white gauze. An assistant and a private doctor followed closely behind them. She saw me first. Her footsteps stalled. “Jonah? What are you doing here?” I didn’t answer. The nurse stepped toward the desk to grab my chart, leaving me leaning heavily against the wall for support. Viola took two steps toward me, her forehead creasing. “Are you sick?” “Just seeing a doctor.” She glanced down at the back of my hand, where the thick IV cannula was taped down. She hesitated. “I’ll have Dr. Evans check on you. But Elton is fragile right now and can’t take any distress, so please don’t go near his suite.” “I’m not looking for him.” Elton leaned out from behind her, his voice small and trembling. “Jonah… are you still upset with me? I lost control of my emotions last night, which is why Viola stayed up with me. Nothing happened between us, I swear.” “Whatever goes on between you two is none of my business,” I said. “I just didn’t want you to misunderstand…” “I blocked your number,” I looked at him evenly. “Did that fail to get the message across?” Elton fell silent, his fingers tightening around the sleeve of Viola’s blazer. Viola handed him off to the assistant, then stepped directly in front of me, blocking my path. “Jonah, we have to handle that social media comment. Someone leaked Elton’s home address and his family’s personal info online. He’s receiving death threats.” “And?” “Call the press outlets,” she said, her voice dropping into that controlled, executive pitch. “Tell them your comment was just a sarcastic remark made during a marital dispute. PR will draft a short statement—you just need to read it.” “I won’t read anything.” “In the past, whenever you complained about stomach pain, I dropped multi-million dollar contract signings to rush home,” she whispered angrily. “And when the doctor checked you, he said it was just mild acid reflux! But you made me stay home to eat dinner with you anyway. You’re doing the exact same thing tonight. You knew the company was facing a major crisis, so you intentionally posted those four words to punish me.” “My stomach actually hurt that night,” I said, my voice barely audible. “I’m not saying you’re faking it,” Viola said, pinching her temples. “I’m asking you not to use your health and our marriage to back me into a corner. If there’s a genuine issue, I will arrange for the top specialists in the city. But we have to fix Elton’s situation first.” The surgical nurse returned with a clip board. “Mr. Colbert? Operating Room Three is prepped. We need to move now.” Viola turned to the nurse, frowning. “What surgery?” Before the nurse could answer, Elton suddenly groaned, clutching his bandaged wrist. Crimson blossomed through the cotton gauze. The physician rushed over, steadying him. Viola took a half-step toward Elton, then hesitated, looking back at me. “Make the call to the media first, Jonah. Once we clear this up, I’ll personally sit with you through whatever tests you need.” A slow drop of blood trickled down my sweat-soaked pant leg, staining my shoe. I pulled the surgical consent form out from under my arm and handed it to her. “It’s too late.” Viola took the paper. Her eyes scanned down to the diagnostic line: “Acute Gastric Perforation. Abdominal Sepsis. Emergency Laparotomy.” Her hands began to shake. “When did your stomach start hurting like this?” “A long time ago.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “When have you ever listened?” She gripped the sheet of paper so hard her knuckles turned white. “You’re going into the OR right now. I’m staying with you.” “No need.” “Jonah—” “The nurse asked if I had any family,” I said quietly, looking into her eyes. “I told her I had no one.” Viola’s hand froze in midair. The nurse pushed a wheelchair up behind me. I sat down, leaning my head back against the cold headrest. As she wheeled me toward the double doors, Viola tried to follow, but a sudden sharp cry echoed from Elton’s room. “Viola! Please don’t leave me alone!” The private physician stepped into the hall, looking urgent. “Ms. Hawthorne, Mr. Barrett’s heart rate is spiking, and he’s displaying acute distress. He shouldn’t be left unattended right now!” Viola looked back at me, her eyes torn, panic flickering across her face. “I’ll have my executive assistant, Ross, stay outside your operating room. As soon as Elton’s family gets here, I’ll come straight to you.” “Don’t bother,” I said. As the heavy stainless-steel doors of the surgical wing swung shut, I heard her instructing Ross to pull my complete medical history from the hospital system. The anesthesiologist verified my name, date of birth, and allergies, then instructed me to sign the final consent line. The procedure lasted under an hour. When I opened my eyes in the recovery room, the space beside my bed was completely empty. A nurse brought over a cup of warm water. “Your wife checked in with the desk twenty minutes ago, but she didn’t come inside. She said to notify her as soon as you woke up.” “Don’t notify her,” I murmured. While in recovery, the family law attorney I had contacted the previous evening arrived. I had already emailed him the financial inventories and marriage records. He handed me a freshly printed copy of the divorce petition, and I signed my name in clear, steady script. The attorney turned to the final document in his folder. “Are you absolutely certain you want to donate your entire twenty percent stake of original founder’s equity? The legal transfer will take time to register with the board, but once you sign this deed of gift, my firm will execute it on your behalf.” “Has the beneficiary confirmed receipt?” “The Women & Children’s Legal Aid Foundation has already issued a formal letter of acceptance.” “Then execute it.” “This equity is worth tens of millions of dollars, Jonah,” the lawyer reminded me gently. “You could easily retain a small fraction to secure your future.” “I don’t want a single share.” He packed the documents into his briefcase. I took my surgical discharge summary, the signed divorce petition, and the equity donation agreement, sealing them inside a heavy Manila envelope. I handed the envelope to the floor nurse. “Please hand this directly to Viola Hawthorne’s executive assistant. Make sure he signs for it personally.” By late afternoon, the attending doctor confirmed my internal bleeding had stabilized and cleared me for discharge, under the strict condition that I rest and attend weekly follow-ups. My lawyer’s associate drove me straight from the hospital to the airport. I bought a one-way ticket to Bozeman, Montana. When the final boarding call echoed through the terminal, I turned off my phone, popped the SIM card out, snapped it in half, and dropped it into a recycling bin. Thirty minutes after my flight took off, Ross signed for the Manila envelope at the nursing station. He hurried back to the VIP wing and handed it to Viola. “Ms. Hawthorne,” Ross said softly. “Jonah has already checked out of the hospital. He left a message… he said this time, you don’t need to sign anything.”

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It was supposed to be our Valentine’s Day—just the two of us. But Holden brought his little godsister along anyway. He pulled two gift boxes out of his bag, sliding one toward Daphne and one toward me. I opened mine, stared at the sleek designer sneakers resting inside, and quietly snapped the lid shut. “Don’t like them?” Holden asked, his brow twitching. Before the word could fully leave my lips, Holden snatched the box back and shoved it into Daphne’s lap. “You never like anything I get you anyway,” he scoffed. “Here, Daphne, you take them. At least someone around here knows how to appreciate a gesture.” Daphne clutched the shoe box and the matching jersey to her chest, her face lighting up with theatrical joy. “Oh, thank you, Holden! You always know “exactly” what I want.” I looked down at the label on the box. Size 7. I wear a size 6. Daphne is a size 7. It wasn’t that I didn’t like them. He had bought them for her all along. It had been like this for three years now. Whether it was a national holiday, our anniversary, or my birthday, Holden always bought two gifts. One for Daphne, and one for me that just so happened to be whatever Daphne liked. He had promised to take me to a romantic fine-dining restaurant for Valentine’s Day. Instead, we ended up at this greasy late-night taco joint—Daphne’s absolute favorite dive. Holden popped a straw into a soda can and handed it to Daphne before turning to me, his tone flat. “Maren, if you’re done picking at your food, you can head home. You didn’t like my carefully planned gift anyway, so there’s no point in dragging you along for the rest of the night.” I set my fork down, met his eyes, and said, “Okay.” I wouldn’t go with them tonight. And I would never go with him again. … Holden frowned as he looked at my barely touched plate. “Maren, you need to stop being so damn picky. Take a lesson from Daphne—she eats anything.” It wasn’t that Daphne ate anything. It was that every single time we went out, Holden picked the places “she” craved. On my birthday last year, we were standing right outside the upscale steakhouse I’d wanted to try for months. Daphne casually mentioned she wanted burgers, and Holden turned around on his heel and marched us straight into a fast-food joint. Daphne reached across the table and slid my plate over to her side. “If Maren’s not eating, I will. I could never do that whole ‘starve myself just to look pretty’ routine anyway.” I looked down at my high heels. A drop of grease had splashed onto the soft beige leather, and my stomach tightened. These shoes cost me hundreds of dollars—a splurge I rarely wore because I was saving them for special occasions. I had put them on tonight specifically for Valentine’s Day. I’d spent hours doing my hair, applying my makeup, putting in contact lenses, putting on a brand-new dress. And Holden hadn’t even noticed. He had brought me straight to a greasy roadside bench. Holden leaned over, grabbed a half-eaten taco right out of Daphne’s hand, and bit into it. “And who was begging me to monitor her diet last week? Eat any more and you’re going to turn into a little piggy.” Daphne feigned outrage, reaching out and wiping her greasy, sauce-stained fingers right across the front of Holden’s sweater. My heart leaped into my throat. I looked at the dark stain blooming across his chest, bracing myself for the explosion. That was Holden’s absolute favorite cashmere sweater. Once, I had accidentally spilled a few drops of tap water on it, and he had blown up at me, lecturing me for three days about my “carelessness and lack of respect for his things.” A minute passed. Then two. Holden didn’t say a word. In fact, he picked up a napkin and gently dabbed a streak of sauce from the corner of Daphne’s mouth. My gaze was too intense to ignore. Holden caught me staring and flicked his eyes toward me. “Didn’t you say you were leaving? Why are you still standing there?” This was our holiday. He had brought a third wheel, ruined my night, and now he was treating me like an eyesore standing in his way. I reached for my purse on the table. Before my hand could touch it, Holden swiped the car keys lying right beside it. Seeing my expression, he offered an offhanded explanation. “My plans with Daphne are running late tonight, and you know how impossible it is to call an Uber at midnight. I need the car. Just take a ride home yourself, okay?” When Holden bought that car, he swore it was for “us”—so he could drive me to work and make my commute easier. But I had only ridden in it for less than a month before Daphne moved back to the city. When I asked him to drive me to work, he said it was too early and he couldn’t wake up. When I asked him to pick me up, he said the detour wasted too much gas. Yet Daphne lived twenty miles across town, and he picked her up and dropped her off every single day without fail. He claimed it was because Daphne was his mother’s best friend’s daughter, and he had promised both mothers he would take care of her. He forgot that he had once promised my mother he would take care of me, too. I didn’t utter a single word. I grabbed my bag and turned on my heel. The main road where cars could stop was nearly a mile away. Holden didn’t walk me out. He didn’t even bother saying “be careful.” He was too busy bickering playfully with Daphne behind me. The sidewalk was crowded with couples walking hand-in-hand. An elderly flower vendor moved through the crowd, offering roses to every pair she passed. But as she approached me, her eyes swept over my solitary figure, and she walked straight past without a second glance. When my ride finally pulled up, the driver glanced past me toward the curb. “Hey miss, is your boyfriend coming? I can’t idle here long.” I opened the door and slid into the back seat. “No. It’s just me tonight.” The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror, offering a sympathetic smile. “Get into a fight with the guy? Letting a girl as pretty as you walk away upset on Valentine’s Day… he must be out of his mind.” In the hours I had been out tonight, this stranger was the first person to tell me I looked pretty. I turned my head toward the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold. “No fight. And no boyfriend. I’m just out getting some fresh air.” Everyone knew Valentine’s Day was meant for lovers. Everyone except Holden. … The first thing that caught my eye when I stepped into the apartment was the memory wall in the entryway. In those framed photos, I was looking at the camera with an effortless, radiant smile, while Holden was looking at me. Holden used to love documenting our life. He had built this gallery wall himself, promising he would fill it with a new picture every Valentine’s Day to mark our journey together. Year One: The high point of the Ferris wheel at midnight, snapped right as the lights flashed around us. Year Two: A summer music festival, captured during the wild, echoing climax of my favorite song. Year Three: A high-end seafood dinner, snapped right when my cheeks were stuffed full of lobster, both of us laughing endlessly. Year Four: Daphne came back into his life. Now, we were in our sixth year together. The gallery wall had remained frozen in time for three years. Without those three old photos hanging there, I would have started to believe those happy early days were nothing more than a fever dream. A massive wooden frame housing only three solitary pictures looked absurdly sparse. I reached up, unhooked them from the wall, and stacked them quietly in the corner. I pulled out my phone and sent Holden a text: [Holden, come home early tonight. We need to talk.] An hour passed before his reply came through: [Okay.] I sat on the couch and waited until eleven o’clock. Holden didn’t come home. I called him; it went straight to voicemail. I texted him; no response. A second later, a notification popped up on my social feed. Holden had just posted an update: “Rare chance to catch a game and unwind. Nothing beats watching sports with a true soulmate.” Accompanying the text was a photo of the roaring crowd inside the basketball arena, with Daphne leaning close to his shoulder. My fingers tightened around the glass screen until my knuckles turned white. My eyes lingered on the words “unwind” and “soulmate”. So, being with me had become a chore he needed to escape from. Tickets for a holiday game required booking weeks in advance. He had planned this entire evening from the start—specifically to avoid spending Valentine’s Day with me. I set the phone down on the coffee table, stood up, and switched off the entryway lamp I had left on for him. … When I woke up the next morning, Holden’s arm was heavy across my waist. I didn’t know what time he had snuck back into bed, but the sweet, sickly scent of Daphne’s signature perfume lingering on his skin made my stomach churn. I shoved his shoulder hard. “Holden. Get up and take a shower.” He grunted, his eyes barely opening as he fumbled beneath his pillow and pressed a small object into my hand. “Maren… here’s your gift. Just let me sleep a little longer.” His so-called gift was a cheap plastic souvenir keychain from the stadium. I tossed the keychain onto the nightstand and walked out of the bedroom. On the living room coffee table sat a bouquet of red roses—the exact cheap, cellophane-wrapped bundle the elderly vendor had been selling on the street last night. The moment I reached down to touch the petals, Daphne’s sharp voice pierced the air from the hallway. “Holden bought those for ME! Put them down!” Daphne rushed forward, snatched the bouquet out of my reach, and glared at me defensively, clutching the flowers to her chest. I stared at her, completely stunned. She was wearing my silk pajamas, her hair pushed back, her face covered in a thick layer of a grey clay mask. I walked past her into the bathroom and opened my skincare drawer. The imported, three-hundred-dollar overnight mask I had barely brought myself to use was completely empty. Holden rushed out of the bedroom, his hair messy from sleep. “What’s going on? What’s all the noise about?” I pointed at Daphne’s face, my voice shaking slightly. “That mask cost me a fortune. I barely touched it myself. You gave it to her?” Holden rubbed his eyes, annoyance creeping into his tone. “Daphne is like a sister to me. What’s the big deal if she uses a little face cream?” A sister? She wasn’t even a cousin. Daphne rolled her eyes dramatically, crossing her arms over my silk pajamas. “Maren, you aren’t even married to Holden yet and you’re already acting like a dictator. Imagine how awful you’ll be if you actually get married. It’s just skincare, don’t be so stingy. I’m calling Auntie Glenn to tell her how you treat me.” Daphne pulled out her phone. Holden immediately grabbed her wrist, his expression turning anxious. “Maren, just apologize to Daphne. If she calls my mom, this is going to turn into a nightmare.” In the past, because I had genuinely envisioned a future with Holden, I cared deeply about his mother’s opinion. Daphne knew this and used it as a weapon, constantly threatening to run to Mrs. Glenn whenever she didn’t get her way. And every single time, I had backed down and swallowed my pride. Not this time. “Holden, I don’t want to marry you anymore,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “She can call your mother as much as she wants.” Holden froze, his face stiffening. He glared at me, his eyes darkening with irritation. “Maren, stop talking out of spite. It’s not a big deal. I’ll reimburse you for the damn mask, okay? Daphne, don’t take it to heart—if you like it, I’ll buy you a whole new jar.” When I bought that mask for myself, Holden had called me reckless and wasteful, lecturing me never to spend money on such useless luxuries again. Yet the moment Daphne used it up, he didn’t hesitate to buy her a fresh one. Holden turned back to me, trying to soften his posture. “Maren, you must be hungry. I’ll go make those fried eggs you guys like.” “You guys.” He meant Daphne. I hated fried eggs. I had told Holden at least a hundred times over the years that runny yolks made me nauseous. He had never remembered. Just like he had never remembered what gifts I actually wanted. I walked into the kitchen, brewed myself a cup of dark coffee, and sat at the island, scrolling through social media to pass the time. Within two swipes, the algorithm served me a viral clip from last night’s basketball game. It was the arena’s Kiss Cam segment. The camera had panned across the crowd and zoomed in on Holden and Daphne. When their faces hit the big screen, Daphne turned, wrapped her arms around Holden’s neck, and planted a loud kiss directly on his cheek. Perhaps because few couples went to a sports game on Valentine’s Day, the arena had erupted into cheers, and the video was trending wildly online. I tapped “Not Interested”, but the very next video in my feed was another angle of the exact same moment. Holden walked out of the kitchen holding a plate of fried eggs just as the clip played on my screen—the exact second Daphne kissed his face. I didn’t say a word. I simply turned my phone around and held the glowing screen up to his face. Holden glanced at it, completely unbothered. “It was just a cheek kiss. It was her first time being caught on a stadium camera, she was just excited.” “Just a cheek kiss?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. “Even people who don’t watch sports know what the Kiss Cam means. Did you forget you have a girlfriend sitting at home?” When non-romantic friends got caught on the Kiss Cam, they waved, high-fived, or awkwardly gestured to the screen. Daphne had leaned in and kissed him, and afterward, both of them had flashed matching heart-hands to the crowd, laughing joyfully. When Holden was beaming so brightly for tens of thousands of strangers, had he given even a passing thought to the promise he made to come home early? “Daddy, my bra strap is loose,” Daphne’s voice suddenly chimed in from the couch. I froze, thinking I had misheard her. Holden set the plate down without a second thought and walked straight over to the couch. He reached his hand right under the back of Daphne’s shirt, his fingers moving skillfully to rehook the clasp. The sheer, casually intimate absurdity of the scene unfolded right before my eyes. I felt as if the air had been sucked out of my lungs. Daphne looked over Holden’s shoulder and offered me a sweet, triumphant little smirk. “Why look so shocked, Maren? It’s just a bra strap. Brothers and sisters help each other out with this stuff all the time. I only called him ‘Daddy’ because I lost a bet to him during the game last night.” Holden stood up, his ears slightly red, and let out a soft grunt of agreement. Right in front of my face, they behaved like this. God only knew what they did when I wasn’t around. A sudden wave of intense nausea surged from my stomach into my throat. I turned, rushed into the bathroom, fell to my knees before the toilet, and began to dry-heave violently. Holden followed me in, leaning down to pat my back. “Maren, what’s wrong with you?” The moment his hand touched my spine, the thought that those exact fingers had just been inside Daphne’s shirt pushed me over the edge. I retched harder, gasping for breath. Holden’s expression darkened instantly. He pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned. “Maren Ellis, what is “that” supposed to mean? You think I’m disgusting?” His voice turned sharp and accusatory. “Can you stop having such filthy, twisted thoughts? If Daphne and I actually had something going on, do you really think I’d still be dragging you along as my girlfriend?!” I hadn’t said a single word. He was the one projecting his own guilt. Seeing that I remained silent, Holden sneered and stood up. “Daphne was right. Women like you are so unbelievably dramatic. You’re allowed to have male friends, but the second a man has a female friend or a sister, it’s a crime.” I didn’t have male besties. I didn’t have godsisters or dry-brothers. I had boundaries. I stood up, turned on the faucet, and splashed freezing cold water over my face. “You’re right,” I said, wiping my dripping chin with a towel. “I am dramatic. I’m moving out tonight. You and Daphne can do whatever the hell you want.” Holden stared at me for a long, heavy moment, his jaw tight. Finally, he spat out two words: “Utterly unreasonable.” Daphne giggled softly from the doorway. “Maren, don’t you get embarrassed saying that? Do you even remember how many times you’ve threatened to pack up and leave?” No, I didn’t remember anymore. The count was too high. Ever since Daphne moved to this city, Holden and I had fought endlessly because of her. In the beginning, Holden would panic, apologize, and beg for my forgiveness, terrified that I would walk out the door. But as time went on and he realized I always ended up staying, his apologies turned into excuses, his excuses turned into indifference, and now, his indifference had turned into contempt. He was convinced I loved him too much to ever truly leave. But love that is constantly taken for granted is like a candle left in the wind—eventually, the flame just burns out. Holden turned and walked out, taking Daphne with him. As they left, he slammed the heavy front door so hard the entire entryway shook like a cannon had gone off. The impact rattled the wall, and the custom glass wind chime hanging behind the door snapped from its hook, crashing onto the hardwood floor and shattering into a hundred glittering shards. Our love lay there, broken beyond repair. Holden and I had spent three full days hand-blowing and assembling that glass wind chime years ago. He had tried hanging it in a dozen different spots around the apartment before finally choosing the front door. “Whenever the wind chime rings, it means I’m home,” he had told me back then, wrapping his arms around my waist. “That’s your signal to come to the door and greet me.” Now, the chime would never ring again. And I would never stand by the door waiting for him. … I was halfway through sweeping up the sharp glass fragments when a heavy knock sounded against the door. I thought Holden had forgotten his wallet, but when I pulled the door open, two uniformed police officers were standing in the hallway. “Hello. Are you Ms. Maren Ellis?” I blinked. “Yes. That’s me.” “Yesterday evening, a vehicle registered under your name was involved in a hit-and-run incident in the downtown district,” the lead officer stated, his voice professional and firm. “Mr. Holden Glenn identified you as the driver at the time of the collision.” The words struck my ears like a physical blow. My mind went completely blank. The officer called my name twice before I snapped back to reality. With shaking fingers, I pulled up my Uber ride history from last night and held the screen out to them, showing the precise timestamps and route. Then, my hands trembling violently, I dialed Holden’s number. He picked up on the third ring. “Holden,” I forced the words out of my throat. “Why did you tell the police I was the one driving your car yesterday?” Through the speaker, I could hear the faint, muffled sound of Daphne’s giggling, accompanied by the echo of splashing water. After a long pause, Holden’s casual voice came through. “Daphne and I are at the Aquarium watching the beluga whale show right now. We can’t step away. Can’t you just take the fall for Daphne this once and handle it?” He spoke in such a light, breezy tone, as if he were asking me to pick up his dry cleaning. Rage erupted in my chest. “Holden, that’s a police station, not a coffee shop! Do you even understand what a hit-and-run charge means?!” Holden’s tone instantly shifted to annoyance. “Why are you making such a big deal out of nothing? Daphne told me she just clipped a stray cat on the side of the road. The owner probably just wants some financial compensation. Just go talk to them and handle it. I’ll take you out for a nice dinner later to make it up to you, alright?” “It wasn’t a cat, it was a—” Before I could finish saying “a human being”, Holden hung up the phone. I immediately redialed his number. “The party you are trying to reach has blocked your number.” I let out a long, shuddering breath, turned to the two officers, and looked them straight in the eye. “Officers, you heard that call. I had absolutely nothing to do with this incident.” The officer recorded the audio on his body camera and nodded. “We have noted the call. However, we cannot rely solely on a phone recording to clear the registration records. Until the investigation is fully resolved, you are instructed not to leave the city.” After seeing the officers out, I collapsed onto the couch, my limbs numb and ice-cold. I knew Holden prioritized Daphne over me. But I had never imagined he would go so far as to commit perjury and frame me for a criminal hit-and-run just to protect her. He left me alone to face criminal allegations while he took her to watch whales at the aquarium. I sat in the quiet apartment for hours, watching the afternoon sun fade into twilight. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was an iMessage from Holden: [Did you settle things with the cat owner? When you’re done, bring the sneakers I gave you yesterday over to the aquarium entrance. Daphne needs to change into them urgently.] Not a single line asking if I was okay. Not a single word of concern. He treated me like nothing more than an errand girl. I let out a bitter, silent laugh. My thumb swiped across the screen, and I blocked Holden’s contact entirely. Then, I stood up, zipped my suitcase shut, and walked out of the apartment we had shared for six long years.

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Nine years after my hands were burned into twisted, useless claws, I woke up in the dead of night from a throbbing, phantom ache. That was when I heard my mother talking on the phone out in the living room. “Rita, you know it hasn’t been easy,” she murmured into the receiver. “Taking care of him all these years… a brilliant piano prodigy, reduced to this…” Then, she let out a low, soft chuckle. “Hard on me?” she continued, her voice devoid of warmth. “Do you have any idea how long I waited for that day?” Silence hung on the line. “His passport back then? I hid it,” my mother said flatly. “And that fire… I set it myself. I only meant for him to miss his flight. Who knew the flames would spread so fast and ruin him like that?” A faint, horrified gasp echoed through the speaker. “His hands…” My mother paused for two seconds. When she spoke again, her tone was ice. “It’s better this way. Broken hands mean he can’t play. He can’t go abroad. He can never leave me behind. These past nine years, he’s needed me for everything—to eat, to dress. Shouldn’t he be grateful?” I lay frozen in bed, the agony in my mangled fingers searing through me as if the flames were licking my skin all over again. I hadn’t been trapped in that rotting apartment for nine years because of bad luck. My own flesh and blood had set the fire that incinerated my future. In the pitch-black room, my mind raced through the dark timeline of my life. “If I hadn’t rushed back that night when she called… If that fire hadn’t swallowed my hands… What would my life have looked like?” When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting at my desk. I was staring at the courier holding a thick cardboard envelope. It was the day my visa arrived. … “Elton, sign here, please. Express delivery from the visa consulate.” The pen in my hand trembled slightly. In my past life, I had only glanced at this envelope before it vanished that very night, along with my passport. I had torn the house apart searching for it, sweat pouring down my face in sheer panic, while my mother stood beside me with reddened eyes, sniffling, “It’s all my fault, sweetie. I should have put it somewhere safe.” Then came the fire. And I never had the chance to look for it again. I signed the slip, pulled the envelope close, and clutched it tightly against my chest. “Is that it?” Marianne walked out of the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour. When she saw the official seal on the envelope, her eyes flashed with a brief, hungry light. “Let Mom see.” I pulled the envelope away and slid it into my bag. “I’ve got it. It’s fine.” She blinked, startled, then forced a gentle smile. “I just want a peek, Elton. It’s not like I haven’t seen your papers before.” I didn’t move. The smile on her face slowly stiffened, morphing into something brittle. “Elton… who are you protecting it from? Me?” I knew that tone intimately. It was wrapped in tenderness, laced with a subtle hint of hurt and grievance. In my past life, it was my weakness. Whenever she used that voice, I would immediately apologize, explain myself, and hand over whatever she wanted, terrified of making her feel distant or unloved. This time, I zipped my bag, clicked the TSA lock into place, and pulled the strap over my shoulder. “These are critical documents. I’m keeping them on me.” Marianne’s eyes welled with tears at an impossible speed. “You’re going abroad now, so you think your mother is ignorant? That I’m not even worthy of touching your things?” Just then, our neighbor, Mrs. Rita, walked in through the front door carrying a bowl of freshly washed cherries. Hearing the commotion, she immediately frowned at me. “Elton, honestly! Is your mother going to eat your passport? What’s the harm in letting her look?” Marianne lowered her head, her shoulders trembling softly. “Forget it, Rita. He’s grown up now. He has his own world. I’m just a burden to him.” Rita’s heart bled for her on the spot. She turned to me, scolding, “Son, you can’t forget your roots. Your mother sacrificed everything to raise you on her own. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been for her?” I looked at the two of them, my voice devoid of emotion. “Mrs. Rita, I know my mother worked hard.” “Then—” “But working hard doesn’t give her the right to hold onto my passport.” Rita froze, caught off guard. Marianne raised her eyes. For a fraction of a second, a cold, sharp resentment glinted in her gaze—fast as a needle prick—before it dissolved back into helpless tears. “Elton, I’m not trying to control you,” she sobbed. “I’m just scared. You’re going so far away, to a foreign country where you barely know anyone. What if you get sick? What if someone takes advantage of you?” “I’m twenty-two, Mom.” Her head snapped up. “What does twenty-two matter?! You could be eighty-two, and you’d still be my son!” Her voice spiked into a shrill pitch. “Your father died young! I poured my entire soul into you! Now that your wings are grown, you’re just going to fly away without a second thought for me?!” I lowered my gaze. I had heard that exact phrase every single day of my life. In my previous existence, I had surrendered to it every single time. This time, I looked her dead in the eye and asked, “So, you want me to stay?” Marianne froze. The tap in the kitchen dripped in the heavy silence. “Drip. Drip.” Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Slowly, she retreated back behind her mask of fragile, maternal sorrow. “Mom isn’t that selfish… I’m just going to miss you.” I let out a cold, hollow laugh. “Good. Because I am leaving tomorrow. No matter what.” … Marianne didn’t say another word to me for the rest of the evening. I locked myself in my room and went to work. First, I scanned every single piece of my identification, uploading them to an encrypted cloud drive and sending copies to three separate secure email addresses. Finally, I drafted an email to my program advisor, Professor Helena Ross. “Dear Professor Ross,” “Please make a formal note on my file: Effective immediately, any request to defer, withdraw, or forfeit my admission and scholarship must be confirmed by me directly via a live video call. Any request made solely via email, written letter, or by a family member is to be treated as fraudulent and void.” Ten minutes later, my phone rang. It was Professor Ross. “Elton,” her voice was sharp, professional, and clear. “Is something happening at home?” I looked at the strip of light creeping under my bedroom door from the hallway. “There might be.” She didn’t pry into the messy details. “Send me your confirmation. I’ll sync it with the international admissions office at the Paris Conservatoire right now.” She paused, her tone softening slightly. “Elton… don’t carry everything on your own shoulders.” A lump formed in my throat. After the accident in my past life, Professor Ross had come to the hospital to see me. Marianne had blocked her at the door, claiming I was mentally hysterical and refused to see anyone. Years later, after my hands were already ruined, I found a letter tucked inside an old textbook. It was from Professor Ross. It had contained only one line: “If there is even a sliver of you that still wants to play, do not let anyone else decide that your journey is over.” By the time I found it, it had been far too late. After hanging up, I took the second step. I installed hidden wireless cameras—one at the entryway, one in the living room, and one near the kitchen threshold. Public areas only. Nothing in the bedrooms or bathroom. The devices synced directly to my cloud server, timestamped, with a two-hour battery backup in case the power was cut. I also replaced the standard smoke detector in the hallway with a smart, network-connected model. The outer shell looked identical to the old one; Marianne wouldn’t notice the difference. At 1:00 AM, I slipped out of the apartment and went down to the property management office. “Mr. Frank,” I said to the night-shift manager, “I’m flying out tomorrow for my studies. I’m worried my mother might forget to turn off the stove while I’m gone. I’ve shut off the main gas valve. Would you mind keeping these bottles of rubbing alcohol and high-proof cleaning solvents logged in your storage for me?” Frank chuckled, impressed by my thoroughness. “You’re a cautious kid, Elton. Isn’t your mother usually pretty careful?” I smiled faintly. “When people get stressed, they make mistakes.” When I returned, the living room was dark. I pushed open my bedroom door and noticed immediately that my desk drawers had been rummaged through. The position of my bag had shifted. There was a fresh scratch mark near the TSA lock. Marianne appeared behind me in the doorway like a ghost. “I was just checking if you forgot to pack anything,” she whispered. She was wearing her nightgown, her face pale, looking as if she hadn’t slept a wink. “Are you really locking me out of your room now, Elton?” I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder. “Knock before you come in next time.” She looked as though I had slapped her across the face, swaying slightly. “Elton… what is wrong with you? You were never like this before.” I stared back at her. “Before, I didn’t realize how many things I actually needed to lock up.” Her expression shifted instantly—a flash of pure, cold hostility. But just as quickly, she pressed a hand to her forehead, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “My chest hurts…” she gasped, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Elton… I can’t breathe…” In my past life, this was her ultimate weapon. The moment she clutched her heart, my boundaries vanished. I would throw away my dreams just to comfort her. This time, I pulled out my phone and dialed emergency services directly. “Operator? My mother is experiencing chest tightness and acute shortness of breath. Please send an ambulance to Oakridge Condos, Building 7, Apartment 1601.” Marianne’s hyperventilating froze mid-gasp. She stared at me in sheer disbelief. “Professional medical problems require professional doctors,” I said calmly. She sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes turning blood-red. Not with sadness—with pure, unadulterated hatred. I grabbed my suitcase and started walking toward the door. “Where are you going?” she hissed from behind me. “A hotel near the airport.” “Your flight isn’t until tomorrow afternoon! You’re leaving tonight?!” “Yes.” She suddenly lunged forward, grabbing my wrist with a force that felt terrifyingly unnatural for a frail, sick woman. “Are you really that desperate to get away from me?!” I reached down and unclasped her fingers, one by one. “I’m not running away from you, Mom,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m going to live my life.” The moment the door slammed shut behind me, the sound of a ceramic mug shattering against the wood echoed through the hall. I didn’t turn back. … Outside the window of my airport hotel room, the runway lights blazed like a trail of fallen stars through the night. After taking a shower, I tucked my passport and boarding pass into an anti-theft body pouch beneath my shirt. On the desk, my laptop screen glowed, displaying the live video feed from my apartment. Marianne hadn’t gone to the hospital. When the paramedics arrived downstairs, she had met them at the door, laughing apologetically as she explained it was just a minor misunderstanding—a mother and son having an emotional argument. “I’m so sorry for wasting your time,” she had said with a sweet, sheepish smile. “My boy just panics too easily.” After the paramedics left, she sat alone in the dark living room for a long time. At 11:06 PM, she put on an outdoor jacket and left the apartment. At 11:34 PM, she returned. She was carrying a heavy black plastic bag. I zoomed in on the feed. Inside the bag were box matches, a long-neck utility lighter, and two plastic bottles labeled “Industrial Degreaser & Solvent”. My fingertips went numbly cold. “The fire in my past life hadn’t been a tragic accident.” She had planned it. She had gone out and purchased the accelerants ahead of time. At 11:49 PM, she pulled a chair over and reached up to tear down the hallway smoke detector. She thought that by removing the battery, the alarm would stay silent. She didn’t know I had replaced it earlier that afternoon. The new unit was hardwired into a secondary smart hub linked directly to my phone and the building’s emergency system. At 12:02 AM, she went to the kitchen and turned the knob on the gas stove. Nothing happened. She knelt down, checked the pipes, and realized the main shutoff valve had been turned off. On the screen, her face twisted into a grotesque, terrifying scowl. She stood there for a few seconds, and then—out of nowhere—she smiled. That smile sent a violent shiver down my spine. It was the look of an actress who realized her prop had been swapped out, yet remained utterly determined to finish the play anyway. She walked to the entryway and unscrewed the bottles, pouring the liquid onto the floor. The amount wasn’t huge—if put out quickly, it would only scorch the doorway and the edge of the kitchen. It was just enough to create a terrifying scene. Just enough to force me to race back from the airport. At 12:08 AM, she struck a match. The moment the flame touched the liquid on the floor, a bright, eager tongue of fire roared to life. At that exact second, my phone rang. The caller ID flashed: “Mom”. I stared at those three letters, feeling as if a thick coil of barbed wire were tightening around my lungs. In my past life, she had called me just like this. Her screams had shattered through the speaker, tearing me apart. She had sobbed that the smoke was too thick, that she couldn’t open the door, weeping, “Elton… Mom only has you!” And so, I had sprinted into the trap. I had thrown myself into the fire she had carefully laid out for me. This time, I pressed answer. Marianne’s bloodcurdling screams instantly blasted through the receiver. “Elton! Fire! The apartment is on fire! I can’t open the front door! Come back and save me! Please, Elton!” On my laptop monitor, I watched her standing safely by the open master bedroom door. The bedroom window was cracked open, allowing fresh air inside. She was holding a wet towel over her mouth and nose, standing a wide, safe distance from the flames at the entrance. She wasn’t trapped. She was waiting for me. She was waiting for me to panic, to come running back, to charge through the thick smoke and hand my life over to her. I closed my eyes. Deep inside me, a tiny, traumatized child still wanted to save his mother. But a colder, clearer voice resonated through my skull: “She isn’t waiting for you to save her. She’s waiting for you to ruin yourself.” I picked up my burner phone and dialed 911. “Emergency services? I need to report a structural fire at Oakridge Condos, Building 7, Apartment 1601.” “Is anyone inside?” the operator asked urgently. I kept my eyes glued to the monitor, speaking with crisp, chilling precision. “The fire started at the main entrance threshold. It involves chemical accelerants. I turned off the main gas line earlier today and removed all high-proof spirits from the unit. There is one 53-year-old female inside. She is currently near the master bedroom, fully mobile, but emotionally unstable.” “Sir, where are you right now?” “I am at the airport hotel near Metro International.” “You’re the caller?” “I am the homeowner, and I am her son,” I said. My voice was raspy, but remarkably steady. “I have a live security feed of the interior. Send a team to extract her through the north stairwell. Please have security evacuate the sixteenth floor immediately.” “Sir, are you en route?” “No,” I answered clearly into the receiver. “I am submitting the live video feed to law enforcement right now. Send professionals to get her out. I will not be running into the fire.” … By the time the fire department arrived, the flames hadn’t even reached the living room. Because the gas line was dead and I had removed the household flammables, the blaze was a fraction of the inferno from my past life. Building security knocked on doors and safely evacuated the neighbors on the floor. Through the camera’s audio feed, I heard the sirens and the chaotic voices in the hallway. Marianne finally panicked. She sprinted toward the doorway, trying frantically to rip the hidden camera down from the wall, but the heat pushed her back. When the firefighters kicked open the front door, she was sitting near the bedroom window, coughing violently. Her face was smeared with soot, and she had a minor, superficial blister on the back of her hand. She was in no actual danger. At 3:00 AM, I took a cab back to the apartment complex. Not to comfort her. To hand over the evidence. A crowd had gathered in the courtyard downstairs. The moment Mrs. Rita saw me, she rushed over, her face flushed with outrage. “Elton! Where on earth have you been?! Your mother almost lost her life!” My uncle, Wayne, was standing nearby, his face dark as a thundercloud. “You were only forty minutes away! You called the police and didn’t even drive back?! Elton, that is your mother!” Before I could speak, Marianne—wrapped in a blanket inside an ambulance with a light bandage on her hand—started weeping hysterically. “Elton…” she whimpered, looking like the picture of a tragic, broken woman. “I called you… Why didn’t you come back?” Murmurs rippled through the onlookers. “Kids these days are so cold-hearted…” “Abandoning his own mother just to go abroad?” “Arrogant artist type. Thinks he’s too good for his family now.” Marianne sobbed harder, leaning into the sympathy. “I don’t blame you, sweetie… Mom was just terrified. As I was calling out your name, all I could think about was how I used to carry you to the hospital in my arms when you had a fever as a baby…” She was a master performer. In a matter of seconds, she had painted me as an ungrateful, heartless monster who watched his mother burn. Uncle Wayne grabbed my arm, shaking me. “Listen to me, your mother is fine. You tell the officers right now that this was an accident! Don’t ruin her health with a police investigation!” I looked at him, then at Marianne. “An accident?” I asked. Wayne glared. “What else would it be?! Are you trying to suggest your own mother set the fire on purpose?!” I pulled out my phone and tapped the screen, turning toward the police officer standing nearby. “Officer, I would like to formally submit digital evidence. I have high-definition video footage, smart smoke alarm server logs, and recorded phone calls.” Marianne’s crying abruptly cut off. I turned to the officer, my voice carrying over the quieted crowd. “Prior to the fire, my mother purchased a lighter, matches, and concentrated industrial solvents. Upon returning home, she systematically disabled the primary smoke detector, verified the gas line, poured accelerants across the exit corridor, and ignited the fire. All of this was captured on cloud-synced video.” The air in the courtyard instantly went dead silent.

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When my boyfriend, Mike, was reported missing after an accident during a geological survey, he managed to send back only three final messages. The first was a formal work update. The second was an apology to his parents. The third was a single sentence: “Kendra, you are my Quaternary Ice Age.” Kendra was my best friend. They were both brilliant geologists. Years ago, behind my back, they had applied to the exact same university program. Later, they became the most synchronized research partners in their field. Back then, just to understand the technical jargon they threw back and forth, I had forced myself to apply for a major transfer into geology. But in the end, I was nothing more than an errand girl in the research lab. Mike used to comfort me. “Everyone has their own strengths, Chloe. I’m just happy you’re my girlfriend.” Yet whenever he looked at Kendra, his eyes were always filled with that quiet, wistful admiration. And even in his dying moments, he used a language I could never decipher to confess his love to her. Not long after, Kendra died in a separate field accident. Because of their academic achievements, our alma mater buried them side by side as honored alumni. I lived the rest of my life consumed by quiet, suffocating regret. Then I opened my eyes—and found myself right back on the day I submitted my major transfer application in my junior year. Looking at the group chat on my phone, where the two of them were eagerly chatting while completely ignoring me, I let out a soft smile and hit “Cancel” on the transfer request. This time, I wasn’t going to spend my life chasing after them. … Even after I withdrew my transfer application, the group chat kept buzzing with non-stop notifications. The two of them were locked in a fiery back-and-forth. I typed out a quick message: “Have you guys eaten yet?” It was instantly swallowed up, swept away into the digital void like spam. Not a single person acknowledged it. Originally, the chat had been started to plan my birthday celebration for tomorrow. I had no idea at what point it had morphed into a dense technical debate on soil stratification that left me completely on the outside looking in. Without overthinking it, I tapped the screen and left the group chat. I didn’t expect Mike to send a single question mark within seconds. Then Kendra messaged me too. I didn’t reply. Moments later, my phone rang. Mike’s voice came through the speaker, as smooth and gentle as ever. “Chloe, why did you leave the group?” He didn’t notice my silence, offering a familiar, gently persuasive tone instead. “Kendra set up that chat for all of us. Throwing a sudden tantrum and leaving really hurts her feelings.” “If something’s bothering you, let’s talk tomorrow when we see each other, alright? Rejoin the chat first.” Even knowing I had been brushed aside, his immediate instinct was still to protect Kendra’s feelings. I sat motionless on the edge of my bed. The phone suddenly felt unbearably heavy in my palm, pressing down until it was hard to breathe. After hanging up, I rejoined the chat. But I didn’t send another message. The next morning, I was jolted awake from a light sleep by a barrage of phone calls. Kendra’s voice was bright and full of energy. “Chloe! Hurry up and come downstairs! We’ve got to celebrate your birthday before our afternoon lecture!” Out of habit, I dragged myself out of bed according to their schedule. It wasn’t until I reached the front of the dorm building that reality fully settled in. Before I could say anything, Kendra threw her arms around me in a tight hug. Mike followed right behind her, his face lit up with a warm smile, looking for all the world like “her” devoted boyfriend. Kendra pulled out an intricately wrapped gift box with an air of mystery. “Open it! Mike and I picked this out together for you.” Looking at the elegant packaging—identical to the one in my past life—I felt zero urge to untie the ribbon. Because I already knew what was inside: a generic, childish plush doll that boiled me down to a hollow caricature. In my past life, I had opened it with starry-eyed anticipation, only to feel like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. Kendra and Mike had been brimming with excitement. “Isn’t it great? We spent so long picking it out—we both thought it looked just like you!” Back then, I hadn’t seen through them. It wasn’t until three months later, on Kendra’s birthday, when Mike went through endless backchannels to purchase a real piece of a lunar meteorite as her gift, that I finally understood what real effort looked like. I accepted the box with a flat expression. “Thanks.” Kendra pouted slightly. “Why do you look so down, Chloe?” Mike answered casually for me. “She’s been busy dealing with her major transfer paperwork these past couple of days. She’s just tired, not upset.” He certainly knew what I was busy with, considering he was the one who had convinced me to switch in the first place. At the time, Mike had told me: “If your current major is too exhausting, just transfer into geology with me. Kendra and I will protect you.” So, without a second thought, I had applied to transfer in my junior year. Yet later, when my lab advisor chewed me out for lacking foundational knowledge, Mike was the one who sighed with thinly veiled impatience: “You were the one who insisted on studying geology, Chloe, even knowing you weren’t built for it.” Listening to his confident assumption now, a quiet smile touched my lips. Neither of them had any idea that I was no longer transferring. Kendra nodded, grabbing my arm to pull me toward a nearby bistro. As soon as we sat down, Mike walked out from the kitchen area holding a birthday cake. The moment my eyes fell on the rich, sticky chocolate frosting, my stomach lurched with a sudden wave of nausea. “Why chocolate cake again?” Mike answered with total nonchalance. “You don’t really care for cake anyway, so I let Kendra pick.” Kendra chimed in, her tone sweet and playful. “Chocolate is delicious! Honestly, Chloe, you really should try expanding your palate.” “I don’t eat chocolate.” They both knew perfectly well that chocolate made me sick, yet every single time, Mike deferred to Kendra’s preference. Mike gave me an unusual, lingering glance. But before he could say anything, Kendra enthusiastically switched off the dining room lights. He pulled his probing gaze back. The tiny flame on the single candle flickered softly. Mike urged me impatiently, “Make a wish, Chloe.” I didn’t have the stomach for the spectacle, so I half-closed my eyes. Through the faint golden glow of the candlelight, I saw Kendra excitedly putting on the cardboard birthday crown, closing her eyes to make a wish right along with me. The warm candle flame illuminated Mike’s face beside her—and the tender, utterly devoted gaze he fixed entirely on Kendra. A sharp, sour ache surged through my chest, followed by a wave of repulsed clarity. So every single birthday I had celebrated had actually been shared with Kendra. No wonder the wish I made every single year—”I hope the three of us stay happy together forever”—had never come true. I hardly touched a bite for the rest of the meal. Mike looked over at me several times, but he didn’t ask a single question, clearly trying to avoid an unpleasant scene. Walking back to campus after lunch, I was initially walking between the two of them. Before long, they dove into a dense conversation about their research project. Step by step, without even realizing it, I was nudged off the sidewalk and onto the street below. They walked close together, laughing and talking in an effortless rhythm. It wasn’t until we reached the front gates of their university that Mike finally stopped and turned around, a helpless chuckle in his eyes. “How did you fall so far behind again?” He paused, then added, “I won’t walk you back to your dorm then. You can make it back on your own, right?” I looked up at the stone archway of their campus, watching couples walking hand in hand into the courtyard. A bitter irony settled in my chest. When we applied for college years ago, we had all agreed to go to the same university. Yet an hour before the application system closed, the two of them secretly changed their first choice to the elite institute right next door. They hid it from me for half a month, until the acceptance letters officially arrived. At the time, Mike had brushed it off with a casual excuse: “Their geology program is ranked much higher. We couldn’t just compromise our futures for your sake.” Kendra had smoothed things over too: “It’s no big deal! The campuses are literally right across the street from each other. We’re still together!” Yet over three years of college, every single walk back to my dorm had been taken completely alone. I pulled my gaze back, my expression entirely blank. “Sure.” Mike stared at me, his dark eyes searching my face. Suddenly, he said, “Actually, let me walk you.” Before the words fully landed, Kendra let out a soft, mournful sigh. “Aww, but our lab session starts in ten minutes! Chloe can walk a few blocks by herself, can’t she?” Mike frowned slightly, looking at me in silent conflict. I said calmly, “Don’t bother.” The tension instantly drained from his brow. “Alright. Next time then.” I turned on my heel and walked away. After taking only a dozen steps, I pulled out my phone and typed out a text to Mike: “Let me make it easy for you. Let’s break up.” Not long after sending it, hurried, panicked footsteps crunched against the pavement behind me. Mike caught up, his hand clamping tightly around my wrist. “Where is this coming from all of a sudden? Don’t make jokes like that.” “I’m not joking.” Mike let out a light, nervous laugh, reaching out to tuck a windblown strand of hair behind my ear. “Have you just been in a bad mood lately? If something’s bothering you, just talk to me.” He glanced back in Kendra’s direction, his voice dropping slightly. “But don’t bring this drama to Kendra. It’s finals week and her stress levels are through the roof. Don’t throw her off.” I stood frozen on the sidewalk. A deep, hollow ache bloomed in my chest, expanding until my throat burned. Even when I brought up breaking up, Mike didn’t take it seriously for a single second. His entire world still revolved exclusively around Kendra. Before Kendra entered our lives, Mike and I had been inseparable childhood sweethearts. When we were kids, if anyone called me dumb, Mike would throw hands without a second thought. As we grew older, he would invent endless creative ways to help me study. When my parents went through a messy divorce and abandoned me, Mike emptied his savings and gave me all his tutoring earnings just so I could cover my high school tuition. But the moment Kendra appeared—a girl who seemed to need constant protection—I became the one who was expected to step aside. By now, Kendra was already calling out to him impatiently from down the street. Mike hurriedly wiped away a tear that had slipped down my cheek. “I have class right now. Go back to your room and cool down.” I had heard that phrase a thousand times. Every time I argued with him over Kendra, it always ended with him telling me to “cool down.” As if the problem was always my emotional instability. While he stood safely on the bank, watching the fire burn without ever acknowledging my pain. That evening, the only communication I received from Mike was a single text: “Don’t forget to take your pain meds.” When the message popped up, a throbbing pain was radiating through my right knee. It was an old injury from my years of rigorous dance training as a kid. In my past life, after graduation, the condition had deteriorated so severely that surgery became unavoidable. Yet right when I was preparing for the operation, a two-year research project that Mike and Kendra had poured everything into lost its funding, threatening total collapse. At the time, I worked daytime shifts at the research institute and taught private dance classes at night to scrape money together. But it was barely a drop in the bucket. Watching them face failure after failure, drowned in silent despair, I made the choice to pull my surgical savings out of the bank to plug their financial hole. Their experiment survived. It was the single biggest regret of my entire life. Six months after handing over my surgery fund, my knee gave out during a late-night commercial dance gig. I plunged off a one-meter stage. By the time I was rushed to the ER, the orthopedic surgeon stared at the scans and shook his head in deep disappointment. “The damage here is pressing directly on the main nerve root. If you had come six months ago, surgery could have saved it completely. Now? You’re going to walk with a permanent limp.” I remembered sitting on that stark hospital bed in stunned silence, the white walls blurring into jagged smears of light. I tried calling Mike and Kendra. Neither picked up. Finally, I called one of their lab colleagues. The guy sent back a short video. “Someone in the department is celebrating a birthday—we’re all out at a karaoke lounge.” In the video, Mike and Kendra were tucked into a cozy corner of the booth, sitting impossibly close. Surrounded by cheering friends, they were playing that party game where you pass a thin cracker lip-to-lip. The way they looked into each other’s eyes during that split second was so raw it looked like a real kiss. The flashing neon lights in the video had burned my eyes, and my chest had ached with a suffocating weight. It wasn’t until the next afternoon that Mike finally called back. He dismissed the entire thing with effortless detachment: “Your leg is crippled? It’s fine. It just means you won’t be dancing in public anymore anyway. Honestly, putting yourself on display like that wasn’t a great look to begin with.” He seemed to have completely forgotten “who” had paid for his research to survive. A cold compress pulled me back from the dark spiral of my memories. Without hesitation, I opened my phone and booked an appointment with an orthopedic specialist for tomorrow morning. At the hospital, the doctor reviewed my MRI scans with a serious expression. “You caught this early. There’s still time for surgical intervention, and it shouldn’t impact your ability to pursue dance long-term.” “However, you must avoid strenuous physical activity before the operation. If the nerve compression worsens, even surgery won’t guarantee a full recovery.” Since summer break was just around the corner, I let out a massive sigh of relief. When I returned to my dorm building, I ran straight into Kendra and Mike near the entrance. Mike noticed the thick medical envelope in my hand, his brow furrowing. “What’s that?” I brushed it off. “Just a routine checkup scan.” Mike nodded, asking no further questions. Because a tearful Kendra was far more deserving of his attention. “Chloe, why do you want to break up with Mike? Is it because of me?” “Mike and I are just friends! You’re the most important person in the world to me—how could you misinterpret things like this?” I looked at her quietly. I couldn’t help but remember how, in my past life after Mike died, Kendra couldn’t accept the reality and shifted the entire blame onto me. “If you hadn’t sent him all those needy texts the night before, he wouldn’t have been exhausted! He wouldn’t have had the accident!” Because of Kendra’s tearful accusations, the entire department turned their anger on me. Local news outlets even quoted her words in their coverage. I was cyberbullied so severely that I developed deep depression and nearly ended my own life. Looking at her weeping face now, I asked flatly, “Kendra, aren’t you in love with Mike?” Kendra’s pupils contracted. She stumbled over her words. “How could I steal your boyfriend? Besides, if we were going to date, we would have done it years ago! Why would he end up with you instead?” Mike looked at me with profound disappointment. “Chloe, you shouldn’t doubt Kendra. She cares about you more than anyone.” His tone carried an absolute, commanding authority. “Apologize to her.” I cast a cool glance at him. “Whether she cares about me, I don’t know. But you certainly care deeply about her.” Mike’s face darkened instantly. Kendra stopped her sobbing, stepping forward to shield Mike behind her. “How can you talk to Mike like that? Hasn’t he been good enough to you? Without him, you wouldn’t even have been able to afford college!” To defend Mike, Kendra didn’t hesitate to tear open my oldest, most painful scars just to sting me. I swallowed the sharp pain in my chest, walked around them, and kept going. Kendra tried to chase after me, but Mike pulled her back. “Forget it. She doesn’t appreciate your concern anyway—look at you, crying like a little mess.” I heard Kendra whimpering softly against his shoulder. Mike comforted her in a gentle, hushed tone. “She’s just throwing a petty tantrum. We’re not actually breaking up. We’ll both always be here with you.” I let out a bitter laugh. The moment I got back to my room, I pulled up the student portal and submitted my application for the international exchange program. My academic advisor called me in to double-check. “The exchange spots are only open for your current performing arts major. Are you sure you don’t want to finalize your transfer to geology before applying?” Thinking of Mike’s unwavering confidence, I didn’t hesitate for a second. “I’m sure.” The next morning, Kendra sent a text: “Chloe, I was too hot-headed yesterday. Please don’t take it to heart.” “Mike said you’re in a funk, so let’s go hiking this weekend to clear your head! You love hiking, don’t you?” In the past, I had only lied about loving hiking because I wanted to spend time with them during their field outings. Just as I was about to type out a refusal, Mike called. His voice held a heavy, weary annoyance. “Just agree to go, Chloe. Otherwise, she’s going to keep coming to your dorm building to harass you.” “My leg is injured,” I said coldly. “I can’t hike.” Without waiting for his response, I ended the call. Yet when the weekend came, they were waiting right at the bottom of my building anyway. Mike’s tone left no room for debate. “It’s just a light trail, and there’s a cable car system near the peak. It won’t affect your leg.” The two of them essentially sandwiched me into the back seat of a charter van. There were other students in the vehicle—strangers from their department. Throughout the ride, the two of them chatted animatedly with the rest of the group, while I sat in the corner like an awkward outsider. When we arrived at the base of the trail, Mike naturally picked up my heavy backpack. “Hey, I want the exact same treatment!” Kendra pouted playfully, showing off her intimacy with Mike without a shred of restraint. Mike casually slung her bag over his other shoulder as well. It wasn’t until we began the ascent that I realized this wasn’t a recreational trip at all. It was another field survey for one of Kendra’s academic projects. I was merely an afterthought. Halfway up the trail, a sharp, throbbing ache began to radiate through my knee. “I’m not going any further,” I said, stopping in my tracks. Kendra turned around with a look of pure disappointment, said nothing, and kept climbing. Mike’s patience was clearly running thin. “Didn’t I already take your bag for you?” The other students bypassed me with visible disdain. “Complaining after a couple of miles? Why do beginners even bother coming on these trips?” I tossed my trekking poles onto the dirt path and turned to head back down. Mike stepped in front of me, annoyed. “Going down alone is dangerous. Just keep pushing upward—the cable car station is near the top.” We hiked for what felt like hours. The sky gradually darkened into a deep twilight, yet there was still no sign of the cable car station. My leg was trembling so badly I could barely keep my balance. “Where is the cable car?” This time, the entire group fell dead silent. Kendra’s voice quavered with panic. “We… we took the wrong fork.” I looked at Mike in utter shock. He pressed his lips into a tight line, saying nothing. Someone quickly dialed the mountain emergency rescue line. But because our exact location was uncertain, there was no telling how long it would take for help to arrive. As darkness swallowed the trail, fear began to spread through the group. I sank down onto a flat rock, my voice barely a whisper. “Mike… my leg hurts.” Before he could answer, a guy from their lab snapped aggressively, “Are you ever going to stop? If you’re injured, why did you come on a field survey in the first place? You just wanted easy extra credit by relying on Mike to carry you, right?” Others chimed in with cold side-eyes. “His actual girlfriend is sitting right here—how does she have the nerve?” Looking at Kendra’s guilty, averted eyes, the truth finally clicked. To the rest of the team, Mike and Kendra were the official couple. I was just an intrusive, shameless third wheel. Sweat poured down my face from the agonizing throbs in my knee. I curled up on the dirt, lacking even the strength to defend myself. Mike barked at the group, “Everyone shut up! Stop taking your frustration out on her!” He pulled out a emergency painkiller from his pack, handed it to me with water, and then crouched down in front of me. “I’ll carry you back down the path we came.” Suddenly, Kendra broke into frantic tears. “Mike… I’m scared of the dark.” Mike froze in place. “You have a high-powered flashlight, don’t you?” She tugged tightly at his jacket sleeve. “It doesn’t matter! I’m terrified without you!” Another student chimed in immediately. “Mike, you should take Kendra down first. She’s faint-hearted.” “Yeah, and Kendra’s safety is crucial for the department’s data.” In the pitch-black woods, every sound was amplified. I could hear my own racing heart, the quiet contempt in their voices—and the heavy pause before Mike stood back up. “Wait here for the rescue team, Chloe,” Mike said softly. “I’ll take Kendra down to the base and come right back for you.” I reached out with trembling fingers, clutching the hem of his jacket. “Don’t go, Mike. Please. I can’t wait out here.” With cruel precision, Mike peeled my fingers off his sleeve one by one. “Your leg isn’t that severe. The painkiller will kick in soon.” The rhythmic crunch of Mike’s boots carrying Kendra down the trail slowly faded into the dark distance. I sat on the cold ground, hollowed out. The mountain wind grew howling cold, stinging my tear-stained eyes. I don’t know how many hours passed. Just before unconsciousness claimed me, the flashlight beams of the rescue team cut through the trees. By the time Mike finally rushed into the regional hospital hours later, he was met by the uncomfortable, awkward stares of his lab mates. Above the double doors of the operating room, the bright red glow of the surgical sign made his scalp go entirely numb. “What was happening?” “Why was Chloe in surgery?” When I opened my eyes in the hospital room, a strange sense of rebirth washed over me. Then a splitting headache tore through my brain, reminding me that I had simply passed out from pain and exhaustion. It took a few agonizing seconds to regain sensation. The very first thing I did was reach down toward my leg. It was wrapped in thick, heavy layers of surgical gauze—just like after my fall off the stage in my past life. My heart slammed against my ribs. I opened my mouth to call out, but only a raspy, silent breath escaped my throat. “Was I really destined to end up a cripple all over again?” Despair settled over me like a suffocating blanket. Unable to accept it, I slammed my hand against the bed frame in frustration. The thud brought a rush of hurried footsteps outside. The door was shoved open with force. Mike stood at the threshold, his eyes wide with shock. “Chloe! You’re awake?” He scrambled to press the nurse call button, then poured a cup of water and held it to my dry lips. I grabbed his forearm tightly, my voice trembling. “Mike… my leg. How is my leg?” Mike’s face drained of all color. It took him several agonizing seconds to force the words out. “It… it was very critical at first. The surgery is over, but you’re still under strict observation.” His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “I’m sorry, Chloe.” A few minutes later, the lead surgeon walked in to inspect my vitals. “The operation went smoothly,” the doctor announced, checking my charts. “We managed to relieve the nerve compression just in time.” A massive weight lifted off my chest. “Thank God.” I hadn’t been dragged back into the abyss. However, the doctor tapped his clipboard with a stern expression. “You cannot ignore medical advice again. During the recovery window, you are strictly forbidden from engaging in any high-impact physical activity. If the nerve undergoes secondary trauma, the damage will be permanent.” Before I could respond, Mike—standing behind the doctor—clutched the metal footboard so hard his knuckles turned white. His face was ghastly pale. After the doctor left, Mike sat down by my bedside, staring blankly at my wrapped leg. After a long silence, his voice cracked with emotion. “Why didn’t you tell me it was already this serious?” The room was so quiet I could hear the faint strain in his breathing. My voice remained completely flat. “I did tell you.” “I told you I couldn’t hike. I told you I couldn’t walk anymore. I told you my leg hurt…” “Had I been unconscious so long that he had already forgotten?” “You should have told me the actual medical diagnosis!” he insisted, his tone defensive. I stared quietly at the plain white ceiling. In my mind’s eye, I saw his cold, indifferent face from my past life—the way he had mocked me when I told him the truth. I looked at him and asked softly, “Even if I had given you the exact diagnosis… would you really have stopped forcing me to climb that mountain?” “Of course I would have!” Mike blurted out. Then, just as quickly, his voice died in his throat. “No, you wouldn’t,” I finished the sentence for him. “You would have told me it wasn’t a big deal. You would have told me to compromise just one more time.” Mike went completely stiff. When our eyes met, a flick of deep, unsettling confusion passed through his gaze. Out of nowhere, I asked a quiet question. “Mike… what does ‘You are my Quaternary Ice Age’ mean?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “558488”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The hurricane was tearing through the harbor. As the only search-and-rescue captain in this entire stretch of the coast who could navigate a Category 4 gale without taking on water, I had just received an emergency distress call worth ten million dollars. Twelve years ago, it was a day just like this. I had watched, helpless, as my little sister was swallowed whole by a massive rip current. And my mother—without a second thought—had ripped the only life preserver out of my hands and tossed it to her high-school sweetheart’s son instead. That boy had done nothing more than slip in the shallows and swallow a mouthful of seawater. From that day on, I surrendered my life to this ocean. I spent twelve years mapping every killer tide, every jagged reef, and every blind vortex in these waters. I pulled drowning souls back to the shore, one by one, until no one was left to die on my watch. Until today. Looking at the photo on the comms console—a face I would know if I were blind and deaf—a bitter smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. I slid the file back across the metal table to my first mate. “Pass. I’m not taking the job.” … “Have you lost your damn mind, Sam?” Mac demanded, his bloodshot eyes bulging out of his skull. “Ten million dollars!” He thrust a thick, calloused finger into the air, his knuckles trembling with rage. “Ten million to pull one rich kid out of the water! I don’t care if it’s the goddamn King of Atlantis out there, we take the contract! And you’re sitting there telling me “no”?” I stared at the console, where Brody Kane’s terrified, tear-streaked face flickered on the distress feed. Slowly, I opened my tactical folding knife and began shaving the edge of a lead pencil, tiny curls of wood dropping onto the desk. “I said no.” Mac slammed his fist onto the metal console, sending a sharp vibration through the cabin. “Sam, look at yourself! Look at how you’ve lived these past twelve years! Every time a storm rolls in, you jump into the ocean like a ghost looking for a place to die! How many stitches are holding your skin together? How’s that ulcer treating you? Now someone places enough cash in front of you to set you up for the rest of your life, and you’re pulling this self-righteous bullshit?” I blew the fine graphite dust off the tip of my pencil. Mac paced the cramped wheelhouse, his boots heavy against the floorboards. “The crew hasn’t seen a full paycheck in two months, Sam. The dock manager is threatening to seize our fuel lines, and Mitch’s daughter is sitting in the ICU waiting on surgery money we don’t have!” He grabbed me by the collar of my oilskin jacket, his breath hot against my face. “Last week, during that tropical storm, you nearly drowned trying to save a boat full of undocumented migrants who couldn’t pay us a dime! Now someone offers you ten million bucks, and you walk away? Is this who you are now? A man who lets people die?” I wrapped my fingers around Mac’s wrist and forced his hand off me, inch by slow inch. “Call them back,” I said, tossing the sharpened pencil into a tin cup. “Tell them to hire someone else.” Mac took a step backward, staring at me as if I were a stranger. “There isn’t a boat within five hundred miles that can cut through Devil’s Anvil in a black storm except us! If you don’t go, that kid is a dead man!” “Sam!” Mac’s voice broke. “Even if you don’t give a damn about the money… that’s a human life! Last month, when you pulled that seven-year-old girl out of the surf, you held her and cried like a lunatic. This is a person, Sam!” My hand froze on the folding knife. The razor-sharp blade sank too deep, jamming into the wood of the desk. Twelve years ago, Daisy was just a child, too. She was clinging to the razor-sharp barnacles on the outer reef with blood dripping from her tiny fingers. “Jesse… help me… I’m so cold…” No one came for her. Her cries were swallowed whole by the roar of the sea. “Besides, the client isn’t someone we can afford to piss off,” Mac whispered, dropping his voice. “It’s Vera Kane. She posted the bounty herself. It’s her prized godson out there. Brody Kane.” The knife blade slipped. It sliced clean through my thumb, opening a deep, jagged gash across the flesh. Blood welled up immediately, dripping onto the console. I didn’t even feel the pain. In my mind, I was back on that beach twelve years ago. I saw Brody, crying over a skinned knee in ankle-deep water, screaming like the sky was falling. And I saw my mother, Vera, refusing to throw even a single glance toward the deep water where my little sister was drowning. She took the only life preserver we had, turned her back on her own daughter, and ran to comfort her lover’s son. Then a massive wave crashed over the rocks. And Daisy was gone. Mac stared at the blood pooling on my hand, then at my blank expression, and let out a long, defeated sigh. “I’m begging you, Sam. Just take it.” “Mac.” I turned around, grabbed the main power cable to the radio, and ripped it out of the wall. “I said no.” … At midnight, the backup emergency receiver began to flash a blinding red light. A high-pitched, piercing alarm echoed through the cabin. I didn’t move. Mac scrambled across the floor and snatched up the mic. After listening for a few seconds, all the color drained from his face. He passed the radio to me with a shaking hand. “Captain?” The woman’s voice crackled through the static—arrogant, sharp, accustomed to commanding total obedience. Even after twelve years, even muffled by the storm, that voice sent a sickening chill straight into my bones. Vera Kane. “Why haven’t you launched yet?” she demanded coldly. “I’ve already sent over the contract. Ten million dollars. You take your boat and get to Devil’s Anvil right now.” Mac yanked on my sleeve, silently pleading with his eyes. I sat in the dark corner of the cabin, watching the radar screen pulse with red storm indicators. My voice was completely flat. “The storm is too severe. Nobody sails tonight.” A second of dead silence hung on the line, followed by a faint, cruel laugh. “Looking for a payout, are we? Name your price, but don’t overplay your hand.” Her words were rapid, clipped. “Twenty million, Captain. But let’s be realistic—you should know what your life is actually worth. That kind of money is enough to buy every pathetic soul on your boat ten times over.” Beside me, Mac stopped breathing. My fingers tightened around the handle of my knife. Twelve years ago, how much was my sister’s life worth to her? A ten-dollar plastic life preserver was too expensive for Daisy. I looked down, staring at the white scar running across my palm. “It’s not about the money, Mrs. Kane. Find someone else.” “Find who?!” Vera erupted, her composure snapping into fury. “The Coast Guard, the commercial salvagers, every elite rescue team in the state told me the exact same thing—in a storm like this, Captain Sam of “The Storm Hound” is the only reckless bastard insane enough to survive Devil’s Anvil!” Of course they wouldn’t go. For twelve long years, I had offered myself up as a sacrifice to this merciless sea. Whenever a hurricane hit, everyone else fled to harbor, while I drove straight into the teeth of the storm. I had broken eight bones, shredded layers of skin against hidden reefs, and walked the razor’s edge of death a thousand times over. I had bought the knowledge of those fatal currents with my own bleeding flesh. I was the only one who knew the way through. “Fifty million!” Vera’s voice grew frantic, edged with hysteria. “Captain, you spend your life drowning for scraps—have you ever even seen that kind of money? Fifty million is enough to leave that filthy harbor, buy a mansion downtown, and live like a king! Don’t you dare bite the hand trying to feed you!” “Mrs. Kane,” I interrupted. “What? Have you finally come to your senses?” “You’re right,” I said quietly. “I’ve never seen that much money.” “Then get your boat in the water! Bring Brody back, and you’ll never have to work another day in your miserable life! Brody’s life is precious—nothing can happen to him!” “Precious.” Yes, always precious. Twelve years ago, that boy had slipped in water that barely covered his ankles. He swallowed one gulp of foam and wailed like he was dying. And my mother, without a single backward glance at her own daughter suffocating in the dark water, snatched the buoy from my hands and ran to him. I had dropped to my knees on the sand, beating my forehead against the sharp stones until I bled, begging her to call the Coast Guard, begging her to help. She hadn’t even looked back. “Brody is traumatized! I have to get him to a hospital right now!” As Daisy sank, her eyes had stayed glued to our mother on the shore. To her last breath, she never understood why Mom wouldn’t look at her. “Captain? Are you listening to me?!” Vera shouted, losing the last bit of her patience. “Fifty million. That is my final offer.” “Brody Kane’s life is worth fifty million to you,” I said softly into the mic. “So tell me, Mrs. Kane… what was my sister’s life worth?” Before she could answer, I reached down and tore the main circuit board wires straight out of the console. Mac’s legs gave out. He slid down the cabin wall, burying his face in his hands. “You’re insane… you’ve lost your goddamn mind! You just declared war on the Kane family! On Vera Kane!” “So what?” I stood up and kicked open the heavy iron door of the wheelhouse. The storm raged outside, driving freezing rain across my face like shattered glass. It was bitter cold. But I was used to it. … At dawn, the storm hit a brief, eerie lull. Three black armored SUVs rammed through the chain-link perimeter fence of our private marina, tearing up the gravel as they roared down the pier. The doors flew open. Dozens of security guards clad in tactical storm gear spilled out, forming a tight perimeter around the dock. Vera Kane stepped out of the lead vehicle. She wore a tailored wool trench coat and high heels that clicked sharply against the rotting wooden planks. Her brow was furrowed in deep disgust. Pulling a silk handkerchief from her pocket, she pressed it over her nose to block the smell of diesel and sea salt. “Is this the man?” She looked up, her cold gaze sweeping over me as I stood on the deck. I pulled the hood of my heavy jacket lower, hiding the lower half of my face beneath a high collar dark with grease. A thick, faded scar ran down my cheek—the violent souvenir of a towline snapping years ago. I looked nothing like the frail, sobbing boy she had abandoned on a beach twelve years ago. She turned her eyes away in revulsion, failing to recognize her own son. Her assistant stepped forward, carrying a heavy metal briefcase. He popped the latches, revealing stacks of legal documents and cashier’s checks. “Captain,” the assistant said, his tone dripping with condescension. “Mr. Brody Kane carries the finest bloodline of the Kane empire. He isn’t like you people—trash raised by the ocean air.” He tapped the documents with a manicured finger. “Fifty million is just the starting point. We know people in your line of work usually come from pathetic backgrounds. You sign this, and the Kanes will buy you a luxury estate, give your family full residency status, and if you have any younger siblings, the Kane Foundation will cover full tuition to any Ivy League university in the country.” I stared at the pristine white paper, completely motionless. “I don’t have a sister.” The assistant blinked, caught off guard. Beside me, Old Pete, a veteran sailor who was helping mend our heavy nylon nets, couldn’t stop a heavy sigh from escaping his lips. He muttered under his breath, “Captain’s had a dark road… his folks threw him away long ago. The only person he ever cared about was his little sister, and she drowned in these waters fifteen years back.” Pete shook his head. “He’s all alone in this world. What the hell is he supposed to do with your Ivy League money?” Vera rolled her eyes, letting out a sharp, nasty sneer. “Ah. So that’s what this is.” She crossed her arms, looking up at me with absolute contempt. “No wonder you live like a coward hiding in a hole. You couldn’t even protect your own little sister—you let her drown right in front of you. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t have the stomach to go out there and save a real man.” My hands gripped the cold iron railing. My knuckles turned stark white, and the skin around my fingernails split from the pressure, oozing dark red onto the metal. “You’re right,” I said, staring directly down into her immaculately preserved face. “I failed to protect her.” “Then stop acting like you’re above us,” Vera snapped, raising her chin. “Your sister died because she was weak. That was her fate. But Brody cannot die! Bring him back, and you name your price.” I looked away, gazing down at the black water churning against the hull. “Get off my dock, Mrs. Kane. Before the wind picks up again.” Vera’s face turned livid. “Don’t you dare play hard to get with me!” She thrust a finger into my face. “In this county, the Kanes decide who lives and who starves. I am telling you right now—if you don’t launch this boat today, I will make sure you never set foot on the sea again!” “Try me.” I turned my back on her and walked into the wheelhouse. … Two hours later, the harbor sirens began to wail. Coast Guard cutters blockaded the bay, cutting off all supply vessels. “The Storm Hound’s” commercial registry was arbitrarily frozen, and a harbor authority squad arrived to hand us an indefinite emergency suspension notice. Then they cut off our access to fuel and fresh water. It wasn’t just my boat. Over a hundred local fishing vessels that relied on our rescue network to survive were systematically blacklisted by the Kane family’s influence. “They capped the water mains!” Mitch, my second mate, barged into the cabin, his face streaked with grease and sweat. “And they put federal seals on the supply warehouses on the pier! They’re calling it an emergency safety audit!” Out on the docks, hundreds of local families—impoverished fishermen, young mothers, elderly deckhands—were forced out into the freezing rain. There were widows holding feverish infants, and old men with broken legs who had spent their lives on the water. These were the working-class people “The Storm Hound” had protected for over a decade. Vera Kane sat comfortably in the heated leather interior of her SUV. Through the sweeping windshield wipers, she looked out at the desperate crowd like they were pile of garbage. She picked up a bullhorn, her voice echoing over the wind. “Do you see this, Captain? Because of your arrogance, every single one of these people is going to suffer.” She made a lazy motion with her hand. “Clear these filthy shacks out of my way. And cut the anchor chains on that boat.” A pair of heavy industrial bulldozers roared to life, their massive steel blades lowering as they lurched forward toward the crude wooden shelters where a widow and her baby were huddled! “What the hell are you doing?!” Mac and Mitch screamed. Desperate to protect the only shelter these families had, my crew charged forward, throwing their bodies in front of the heavy machinery. Dozens of Vera’s armed guards swarmed them instantly. The lead guard delivered a brutal kick directly to Mac’s ribs, sending him sprawling into the freezing mud. The guard’s polished leather boot stomped down on Mac’s head, grinding his face into the sharp gravel and dirty puddle beneath him. Mitch lost his mind, swinging a heavy iron wrench as he rushed forward to help, but guards tackled him from behind. A heavy tactical baton whipped through the rain, striking Mitch’s knee with a sickening “crack”. Mitch let out a strangled groan and collapsed onto the sharp rocks, blood instantly soaking through his jeans and running into the seawater. The crowd of fishermen broke into complete chaos. The young mother holding her sick infant fell to her knees in the mud, sobbing violently as she beat her head against the ground. “Captain Sam! Please! I beg you! Save my baby! Without fresh water, he’s going to die!” An old, one-legged deckhand crawled through the slush, weeping bitterly. “Captain… we can’t fight people like them! Just bow your head… give them what they want so the rest of us can live!” I looked at Mac, his face pressed into the dirt under a guard’s boot. I looked at Mitch, bleeding heavily on the rocks. I looked at the weeping families pleading for their lives. My vision went entirely blood-red. A roar tore out of my throat, raw and ragged. “STOP! I’LL DO IT!!” Vera lowered her window, letting out a cold, contemptuous laugh. “A wise decision,” she sneered, tossing a signed check out into the mud. “You should have known your place from the beginning. Get the boat moving.” I didn’t pick up the check. Instead, I marched off the vessel, grabbed the top frame of her car window, and forced my face inches from hers. “Listen to me very carefully, Vera,” I whispered, holding her shocked, wide eyes with my own. “Your precious little boy is currently trapped in the rip current at Coordinate C4 of Devil’s Anvil. Twelve years ago, a little girl drowned in that exact same spot. The whirlpools there love nothing more than swallowing living flesh.” The arrogant smile vanished from Vera’s face. Her guards surged forward, drawing their weapons. I kept going, my voice low and dark. “In ten minutes, a fifty-foot rogue wave is going to slam into those rocks. Brody will be pulled straight down into the deep trenches. The water pressure will crush his lungs in seconds. His bones will snap like twigs, pinned inside the rock crevices.” “And then,” I smiled, a terrifying, hollow expression, “the deep-water sea eels will catch the scent of his blood. They’ll swim out of the dark and strip the flesh from his bones, piece by piece.” “Break his legs!” Vera shrieked, her voice cracking in pure terror. Four guards drew heavy iron truncheons, swinging them toward my head and knees from my blind spots. I didn’t even bother to dodge. Instead, I reached into my coat, whipped out a heavy-duty industrial line-throwing gun, and jammed the steel muzzle directly against the lead guard’s forehead. The heavy “clack” of the internal firing spring locking into place made every single guard freeze dead in their tracks. Behind me, Mac and a dozen bleeding crew members marched forward, wielding iron harpoons, flare guns, and heavy boat hooks, forming an impenetrable wall in front of me. Vera pushed her door open and stepped into the freezing slush. Her high heels sank into the mud, but she didn’t seem to notice. She pointed a trembling finger at my face, her voice hysterical. “Who do you think you are?! How dare you curse my boy?!” “In this county, the Kane family can crush you like a bug! I will make sure every single one of you filthy, low-class subhumans ends up at the bottom of the ocean!” I pulled out my satellite terminal, punched in a long self-destruct command sequence, and turned the screen toward her. A ten-second countdown began to tick down in bright red numbers. “In this entire region, “The Storm Hound” is the only vessel with a modified navigation core built to survive high-frequency magnetic interference,” I told her, my voice dropping to a icy whisper. “And the path through the killer currents of Devil’s Anvil exists nowhere except inside my head.” I held the blinking screen closer to her pale face. “You can destroy this boat, or you can kill me right now. But if I die, Brody rots at the bottom of the sea. Make your choice.” The numbers on the screen ticked down. “Five. Four. Three…” Vera’s face turned the color of ash. She stared at the ticking red numbers, her breath catching in her throat. The head bodyguard swallowed hard, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Ma’am… it’s not worth the risk. We need to save Mr. Brody first.” Vera took three shaky, ragged breaths. “Captain Sam…” she stammered, her arrogant edge crumbling into desperation. “We are all human beings. We all have parents. If something happens to Brody… do you have any idea how devastating that would be for me?” “You have a mother too, don’t you?” she sobbed, trying to play on my humanity. “If your mother saw you standing by while a young man died, how do you think she would feel?” A sudden wave of intense nausea surged up my throat. Twelve years ago, I had broken my skull against the rocks, weeping and bleeding at her feet, begging her to save my little sister. And her eyes back then had been colder than the ocean floor. “Shut up,” I growled, cutting off her pathetic act. “You want me to go out there? Fine. But I am warning you—if you force me into that storm…” I leaned in, my scarred face terrifying in the dim light. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself from holding his head underwater until he stops breathing.” “Now tell me, Mrs. Kane… do you still want me to steer the boat?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “558504”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I can only hear out of my right ear. Through seven years of dating, Noah Barrett was the picture-perfect boyfriend—attentive to every detail, praised by everyone we knew. “Even if the day comes when you can’t hear a single thing,” he used to whisper, “I’ll still be right here beside you.” Until the night of his company’s holiday gala, when someone suggested playing a game of Telephone. Whitney Ford passed the secret phrase to Noah. He stepped up to my right side—my good side—and spoke, leaning in close so I could catch every syllable: “June is dead weight.” I froze. Our teammates kept pushing me to pass it on, and Noah frowned down at me. “It’s just a game, June. Come on, say it.” I had no choice. I turned around and repeated it loudly for the room to hear: “June is dead weight!” The entire room erupted into laughter. Whitney giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. “I literally whispered, ‘Happy New Year, June!’ Why on earth are you talking trash about yourself?” I stood rooted to the spot, my body turning cold as I snapped my gaze toward Noah. He could have cleared it up. He could have told everyone what he actually said to me. Instead, he just looked down, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. Whitney leaned close to him, her voice dropping into a stage whisper. “I won the bet! You promised—if she humiliated herself in front of everyone, you’d take me to Iceland for New Year’s!” Noah let out a soft laugh, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “Yeah, yeah. You win.” Only then did he finally look up at me, his eyes soft with faux concern. “Whitney’s just teasing, sweetie. Don’t take it to heart.” I stared at him in stunned silence as the lie slid effortlessly off his tongue. In seven years of losing my hearing, I had mastered the art of reading lips. Just because I couldn’t hear clearly didn’t mean I couldn’t read his mouth. Right then and there, I made up my mind. I would accept the invitation from the clinic overseas for my treatment. From now on, I was going to walk my path alone. … The host quickly stepped in to smooth things over, laughing into the microphone as he announced the next group. The upbeat music swelled back up, and the crowd moved on, forgetting the small hiccup almost instantly. Only I remained stuck in place. The hearing aid in my left ear emitted a high-pitched, faint hum—like a fine needle stabbing repeatedly into my eardrum. I pulled it out, turned on my heel, and walked out of the ballroom. Noah caught up to me in the hallway, grabbing my wrist to pull me to a halt. “June, it was just a joke. Do you really have to throw a fit and embarrass everyone?” I kept my eyes fixed on the movement of his mouth. “Taking her to Iceland—is that a joke, too?” His expression locked up. He hadn’t expected me to read his lips. It took him a beat to find his voice. “Whitney’s wanted to go to Iceland forever, but she didn’t have anyone to go with. Your health is delicate, June. You can’t handle that kind of arctic climate. Once you’re feeling better, I’ll take you somewhere nice.” Before I could answer, Noah looked past my shoulder, and his gaze softened instantly. Whitney was running toward us, holding the train of her gown. “Noah! I cut my finger on the cake box earlier. Blow on it for me!” She slid her arm through his with practiced ease, sticking her tongue out at me playfully. Noah shook his head, gently bopping her nose with a finger. “Always so dramatic.” That light, effortless warmth—he rarely showed it around me. With me, he was always walking on eggshells, treating me like fragile glass that might shatter at any moment. “June, you should head home,” Noah said, turning back to me. “This crowd isn’t good for you anyway. I’ll call the driver. Keep your hearing aid in, okay? Don’t make me worry.” For the first time in seven years, I realized that taking care of someone and actually loving them are two completely different things. It was past two in the morning by the time I got back to the house. The living room was cluttered with items Noah had given me over the years: my very first hearing aid, my first sign-language guidebook, and a stack of index cards he had written by hand to communicate with me. The last card read: “No matter what happens, never let go of my hand.” I placed the cards into a cardboard box, sliding my engagement ring right beside them. A moment later, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was a call from the hospital. “Ms. Whitlock,” Dr. Hardy said, his tone heavy. “The follow-up results for your right ear came back. The degeneration is accelerating. If you don’t check into the hospital for immediate treatment, you’re looking at total hearing loss.” Noah called while I was in the back of an Uber on the way to the clinic. “Where are you?” he asked. “I came home and you weren’t here.” I gripped the edge of my phone. “The hospital called. My right ear is deteriorating.” Silence stretched across the line for a few agonizing seconds. “Don’t panic,” Noah said, his tone softening instantly. “I already spoke to Dr. Hardy, and I had my assistant reserve a private room for you. Where are you right now? I’ll have the driver pick you up.” That familiar tenderness made the back of my throat ache. Noah’s driver met me halfway and took over the ride. Two blocks away from the hospital, my phone buzzed with a text from Noah containing a pin drop for a location. “Stop here before you check in. There’s a short interview about living with hearing loss. It won’t take long.” My gut twisted. I texted back: “I don’t want strangers knowing about my condition.” Ever since I lost the hearing in my left ear, the one thing I couldn’t stomach was the pitying looks from strangers. Noah called back immediately, his voice patient and soothing. “I spoke to the specialists, June. Your hearing loss isn’t just physical—it’s tied to psychological trauma. The more you hide away from the world, the worse your recovery is going to be.” He let out a gentle sigh over the line. “June, I’m not trying to push you. For seven years, I’ve taken you to over forty checkups. I found the best doctors, learned sign language, and kept my phone on loud during executive board meetings just so I’d never miss your call. I didn’t do all of that just to watch you hide behind me forever. You need to face every single chance at healing. Otherwise… what was all my effort for?” His tone was still so gentle, but the words felt like a thin wire tightening around my windpipe. I couldn’t bring myself to say no again. The car pulled up outside a massive media skyscraper. A production assistant guided me into a dressing room and clipped a lapel mic onto my collar. Anxiety spiked in my chest. “Isn’t this supposed to be anonymous?” “Ms. Ford is running the segment,” the assistant replied crisply. “You can ask her about the details inside.” Ms. Ford. Whitney. A dark wave of dread washed over me. The studio doors slid open. Whitney was sitting in front of the multi-camera setup in a tailored white blazer, flipping through an interview outline. When she saw me, she stood up with a bright smile. “June! Noah said his ‘special guest’ was you, but I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.” I turned on my heel to leave, but the production assistant had already pulled the soundproof doors shut behind me. Whitney tapped the papers in her hand. “Don’t be nervous. Noah was afraid you’d back out if you knew I was hosting, so he asked me to keep it quiet. He actually helped me write these questions himself. He knows your story better than anyone.” My eyes fell on the outline resting on the glass table: “Do you feel inferior in an intimate relationship due to your disability?” “Does being cared for long-term make you feel like a burden to your partner?” “If you lose your hearing completely, would you willingly end the relationship to free your partner?” My hands clenched into tight fists. My nails bit into my palms. How was I supposed to answer these in front of a camera? “I’m canceling this,” I said, my voice trembling. “Take this mic off me.” Whitney’s smile faded slightly. “June, Noah poured a lot of capital into this project. Are you really going to throw his hard work back in his face?” I reached up to unclip the mic myself, but a red tally light flashed to life on the main camera in front of us. On the giant monitor mounted to the wall, a live-stream feed popped up. The viewer count was climbing by the thousands every second. Whitney turned toward the camera, flashing her pristine anchor smile. “Welcome to “Voices Unheard”. Today’s guest is June Whitlock—the hearing-impaired fiancée of Noah Barrett, CEO of the Barrett Group, who has devoted the last seven years of his life to caring for her.” Once the live broadcast began, Whitney didn’t start with the questions right away. Instead, she had an assistant bring out a clear acrylic box. “To give our audience a real understanding of what our guest experiences every day,” Whitney said into the camera, “we’re going to start with a three-minute silent experience.” Her eyes shifted to my left ear. “June, please remove your hearing aid.” My hand instinctively flew up to shield my ear. “This wasn’t part of the agreement.” Whitney put on a look of gentle concern for the camera. “But June, if you don’t even have the courage to take off your hearing aid, how can you prove to our viewers that you’ve truly accepted yourself?” The live chat on the side monitor began scrolling at breakneck speed: “It’s literally just three minutes, why is she acting like a drama queen?” “Noah Barrett has dealt with this for seven years? Man is a literal saint.” I looked past the camera crew toward the dark panel of two-way glass overlooking the set. Noah was standing inside the control booth, his brow furrowed as he spoke into an intercom. A second later, the live chat on the floor monitor was cut off. But the stream was still going live to the world. Noah stepped out of the control room and walked over to my right side. “It’s only three minutes, June,” he murmured. “If the stream abruptly stops now, it’s going to ruin Whitney’s performance review. You don’t want to make things difficult for her, right?” He positioned his body to block the main camera lens. “If you feel uncomfortable at any point, just sign to me. I’ll get you out of here.” Without waiting for my answer, his fingers reached up, unhooked the hearing aid from behind my ear, and placed it into the acrylic box. The world instantly submerged underwater. A heavy, suffocating silence slammed down on me. Noah gave my hand a reassuring squeeze before turning back toward the control room. Whitney immediately moved to my left side—my completely deaf side. She began speaking rapidly, her lips moving in a blur as she motioned for me to repeat what she said. All I could manage was a vague reading of her mouth. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice sounding flat and unnatural in my own head. “I couldn’t catch that.” Muffled laughter rippled through the studio crew. I couldn’t hear the sound, but I could see the corners of their mouths twisting upward. Whitney tried again. And again. Each time, she spoke faster, deliberately lifting her cue card to cover her lower face. I couldn’t read a single word. On the screen behind us, the failure counter ticked from one up to five. The bright crimson numbers burned into my eyes. Cold sweat broke out across my back, and a high-pitched ringing began to thrum inside my right ear, growing louder and sharper by the second. “Enough,” I said, reaching for the acrylic box on the table. Whitney slammed her hand down onto the lid before I could reach it. “June, the three minutes aren’t up yet.” Suddenly, the large display screen behind us lit up with video footage. It showed Noah standing outside a clinic hallway, head bowed as he organized my medical records. It showed him practicing sign language late at night, his knuckles covered in Band-Aids. It showed him sitting by my bedside during a high fever, writing “Don’t be afraid” across my palm over and over again. Private, intimate footage from our lives—edited together into a slick, cinematic package titled “Seven Years of Devotion”. In the video, he was the selfless protector. And I was the perpetual invalid—pitied, managed, and tolerated. The live chat feed was restored on the floor screen: “What has she ever actually done for him?” “Calling her a fiancée is a stretch. She’s basically a charity case he’s been raising for seven years.” The blood drained completely from my face. I shoved Whitney’s hand off the box, pulled out my hearing aid, and jammed it back into my ear. “Shut down the broadcast!” Whitney stumbled back half a step from my shove, her eyes filling with instant tears. Behind the two-way glass, Noah took an instinctive step forward. He was watching Whitney, afraid she might fall. He didn’t even notice that my hands were shaking so violently I couldn’t get the earpiece aligned with my ear canal. Whitney faced the camera with a look of somber gravity. “It seems June’s psychological trauma is far more severe than we anticipated. That’s why we brought in a very special guest today—someone we hope can help her finally move out of the dark.” The heavy double doors at the back of the studio slid open. A middle-aged man walked into the room with his head low. Noah’s face dropped in the control room. And the moment I saw that man’s face, the blood in my veins turned to ice. The man walked up to the mark, stopping right in front of me, and bowed deeply. “Ms. Whitlock… I am so sorry.” His lips moved, but I didn’t see the studio anymore. I saw the violent glare of headlights, the pouring rain, and the swerving semi-truck from seven years ago. I remembered my father slumped lifeless over the steering wheel, and my mother wrapping her body around mine one last time in the dark. Out of three people in that crushed sedan, I was the only one who pulled out alive. Whitney handed the man a microphone. “Mr. Lawson has carried immense guilt over the years. He gave up his life savings to pay the court-ordered restitution after the accident.” The man, Frank Lawson, wiped his eyes, his voice choked with emotion. “I was driving a haul truck for my boss back then. The rain was too heavy, and the brakes failed. The court ordered me to pay, and I sold my house to cover every penny of the settlement. But… I have a wife and kids, too. For seven years, people have pointed fingers at my children. Does someone who made a mistake deserve to be punished forever?” The live chat flipped instantly, flooded with sympathy for him: “It was an accident! He paid what he owed.” “Forgiving him is the only way she’s ever going to heal herself.” A violent surge of nausea hit my stomach. “Not easy for you?” I grabbed a framed photo on the set desk and smashed it onto the floor right at his feet. Glass shattered everywhere. “You sold a house, but you got to go home to your wife and kids! Where do I take that settlement money to buy back my mother and father?!” Whitney immediately stepped in front of him, shielding him from me. “June, we aren’t forcing you to forgive him! We just want to help you reach closure!” “Closure?!” I pointed a shaking finger at the red light on the camera. “You brought the man who killed my parents into this room, put me on a live stream, and made the internet debate whether I should forgive him?! You call this “help”?!” I turned and bolted for the exit. Noah burst out of the control room, catching me near the doors and wrapping his arms tightly around my shoulders. “June, calm down! Look at me, calm down!” He snapped his head toward Whitney, his voice sharp. “Who authorized you to bring him here?!” Whitney’s eyes were red and wet. “You were the one who said she couldn’t move past the crash! I just wanted her to face her past! I wanted this segment to have a meaningful resolution!” “Let go of me!” I shoved against Noah’s chest with everything I had. Behind us, Frank Lawson suddenly dropped to his knees with a loud thud. “Cousin! You gotta help me out here!” The entire studio went dead silent. Noah’s body went completely rigid. The live chat went blank for a second, then exploded into chaos: “Did he just call the CEO ‘cousin’?!” “The truck driver is related to Noah Barrett?!” “Holy shit, look at this—Frank Lawson is Noah Barrett’s aunt’s son! After the crash seven years ago, the Barrett family hired the defense team for him and covered the settlement money!” An old family photo was uploaded into the live thread. In the picture, a younger Noah was standing next to his mother. Frank Lawson was standing right behind him, his arm draped over Noah’s shoulder like a brother. I stared at the image on the floor monitor, my voice barely a whisper. “Is this true?” Noah’s lips pressed into a tight, white line. He didn’t say a word. That single second of silence gave me every answer I would ever need. Tears spilled over my lashes without warning. “So when you approached me seven years ago… it was because of him?” “At the beginning… yes. I wanted to make things right,” Noah stammered, frantically grabbing at my hands. “But not after that! June, I swear to you, I grew to love you for real!” Whitney’s soft voice floated over from the side. “Even if it started out of guilt, Noah spent seven years taking care of you, June. You can’t expect him to carry his family’s sins for the rest of his life, can you?” Frank Lawson reached out and grabbed my wrist from the floor. “Ms. Whitlock! I gave up everything I had! What more do you want from me?!” So… all of this was “my” fault? The last thread holding my sanity together snapped. I raised my hand and swung it hard across Frank’s face. Noah’s instincts kicked in. He grabbed my forearm to stop me and shoved me back to protect his cousin. In the scramble, someone knocked over the heavy studio microphone on the table. It crashed directly against the main stage amplifier. A high-pitched, agonizing screech of audio feedback tore through the air, piercing straight into my right ear. A sharp, primal scream escaped my throat as my knees gave out, crashing onto the hard floor. And then, in the very next second… All sound vanished. Whitney’s panicked explanations, Noah’s frantic screams, the sound of boots running across the stage—it was all cut off, locked behind an impenetrable wall of absolute silence. I saw Noah drop to the floor, pulling me into his arms, his mouth moving wildly as he wept. But I couldn’t hear a single thing. … When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed. Dr. Hardy stood beside me, writing on a notepad before handing it to me: “Severe, profound sensorineural hearing loss in your right ear. The probability of recovery is extremely low.” Noah sat by the edge of the bed, his eyes bloodshot and swollen. He held my hand, tracing letters into my palm over and over again: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Then, his phone lit up on the nightstand. A banner notification from Whitney popped onto the lock screen: [Noah, everyone online is destroying me. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I’m so scared.] Noah stared down at the glowing screen for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he turned back to me and traced a final message into my palm: [I’m going to check on Whitney. I’ll be back soon.] As the hospital door clicked shut behind him, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. He stayed by my side out of obligation. He ran to Whitney because he loved her. I checked myself out of the hospital, walked out to the curb, and caught a cab to the airport. As the plane cut through the heavy cloud cover, I looked down at the city lights one last time. From now on, there would be oceans and mountains between us. In this life, we would never meet again. … Noah rushed back to the hospital room late that night. The light inside was still on. He pushed the door open gently. “June, why aren’t you sleeping…” The figure sitting on the edge of the bed turned around slowly. When Noah caught sight of the face, his pupils shrank.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “558489”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I was little, my mother told me that I was the reason my sister was deaf in her left ear. She said I had hit her during a toddler outburst, and to make up for my unforgivable sin, my parents gave Daisy ninety-nine “Favor Cards.” On my ninth birthday, when Daisy wanted mango cake, she produced a card. Mom immediately swapped out the cake I had picked for a mango one—a fruit I was severely allergic to. When Daisy was caught smoking in the high school bathroom, she pulled out another card. Mom forced me to take the fall. Word spread through the school that I was a delinquent, and for an entire year, not a single person spoke to me. From the time I was eight until I turned eighteen, Daisy used ninety-six cards. That meant ninety-six times I was cast aside, silenced, or made to suffer. I used to believe that if she just used up the remaining three, I would finally earn an equal share of my parents’ love. Until the day I was helping Mom clean out the storage closet and stumbled across a medical record from eighteen years ago. The yellowed paper read: [Daisy, two-month-old infant: Congenital bilateral sensorineural hearing loss.] A bone-chilling cold washed over me. Her deafness was never my fault. It was all a lie. But my parents’ absolute lack of love for me? That was entirely real. And just like that, I stopped waiting for them to love me. … I should have known long ago. She was named Daisy—bright, delicate, a flower to be cherished and protected. I was Rory—short for Remembrance, a bitter lingering leftover from a past they wished they could forget. Rubbing my tired eyes, I looked down at my phone. Notifications were scrolling rapidly in our family group chat. As I swiped up, my finger accidentally tapped a digital transfer my mother had just dropped into the chat. It was twenty dollars. Note attached: “For Daisy’s coffee.” My fingers froze. My first instinct was to return it, but the app didn’t allow instant refunds. The transaction record stayed pinned right there in the chat, exposed for everyone to see. A second later, Daisy’s voice memo popped up, laced with unvarnished venom: “Rory, how are you not embarrassed stealing my coffee money? Mom sent that specifically for me. You sure move fast when it’s free cash.” Mom Chimed in right away, her bias dripping from every word: “Rory, transfer that money back to Daisy immediately. Her ear has been bothering her all week and she just wants something sweet to feel better. Don’t fight her over petty change.” A quiet ripple of pain drifted through my chest, but it barely made a dent. I silently sent a twenty-dollar transfer back to Daisy. Just as I set my phone down, Daisy’s whiny voice echoed from the living room. She was tugging on Mom’s arm, swaying back and forth, begging for new clothes for graduation. It was an intimacy I had never been permitted. Perhaps my gaze lingered a second too long. Mom suddenly shot a sideways glance at me, her tone sharp: “Rory, why can’t you be more like your sister? If you want something, just speak up. Stop standing there looking like a martyr. It’s pathetic.” Speaking up was a privilege reserved for those who were loved. Not me. In the end, Mom dragged me along on their shopping trip anyway. All afternoon, Mom held dress after dress against Daisy, buying every single thing she pointed at. At the very last boutique, my eyes caught a simple white sundress. It was elegant and understated—a style I had secretly adored for months, and the tag showed my exact size. I gathered every ounce of my courage and spoke up: “Mom… can I try this on?” Before Mom could answer, Daisy grabbed the hem of the dress and refused to let go. She reached into her purse, pulled out a crisp, unused Favor Card, and shoved it into Mom’s hand. “Mom, I like this one too. I’m using a Favor Card. This dress is mine.” Mom looked momentarily conflicted. The sales clerk tried to step in, gently offering Daisy an alternative: “Sweetheart, this size might be a bit small for you. We have our newest arrivals over here—why don’t you take a look?” Daisy remained stubborn as ever. “So what if it doesn’t fit? I want it. Besides, she owes me.” Mom immediately stepped forward and forcibly pried my fingers off the hanger. When she turned to look at me, her face hardened instantly. “You’re older than her. What does it matter if you have one less dress? Daisy’s ears are bad—if she gets stressed, her tinnitus flares up. Just let her have it.” I stood anchored to the spot, my fingernails digging into my palms until my knuckles turned white. Growing up, whether it was clothes, stationery, or snacks… whenever Daisy pulled out a Favor Card, I was always the one forced to retreat. Ninety-six past grievances rushed into my mind at once. Swallowing down the bitterness in my throat, I asked her in a quiet, fragile voice: “Mom… if I were the one with broken ears, would you ever make Daisy yield to me?” Part of me still wondered: What if she only loved Daisy more because she pitied her disability? When Mom heard my question, her eyes flickered with a flash of guilt, but in the very next second, her voice exploded into an angry shriek: “Why do you always have to compete with your sister?! It’s just a dress! Is it worth picking a fight over every tiny thing? Daisy’s hearing was ruined because of you! Instead of showing some understanding, you’re constantly comparing yourself to her. Why are you so narrow-minded?” “Because of me?” A single, light sentence, effortlessly crushing the very last strain of hope I held. Her concept of debt only ever applied to Daisy. I was never part of her equation. Just then, Daisy stepped out of the fitting room wearing the ill-fitting white dress. She twirled triumphantly, deliberately bumping into my shoulder as she passed, whispering with nasty amusement: “Serves you right for breaking my ears back then. You owe me. You have to give me everything.” I lowered my eyes and quietly looked away, refusing to argue. On the ride home, I pulled out my small notebook and wrote in the ninety-seventh box: “Gave dress to Daisy.” Two blank boxes left. I stared out the window into the pitch-black night, my heart feeling like a barren wasteland. Once those last two cards were used, I would leave this small town that had trapped me for eighteen years, and I would never look back. I traced my fingers over the previous entries. Every single one felt like a blade scraping against my skin. Box ninety-six read: “She threw away my college entrance prep materials.” It immediately brought back the memory of how humid and freezing the rain had been that night. Three months before our final exams, I had gathered a whole year’s worth of study guides, my personal error logbooks, and rare practice exams into a canvas tote bag. I reviewed them every spare second I had. Daisy had taken advantage of the time I was in the shower to dump all my materials into the trash outside. By the time I noticed my books were gone, the sky had turned completely dark. Shaking with panic, I confronted Daisy. She didn’t feel a shred of guilt. Instead, she smirked, pulled card ninety-six out of her pocket, and handed it to Mom, who had rushed over at the noise. “Mom, I’m using a Favor Card. I just hate seeing her read all day anyway. She shouldn’t be yelling at me over some dumb trash.” Mom clutched the paper, instantly shielding Daisy behind her, and whirled around to berate me: “It’s just a few books! You can just reprint them! Why do you have to terrify Daisy like that? Her hearing is already fragile—you shouted at her until she got a headache. Can you take responsibility if something happens to her?” My eyes burned, and my voice trembled violently: “That was an entire year of my error logs! And those practice tests are out of print—you can’t buy them anywhere! Exams are in three months! How am I supposed to rebuild all of that from scratch?!” Dad sat on the couch scrolling through his phone, chiming in carelessly: “You’re smart, Rory. Missing a few study guides won’t affect your scores. Daisy was just being playful. Don’t hold a grudge over something so small.” “A Favor Card is on the table, so this matter is closed. Don’t bring it up again.” I ran downstairs into the bushes behind the building. The night was pitch-black, and torrential rain pounded down on me. Thorny branches sliced open bloody scratches on my legs, but I refused to stop searching. It was long past midnight when I finally found the materials—soaked into a soggy pulp by the rain, completely ruined. I knelt in the thorny bushes, picking up the torn, wet pages one by one. The freezing wind slapped my face, mixing with the tears streaming down my cheeks. But the cold outside was nothing compared to the ice in my chest. A neighbor passing by saw my drenched, battered state and kindly stepped in to help me search. Meanwhile, my parents stood under the dry, warm archway of our building, completely absorbed in comforting Daisy through her temper tantrum. They didn’t even bother coming down to check on me once. When I stumbled back inside, holding the ruined paper, I ignored my fever and my bleeding legs. I begged my parents one last time: Could they lend me a little money so I could re-purchase some study materials? Mom waved her hand impatiently: “The family’s money is being saved for Daisy’s college tuition. Figure out your own problems. Who told you to throw a fit at her in the first place?” In the end, I stayed up until three in the morning every single night, recreating all those study guides from memory. Bringing my mind back to the present, I rubbed the ink on that ninety-sixth entry, feeling a profound sense of irony. Back then, I worked so hard because I wanted to study medicine. I wanted to heal Daisy’s ears one day so I could finally wash away the heavy debt I thought I owed her. But as it turned out, I had never owed her anything. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was my high school homeroom teacher calling: “Rory, the school awards a grant to top-performing graduates from low-income backgrounds every year. If you need it, come by tomorrow to fill out the application.” I quickly agreed. I knew that if I wanted to escape this house and attend university, I would need every penny I could get. However, the moment I hung up and opened my bedroom door, I found my sister standing outside, blatantly eavesdropping. There was no awkwardness at being caught. She simply ordered: “Rory, you’re giving that grant spot to me!” Right in front of my parents, Daisy threw a massive fit. She kicked the hardwood floor and burst into tears on demand. “I want the newest iPad! Everyone in my class has one for graduation except me! I can’t even play games properly!” As she spoke, she whipped out card ninety-eight from her pink wallet and slammed it heavily onto the wooden dining table. Her smug eyes swept over me like this was the most logical thing in the world. “Mom, I’m using this Favor Card to exchange for Rory’s grant spot. I’m taking that money to buy my iPad!” Mom habitually took the card, looked at me, and finally spoke: “Rory, tell your teacher that Daisy needs the money more. Bring out your application forms and transfer them over to Daisy.” Dad put down his phone, chiming in as if it were obvious: “What’s wrong with fulfilling one of Daisy’s wishes? Don’t forget her ears were damaged because of you. Stop being so obsessive over a little money.” I gripped the edge of the dining table so hard my knuckles turned white. The resentment built up over eighteen years could no longer be contained. “This is my merit grant! The school is offering it to me because I work part-time and maintain top grades! On what grounds are you giving it away to her with a single sentence?!” I raised my voice, openly defying them in public for the very first time. My parents looked at me in utter shock. Even Daisy froze in place. “Daisy wants for nothing! She gets endless clothes, jewelry, and allowance! Meanwhile, the money I earn working part-time every month barely covers my food, and you’ve never once asked if I was surviving! What right do you have to sacrifice me every single time to indulge her?!” Seeing me dare to talk back, Daisy cried even harder. She threw herself into Mom’s arms, clutching Mom’s sleeve tightly: “Rory just hates me! She’s doing this on purpose! She ruined my ears in the first place, and now she won’t even share a little benefit with me!” Those words were like a lit fuse, instantly detonating the rage in my mother’s chest. She bolted up from her chair, rushed over to me, and raised her hand, throwing a vicious slap straight across my cheek. “CRACK.” The sharp slap echoed brutally in the quiet living room. Half of my face went hot and numb, my ear ringing intensely. The force twisted my head to the side, my inner cheek catching against my teeth, leaving a faint metallic taste of blood in my mouth. “I raised you to eighteen years old just so you could talk back to your parents and steal from your sister?!” Mom’s chest heaved violently, her eyes filled with disgust and bitter disappointment. “Daisy’s ear was deafened by you when she was little! You have a healthy body—what’s wrong with yielding a little to her?!” I had yielded to her for eighteen years. Was that still not enough? I cupped my burning cheek, my eyes turning red against my will, yet I stubbornly refused to let a single tear drop. No matter how obedient I was, the moment I showed a shred of resistance to Daisy, all I ever got was condemnation. Yet they were the selfish, cowardly ones. The diagnostic report from eighteen years ago flashed through my mind again and again. My heart felt frozen solid. “Her ear wasn’t damaged by me,” I whispered, my voice trembling with suppressed emotion. I came so close to laying out the entire truth about that medical report, but I forced myself to swallow it down. Exposing it now was meaningless. It would only bring more escalating accusations. All I needed to do was finish my exams quietly and leave this place forever. Mom assumed I was just being defensive and bitter. She scoffed cold-heartedly, turning to Dad: “Go to the school tomorrow morning and tell the teacher to transfer Rory’s grant under Daisy’s name. I’ll get the paperwork.” That night, while I was washing up, Mom picked the lock on my desk drawer and stole all my application materials. The next day, my teacher called, her voice full of sorrow and helplessness. “Rory… your mother insisted that your sister’s health is poor and forced us to transfer the grant to her. I couldn’t stop her.” Hanging up the phone, I walked into the living room. Daisy was twirling the freshly used Favor Card between her fingers before carelessly crumpling it up and tossing it into the trash can. My parents were gathered around her, happily looking up iPad models on a phone, filled with laughter and joy. I was always extra here anyway. Why care anymore? I walked back to my room, picked up my pencil, and firmly crossed out box ninety-eight. Written inside: “Gave scholarship to sister.” Only one Favor Card left. Once it was used, my debt to this family for raising me would be completely cleared. When picking my university preferences, I would choose a school as far away as possible. Mountains and rivers would separate us, and we would never meet again. … On the day the college entrance exam scores were released, my parents gathered around Daisy in the living room to check her results online. I sat alone in my bedroom, using a slow, secondhand phone they had discarded, trying to load the score portal. The connection kept lagging, the screen spinning endlessly. From outside the door, I heard Mom’s tender praise: “Daisy, you did so well! You got a 418! Mom is so proud of you!” It wasn’t until noon that my results finally loaded on my screen: 714 out of 750. I squeezed the phone tightly, breathing a long sigh of relief. I finally had the capital to escape this place. That evening, Mom casually asked me what I scored. Before I could answer, Daisy spoke up: “She got first place in our entire school—a 714.” As she said this, her eyes suddenly turned red. “If my ears were normal, I wouldn’t be so stupid. I wouldn’t have scored so low. Mom… should I even have been born?” Mom shot me a look of pure disgust, then pulled Daisy into a comforting embrace: “We don’t care how high she scores. You will always be our pride.” A sharp pang went through my heart. The child who is loved is never criticized, no matter how poorly she performs. The child who is unloved is ignored, no matter how brilliant she is. Even if Daisy couldn’t even reach the cutoff line for a public university. Mom looked at the two score reports, then suddenly pulled my hand, making a demand with absolute entitlement: “Rory, it doesn’t matter how high your score is. Our family is under immense financial stress right now. Daisy wants to attend a private university, and tuition plus room and board will cost over thirty thousand a year—well over a hundred thousand for four years.” “You shouldn’t go to college. Go work in a factory instead, and send your entire monthly paycheck home so we can put Daisy through school.” I snapped my head up. My score was bought with countless sleepless nights of hard work—it was my entire future. In their eyes, it wasn’t even worth as much as an expensive private degree for Daisy. “That’s my life,” my voice shook violently. “I want to go to university too.” Dad chimed in from the side: “What’s the point of a girl getting so much education? Daisy has hearing problems, so it’ll be hard for her to find a job later—she needs a college degree to pave her way.” “You have a healthy body. It’s your duty to work early and help support the family.” “Besides, she used a Favor Card for this. Just consider it letting her have her way one last time.” Daisy leaned back on the sofa, speaking carelessly: “Rory, you’re so smart, you’ll have plenty of chances to study later. This is my only chance to get a college degree. Why can’t you just help me out?” The very last shred of warmth in my heart evaporated completely. On the surface, however, I remained entirely composed, pretending to surrender. “Fine. I’ll listen to you. I’ll go look for a job and won’t submit my college applications.” Seeing me give in, my parents beamed with joy. They immediately turned back to Daisy, excitedly planning her private college choices, never asking me another word. They never imagined that the daughter who had been obedient her whole life was lying to them. I found a summer job away from home and never returned to that house. On the final day to lock in university preferences, I secretly submitted my top choice—Columbia University, thousands of miles away—as my sole application. The day the official acceptance letter arrived, I packed a single small suitcase, quietly stepped onto a night train bound for the capital, and deleted every single contact number for my family before the train pulled out of the station. By the time my parents realized I had vanished, panic finally set in.

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Damian’s favorite game was making me open his “reconciliation mystery boxes.” Whenever we fought, he would block my number for three days, then drop a custom link into a text. “If you draw ‘Better Luck Next Time,’ don’t bother me.” “If you draw ‘Reconciliation Pass,’ I might condescend to let you apologize.” Over the years, I had drawn “Seven Days of Silent Treatment.” I had drawn “Public Apology.” I had even drawn a patronizing “Talk later” sent while he was having dinner with another woman. When I drew the Reconciliation Pass for the sixth time, Damian pulled me into his lap, his smile lazy and dark. “See, Jill? No matter how terrible your luck is, you always end up right back where you belong—with me.” I thought he was just being arrogant. Until I saw the custom mystery box app he built for Sadie, our company’s new intern. Her page had only one prize: [Damian’s Unconditional Favor.] Probability: 100%. When Sadie accidentally knocked over my hot coffee, Damian shielded her, checking her hands for burns. My own hand was scorched red, but when I gasped, he just knit his brows in irritation. “You’re not a little girl anymore, Jill. Can you stop demanding to be babied?” That night, he sent his seventh mystery box as usual. “Open it. Draw the pass and come back.” I stared at the glowing screen for a long time. Then, without opening the link, I hit “Block”. For the seventh time, I was finally ready to set myself free. … I was only halfway through packing when the door lock chimed. Damian walked in holding a brown paper bag from an artisanal bakery. The moment he caught sight of my suitcase sitting in the entryway, his face darkened. “What is this supposed to mean?” He slammed the door shut and walked straight up to me, shoving his phone screen almost into my face. In the messaging thread, a glaring red exclamation mark hovered beside the text he had just tried to send. “Blocking me? Packing your bags?” He stood over me, temper simmering beneath his breath. “What are you playing at, Jill?” “Nothing,” I said softly. Damian froze for a second. Usually, the moment he demanded an explanation with that cold tone, I would rush to give it. I’d explain everything—from why he protected Sadie to how badly the coffee had scalded my skin—my eyes red as I begged him to admit that he cared about me, even just a little. But this time, I said nothing at all. He stared at me for a few seconds, unaccustomed to my silence, before his lips curled into a faint smirk. “Nothing? Look at you, getting bold. Last time you drew seven days of cold war, you were creeping on my Instagram from an alt account by day two. You’re putting on quite a show this time.” Instead of answering, I hid my hand behind my back. “Why are you here?” “To make it up to you,” he said matter-of-factly. He unscrewed a tube of burn ointment and leaned down, dabbing it onto my hand. “If it hurt, why didn’t you dodge? Coffee splashes toward you and you can’t even move your cup?” I looked at him. “You were standing right beside me.” Damian paused, then chuckles softly. “So what? You want me to fire Sadie over a spilled latte? She’s fresh out of college; her face went white as a sheet. Why are you picking on her?” He blew gently on my skin, then pushed a box containing a chestnut tart onto the coffee table. “Eat a few bites. Clear your head. Your stomach is terrible—throwing a tantrum on an empty stomach only leaves me dealing with your mess later.” The words felt painfully familiar. Back in college, when my gastritis flared up, he had carried me six blocks through the pouring rain to find an urgent care clinic. Later, every time he hurt me, he used fragments of that old tenderness as currency to settle his debts. I had spent years letting those half-hearted gestures fool me, convincing myself he cared while I wiped the blood off the knives he drove into my chest. “Why does her mystery box only have “Unconditional Favor”?” I asked. “It’s just a game, Jill.” “Mine is a game too. So why does every option punish me?” Damian leaned back into the leather couch, reaching out to drag me down beside his knee. “Because you can handle it. Sadie’s fragile—if she drew a ‘Better Luck Next Time,’ she’d cry all night. You’re different. You’re mature.” “Mature.” Every time he praised my maturity, he was asking me to compromise. I pulled my hand back. “I don’t want to be mature anymore.” Damian stared at me for a beat, amused. “Fine. I’ll keep you even if you’re acting like a brat. Now unblock me once you’ve had your fit. Don’t make me take your phone.” Before the words fully left his mouth, his phone chimed. The contact name “Luna” flashed across the screen. Damian answered almost instantly, his voice dropping into a soft, protective hush. “Why are you crying? Take a breath, tell me.” Sadie said something on the other end, and he stood up, grabbing his coat. I looked at the tart on the table, only a single slice cut out. “Aren’t you here to make it up to me?” “She’s running a fever alone in her apartment. I need to check on her.” He leaned down, smoothing my collar. “Finish the tart. Apply the ointment. Don’t compare yourself to her, Jill. She needs me. You don’t.” At the front door, he turned back. “And don’t block me again. You can throw your little fits, but whether we break up or not is up to me.” As the door clicked shut, my phone vibrated with a text notification containing a new mystery box link. Damian had manually triggered a draw for me. [Congratulations! You won: Forgive Damian and text Sadie to ask about her fever.] Below it, he appended a text: “See? Even fate knows you can’t leave me.” I stared at the lines of text, then picked up the untouched tart and the ointment and threw them directly into the trash. Then I slipped off the matching silver ring I had worn for five years and packed it into the bottom of my trunk. …… At the morning meeting the next day, Damian set a warm chai latte in front of me. “Still pouting?” I remained silent. He pulled out the chair beside me and sat down, tapping the side of the cup with his knuckle. “It’s hot. Drink it before your stomach starts aching again and you accuse me of not caring.” Someone across the conference table chuckled. “Boss sure knows how to coax. Jill, you should give him a break by now.” Damian looked at me, raising an eyebrow playfully. “You hear that? The ramp is built right to your feet. Don’t just stand there.” Sadie stood near the projector holding her laptop, her eyes still puffy. Seeing me look over, she explained in a tiny voice, “Jill, yesterday evening Damian just dropped me at urgent care. Please don’t misunderstand…” Damian tapped the table softly. “Alright, she’s not that petty.” I picked up the chai and took a slow sip. Just as the corner of his mouth began to lift, Sadie opened the deck for the evening’s brand launch. In the next second, the room fell dead silent. Projected on the wall was the guest list sent to the client last night. The names and seating arrangements for all twelve VIP guests were completely wrong. The client was already downstairs; if this version went live, the entire launch event would become an industry joke. Sadie began to tremble in panic. “I… I checked it! But Jill told me to send it out last night!” Everyone turned to look at me. I raised my gaze calmly. “I didn’t create that file, and it never passed through my hands.” Damian spun his pen between his fingers, his voice dropping slightly. “You’re her mentor. If she was intimidated to come to you, did you really just wash your hands of it?” I met his eyes. “You were the one who told her last night not to bother me.” “I meant don’t poke you while you’re angry, not abandon the project.” “So it’s still my fault?” “Jill, this isn’t about right or wrong right now.” He set the pen on the table with a firm “clack”. “The client is downstairs. Fix the issue first. Apologize to Sadie so she doesn’t carry this negative energy into the event.” I thought I had misheard him. “She’s the intern, you’re the senior. She’s terrified right now—how is she supposed to work through the rest of the day?” Damian looked at me, his tone almost patient. “Don’t force me to say harsh words in front of everyone.” “I didn’t do anything wrong.” “Do you really have to be this rigid?” I clenched my hands in my lap. “What if I refuse?” He leaned in closer, leaning past my chair to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture looked intimate, but his voice was pressed dangerously low. “Jill, don’t force me to humiliate you in front of the whole team. Be good, and I’ll take you out to dinner tonight.” I looked at his face, inches away from mine, and suddenly remembered our sophomore year of college. He had gotten into a fistfight over me, leaving his eyebrow split open and bleeding. Back then, he had wiped the blood away and said, “Whoever makes Jill bow her head, I’ll make them kneel and apologize.” I used to think that was the backbone he gave me. So why was he the person making me bow my head the most? My chest constricted, aching with a suffocation that went deep into my ribs. I stood up and faced Sadie. “I’m sorry.” Sadie quickly wiped a tear. “Jill, please don’t be like that… it makes it seem like Damian forced you. I really don’t blame you…” Damian smirked. “She’s just stubborn. Once it’s out, she’s fine.” I spent the next hour re-adjusting the guest arrangements and calling the brand reps to apologize. During the final rehearsal, Sadie tripped over an AV cable, and the full glass of red wine in her hand splashed directly onto my dress. Damian’s knee-jerk reaction was to pull her into his chest, shielding her completely. “Did you fall? Are you okay?” Sadie shook her head, her face buried in his chest. “I’m fine… but Jill’s dress…” Only then did Damian look at me. Dark red wine was dripping down the hem of my cream dress, sticking uncomfortably to my legs. He knit his brows. “How much was it? I’ll reimburse you.” “It was my birthday gift from you last year.” “Even better. Buy a new one.” He slipped off his tailored suit jacket. I instinctively reached out, assuming he was passing it to me, but he turned and wrapped it gently around Sadie’s shoulders. “The AC is cold, and she had a fever last night.” Sadie huddled inside his oversized jacket, asking in a small voice, “Does Jill hate me?” Damian tousled her hair, but his eyes were fixed on my face. “She doesn’t hate you.” He paused, his smile casual and arrogant. “She just loves me too much.” The staff around us chuckled quietly. Standing in the middle of that laughter, I suddenly felt nothing at all—not even embarrassment. Damian held his hand out to me. “Let’s go.” “Where?” “Didn’t I promise to take you out to dinner?” He wrapped his fingers around my wrist, acting as if nothing had happened. “Tonight is all about you. Whatever you want, it’s yours.” …… Damian genuinely gave me his entire evening. He booked the corner table at the bistro where we had our very first date, ordered our steaks medium-rare, and even had the pastry chef swap out the dessert for the salt-caramel gateau I loved. He turned off his phone and pushed a deep blue velvet box across the crisp white tablecloth. “Open it.” Inside sat a ring. The center diamond wasn’t massive, but it was recut from the heirloom stone my late mother had left behind. I stared at it for a long time. Before my mother passed away, her biggest worry was my marriage. I had handed that diamond over to Damian three years ago, but he was always “too busy” to take me to a jeweler to get it set. I thought he had forgotten long ago. He took my hand, slowly pushing the ring onto my ring finger. “Pick a wedding date. So you stop overthinking every single day, worrying that someone else is going to take your spot.” I stared down at the diamond, unable to speak. He pinched my cheek gently. “Stunned silent?” “Why do you suddenly want to get married?” “It’s not sudden.” Damian leaned back into his chair, his tone relaxed. “You’ve been with me for so many years. Who else would I marry?” It wasn’t a romantic sentence. But for a split second, I wanted to cry. He looked up at me, his expression uncharacteristically earnest. “Jill, who else could I possibly end up with? Don’t you know that by now?” Of course I knew. And because I knew, I had stayed, over and over again. He pulled me into his arms, resting his chin against my head, kissing my temple. “Seventh reconciliation. Consider this your grand prize. Stop talking about ‘setting yourself free’—it sounds pathetic.” Leaning against his shoulder, I was a second away from telling him that the suitcase in the hallway was already packed, and that I had bought a one-way train ticket out of the city for next week. When the waiter brought out the cake, Damian stepped away to use the restroom. The phone he left on the table lit up suddenly. A text from Sadie flashed across the lock screen. “Damian, did you give her the ring? Is she super touched?” “Told you the mature type is easy to handle. Recutting her mom’s old diamond saves money and looks thoughtful so she stops nagging.” Immediately after, another message popped up. “Don’t forget my reward tomorrow at the press launch. I get my 100% Unconditional Favor! Whatever I ask, you can’t say no.” I stared at the glowing glass, the blood in my fingers turning ice cold. So even this gesture—this sweet, redemptive moment—was a script handed to him by Sadie. When Damian returned, he saw that I had pulled the ring off my finger. His face fell instantly. “What now?” I slid the phone toward him. He glanced at it, then pressed the side button to kill the screen. “She was just helping me brainstorm ideas to make you happy. You’re still not satisfied?” “That diamond was left to me by my mother.” “Which is why I turned it into an engagement ring.” He grabbed my hand, forcefully shoving the ring back onto my finger. The band scraped harshly against my knuckle, making me wince in pain, but he didn’t loosen his grip. “I pushed two meetings to eat dinner with you tonight. Are you really going to ruin everything over a single text?” I looked into his eyes. “If she asks for something tomorrow, will you agree?” “I don’t break my promises.” “What if what she wants is you?” Damian stared at me for a few seconds, then chuckled softly. “Then I’ll lend myself to her for a day. I’m coming home to you at night anyway.” I said nothing. He adjusted the ring so the diamond sat right in the center, his voice turning completely cold. “Jill, I’m giving you enough grace by marrying you. Whatever Sadie wants, I’m willing to give her—even if it makes you uncomfortable, just endure it.” He stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Keep the ring on. Tomorrow after the launch, we’re looking at wedding venues.” I lowered my head, staring at the ring. The light my mother had left behind was now locked onto my finger by him, like an inescapable chain. …… Before the press launch began the next morning, Damian thrust a cup of warm milk into my hands. “Last night is water under the bridge. After this, we go look at venues.” He adjusted the ring on my finger, his thumb grazing the old diamond. “Stop competing with an intern. You’re the one I’m marrying.” I had waited seven years for that sentence. I looked at him, and against my better judgment, I nodded. Maybe I just wanted to give this relationship one absolute, final chance. On stage, the host opened Sadie’s personalized mystery box. [Damian’s Unconditional Favor.] The host laughed, holding out the mic. “Miss Sadie, what are you going to redeem this favor for? Can you ask Damian to be your boyfriend for a day?” Sadie looked through the crowd directly at Damian. “I want him to propose to me in front of everyone.” The room erupted into wild cheers and flashing cameras. My fingers went rigid. Damian, however, showed no surprise at all. He just bent down and whispered in my ear, “Play along. Don’t make her look bad on stage.” I whipped my head around to look at him. “You knew?” “She mentioned it last night.” “Last night?” Last night, he had slid my mother’s diamond onto my finger and told me he was going to marry me. And on that exact same night, he had promised another woman that he wouldn’t say no to whatever she asked for. Damian frowned. “It’s just a show for the press. Where is your head going?” “What ring are you going to use?” His eyes fell on my hand. I immediately balled my hand into a fist. “Don’t touch it.” “Jill, the reporters are waiting.” “This belongs to my mother!” “It’s our engagement ring now.” He clamped his hand around my wrist, trying to pry my fingers open. The metal band scraped against my skin, leaving a raw, bleeding track across my knuckle. I was shaking from the pain, but he didn’t stop. “Your mom left this stone so you’d get married, didn’t she? What’s the harm in borrowing it for two minutes?” I pressed my thumb over the ring with everything I had. “I don’t consent to this.” Damian’s face went completely dead. “You were begging me for a marriage last night, and today you’re using this to negotiate with me?” He forced my fingers back one by one and stripped the ring off my hand. “I’m marrying you to give you dignity. Don’t take that dignity as your right to manage me.” I stared at my bare ring finger, feeling as though my chest had been carved open alive. “Damian, if you use that to propose to her, we are finished.” He let out a short, mocking laugh, as if he had heard the funniest joke in the world. “Threatening to break up again?” He leaned down, his breath cold against my ear as he whispered, “You’ve pulled this six times. Which time did you actually leave? Jill, don’t flatter yourself.” The spotlights flared brighter. He carried my mother’s diamond onto the stage, and amidst the roaring applause of the audience, he dropped to one knee before Sadie. “Miss Sadie, will you let me show you my unconditional favor this time?” Sadie nodded through her tears. He slid the ring onto her finger. Confetti rained down from the ceiling. On the jumbo screen behind them, they embraced—a picture-perfect, grand confession that demanded everyone’s blessing. It was beautiful. But standing in the darkest corner of the crowd, I felt as though my heart had been ground into raw meat. On her deathbed, my mother had held my hand and told me that this diamond was meant for the man who would truly cherish me. I had waited seven years, only to watch it placed onto the finger of another woman by the man who broke me. …… Backstage, Damian reached out to take the ring back. Sadie immediately shielded her hand, tears spilling over her eyelashes. “The press took photos of it! If I take it off now, won’t they think you were just making a fool of me?” I looked at him. “Give it back to me.” Damian glanced at me. “Let her wear it for now.” “I said, give it back.” “Enough!” He grabbed my wrist, dragging me forward until I was inches from his face. “This is Sadie’s first launch event as project lead. Are you really going to ruin her over an inanimate object?” A cold sensation ran through my entire body. “That is the last thing my mother left me.” “Dead people don’t die a second time just because a ring is missing.” The quiet in the green room was absolute. I stared at him, my ears ringing with a sharp, high-pitched static. Tears finally spilled over, completely out of my control. Damian saw them, but he just turned his face away in annoyance. “I’ll buy you a new one. Don’t cry here—it looks pathetic.” I raised my sleeve and wiped the wetness from my face. “You don’t need to buy a new one.” I looked at the diamond on Sadie’s hand, then raised my eyes to look at the man I had loved for seven years. “Keep the ring on her. And you can stay with her, too.” His expression turned icy. “Say that again.” “Let’s break up.” Damian let out a harsh laugh, his grip on my wrist tightening until it bruised. “Which time did you break up without waiting for me to come coax you back? If you really leave me, you won’t even survive long enough to draw the next reconciliation pass.” Before I could respond, Sadie’s phone rang loudly. She was swarmed by reporters in the parking garage, sobbing that she couldn’t breathe. Damian let go of my wrist instantly. I asked softly, “Didn’t you say you’d take me to look at wedding venues after this?” “She needs me right now.” “And what about me?” He grabbed his suit jacket, not even bothering to look back. “You’ll go home on your own once you’re done crying. If she collapses out there, nobody can clean up the mess today.” The heavy door slammed shut in front of me. I didn’t run after him. I didn’t wait. I went back to the apartment we had shared for five years, packed the rest of my clothes, erased my fingerprint from the smart lock, and placed the keys alongside the seven reconciliation passes inside a small paper box. This time, I was done waiting. In the back of his town car, Damian was leaning his head against the headrest, resting his eyes, when his phone buzzed. When he saw the app notification indicating I had sent him a mystery box, the corner of his mouth curved into a confident smirk. “Couldn’t even last three days,” he muttered to himself. He casually tapped the link. As the page loaded, the smile on Damian’s face froze completely.

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At the bachelor party hosted for Louis right before our wedding, he drew a punishment from the mystery box game. “List a photo of an opposite-sex guest in this room on a resale app under the second-hand section.” The room fell quiet. Glances flickered back and forth between me, sitting quietly in the corner of the VIP lounge, and Kinsley, his business partner. Louis pulled out his phone and casually snapped a candid profile shot of me sitting in the shadow of the leather couch. “Kinsley’s an influencer and a public brand figure,” he reasoned, his voice smooth and dismissive. “If her photo gets leaked on a resale app, it could damage her career. Just take one for the team, babe.” Kinsley slid her arm through his, playfully snatching the phone right out of his hand. “Thanks, Lou. Reselling is practically my day job—let me post it for you!” Thirty seconds later, every phone in the lounge buzzed with a shared link. “Gently used, cooks, cleans, low-maintenance budget fiancée. $9.99 with free shipping.” Kinsley pressed a delicate hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with exaggerated dismay. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, Kallie! I completely forgot to add the word ‘photo’ to the title!” A chorus of stifled chuckles and outright laughter erupted across the room. I stared dead at Louis. He merely waved his hand, entirely unbothered. “It’s just a dumb party game, Kallie. Kinsley’s just being goofy. Don’t be such a buzzkill, okay?” As he spoke, he reached over to tap the delete button on his phone, but his thumb froze mid-air. A system notification popped up on the screen: “Item purchased by an anonymous buyer. Payment confirmed.” Kinsley giggled softly into her manicured fingers. “Wow, Kallie, you’re quite a hot commodity! Sold out in under a minute.” Louis’s eyebrows knit together as he finally looked at me. “It’s just a system glitch. I’ll refund the buyer and pull down the listing. Stop scowling like that.” “Don’t bother.” I reached down and slowly pulled the engagement ring off my left hand. “Take your ring back,” I said, placing the diamond on the low glass table. “The wedding is off.” … I turned and walked out of the VIP lounge. Louis sprinted after me, his fingers clamping tightly around my wrist at the threshold of the hallway. “Kallie, where the hell do you think you’re going?” I yanked my arm back with everything I had. “I’m not your property. I go wherever I want.” “It was a harmless joke!” His breath was heavy, tinged with expensive scotch. “Do you really have to humiliate me in front of everyone like this?” My throat felt like it was closing up. Seven years ago, I attended the very first party Louis hosted as his official girlfriend. During dinner, one of his wealthy friends made a spiteful joke, implying a quiet girl like me didn’t belong in their circle. Back then, Louis slammed his glass onto the table so hard the champagne spilled. “There’s a line, and you just crossed it!” he had barked at the room. “She’s my girlfriend. Anyone who doesn’t respect her can get the hell out!” Nobody dared utter another word that night. He spent the rest of the evening shielding me from shots, putting food on my plate, and later, sitting on the curb outside, cupping my face in his warm hands while slurring softly, “Don’t be scared… I’ll never let anyone embarrass you again. I swear…” I clung to that promise for seven long years. I genuinely believed I had found the love of my life. And yet here we were, in a hallway smelling of faint stale smoke, with him not even bothering to pretend anymore. “The mystery box was their idea. I admit it went a little too far,” Louis sighed, casting a glance back toward the lounge doors. “Kinsley had too much to drink and lost her filter. I’ll make her apologize to you, okay?” “You were standing right beside her when she typed it.” “I didn’t think she’d write something like that!” “And after she posted it, everyone laughed.” I paused, meeting his gaze head-on. “Including you.” His jaw rigidified. It wasn’t until he noticed the gloss of unshed tears in my eyes that his expression softened, his thumb reaching out to brush a stray tear from my cheek. “Don’t cry. Look, I’m deleting it right now.” Under his thumb, the listing screen refreshed to “Deleted Successfully”. “Are you happy now?” I didn’t take the phone he held out to me. “Take me home.” Louis frowned, casting another quick glance toward the lounge. But looking at my reddened eyes, he finally gave in. “Fine.” His face was a storm of conflicting emotions, but he pressed the elevator button anyway. I retreated to the corner of the metal cab, the fragile string holding my composure together finally snapping. He stepped inside, opening his palm to reveal the diamond ring. “We’ve worked way too hard to get to where we are today. Don’t throw off the ring over something this petty. Kinsley was just drunk and acting stupid.” I stared down at my bare ring finger. “It’s not because of her.” He didn’t reply. Just as the elevator doors began to slide shut, his phone burst into a loud, frantic ringtone. It was Kinsley. “Lou… where are you? I feel so sick… Can you please come back and stay with me?” Her voice trembled through the speaker, punctuated by a wet, muffled gag. Louis went rigid. Just before the doors sealed, he jammed his hand into the sensor gap with a sharp “bang”. The doors shuddered and slid back open. I looked at him. “You said you were taking me home.” “She’s in there by herself, and I organized the party. I’m responsible for her.” “Are you responsible for the party, or responsible for “her”?” “Kallie, please don’t start a fight right now.” The tears I had just managed to wipe away overflowed once more. “I just wanted you to take me home.” He looked away, avoiding my eyes. “Go home first. I’ll come back the second I clean up this mess.” The elevator doors began to close again. He took a fast step backward onto the polished floor of the venue hallway. “Don’t overthink it. She’s really sick.” With that, he turned and jogged back toward the VIP room. I stood alone in the elevator, watching his back disappear around the corner. The doors closed completely. This time, no hand reached out to stop them. The floor indicators ticked down, one by one. I pressed my back against the mirrored wall, desperately trying to hold in the sobs tearing through my chest. But the sudden weightlessness of the dropping elevator made the hollowness in my chest expand until I could barely breathe. Then, my phone vibrated in my hand. A contact profile picture I hadn’t seen in years suddenly popped to the top of my text messages. “Zoe: I saw the listing. Where are you? I’m coming to get you.” …… It wasn’t until I reached the courtyard of our apartment building that I texted her back. Ten minutes later, a sleek dark sedan pulled up to the curb. The driver’s window rolled down. Zoe didn’t look at me; her hands were locked at ten and two on the steering wheel. “Get in.” Throughout our four years of college, Zoe and I had been practically joined at the hip. If it hadn’t been for the capstone defense three years ago, we would still be best friends. The car heater was blowing warm air, but I couldn’t stop shivering. “Nine dollars and ninety-nine cents with free shipping?” Zoe tossed her phone onto the center console. Displayed on the illuminated screen was a crisp screenshot of the resale page. “You really outdid yourself this time, Kallie.” I stared at the image. I wanted to laugh, but tears spilled onto the back of my hand first. “So… the buyer was you?” “Someone dumped the link into the alumni group chat. I was terrified they’d keep turning you into a joke, so I bought it instantly.” Her tone was clipped and offhand, but the knuckles gripping the leather wheel were ghostly white. “Three years ago…” She paused, her voice dropping an octave. “On the day of our capstone defense… did you really think ditching our presentation to help Louis chase after Kinsley was more important than our project?” My head snapped around. “Help Louis? My grandmother was rushed into emergency surgery that morning! I gave Louis our entire presentation folder and asked him to deliver it to you and explain why I couldn’t be there!” Zoe went rigid. She pulled the car over to the shoulder, swiped open her photo gallery, and pulled up an archived screenshot, shoving it toward me. It was a direct message sent from Louis’s account three years ago: “Kinsley had an emergency, so Kallie came with me to the hospital. Forget about the defense.” My vision blurred instantly. Three years ago, he never delivered our project files. He never mentioned my grandmother fighting for her life in the ICU. Instead, he casually forfeited our years of hard work on my behalf—just to cover up his own departure with Kinsley. No wonder Zoe had spent the last three years believing I was a girl so blinded by love that I would throw away my best friend and my career without a second thought. She pulled a tissue from the box on the dashboard and shoved it awkwardly into my hands. “I’m keeping this damn screenshot,” she muttered, her voice tight. “If you ever soften your heart and take that bastard back, I’m going to slap this right across your face.” Silence settled over the warm car. After a long moment, she spoke again. “Oakridge High has an open position in their English department.” She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. “You turned down their offer back then because you were preparing for the wedding. Do you still want it?” I squeezed the crumpled tissue in my fist until my knuckles hurt. “Yes.” …… Zoe and I stayed up all night talking in her living room. It wasn’t until ten o’clock the next morning that Louis finally sent a text with the address of the wedding venue. “Lou: Come over to try on the gown at ten. Don’t be late.” Zoe dropped me off at the grand entrance of the hotel. She unbuckled her seatbelt, intending to walk in with me, but I shook my head softly. “I’ll go in myself.” “Kallie—” “There are some things I need to finish on my own.” The rehearsal hadn’t started yet. At the far end of the carpeted hallway, the door to the bridal suite was ajar. As I approached, Kinsley’s playful laughter drifted out into the corridor. “Lou, is the veil crooked?” “A little to the left,” his voice replied. Kinsley was sitting in front of the vanity in a crisp white dress, wearing the custom hand-embroidered veil that had been tailored specifically for me. Louis was standing right behind her, leaning down to carefully adjust the hair comb tucked into her soft curls. His movements were slow, gentle, and infinitely patient. I remembered seeing that exact same patience when I applied for my very first teaching interview. I had panicked during the preliminary practice round, forgetting my entire lesson plan, and spent an hour crying in an empty classroom, declaring I wanted to quit. Louis had canceled an important business dinner just to stay up with me until three in the morning, sitting in the back row of that empty room, tracking every time I stumbled over a sentence. The next day, he stood outside the testing center in the freezing cold, holding a flask of warm tea and throat lozenges. “Ms. Sanders,” he had told me, looking into my eyes, “you belong on that stage. Don’t give up on what you love just because you got nervous once.” Later, I truly did become a teacher. And yet, he was the very person who had quietly sabotaged my capstone defense without a second thought. Catching my reflection in the vanity mirror, Louis’s hands froze. “Why are you just getting here?” Kinsley turned around, suddenly realizing how bad the scene looked. She hastily reached up to pull the veil off her head. “Kallie! Please don’t misunderstand! The bridal stylist hadn’t arrived yet, so I was just trying it on for fun—” The comb snagged sharply in her styled hair. She let out a soft gasp of pain, and Louis immediately pressed her hands down. “Don’t yank it,” he scolded softly. He leaned in, untangling the delicate lace from her strands bit by bit, without looking back at me once. I reached into my handbag, pulled out the diamond ring, and placed it quietly on the marble top of the vanity. “Keep the veil on,” I said quietly. “The wedding is canceled.” Louis finally looked up, his brow furrowing instantly. “Are you still hung up on what happened last night?” “It’s in the past.” Not because I forgave him. But because, as far as I was concerned, this entire relationship was in the past. I took out a printed breakdown of the wedding expenses and laid it right beside the ring. “I’ll wire my half of the non-refundable vendor costs to your account later today. You can notify your family and guests. Moving forward, there’s no need for us to contact each other.” Louis’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Kallie, stop making a joke out of a marriage.” “I’m not making a joke.” Kinsley finally freed the comb from her hair, her eyes brimming with tears. “Is this because of me, Kallie? Lou and I have been like brother and sister since we were kids. Please don’t take it the wrong way…” “This has nothing to do with you,” I said coldly. Louis stepped around the vanity, approaching me with a heavy sigh. “I apologized to you. The listing was taken down within minutes. Just because I didn’t walk home with you last night, you’re throwing away our entire wedding?” So, after staying by Kinsley’s side all night, he didn’t even realize that I hadn’t slept at home either. In the past, I would have broken down. I would have screamed, cried, and demanded answers. Now, I just felt a profound, exhausting emptiness. “Yes,” I said smoothly. “I’m calling off the wedding.” Louis’s expression went completely blank for a second, before turning utterly cold. “No. You’re just letting your emotions get the best of you. Go home and calm down. We can push back the rehearsal, but the wedding is happening.” He swept his hand across the table, sliding the ring back toward the edge. He refused to take it, entirely convinced that once my anger blew over, I would put it right back on. I didn’t touch it. I turned around and walked out of the suite. …… When I stepped out of the hotel lobby, Zoe’s car was still idling by the curb. She didn’t ask a single question about what had happened inside; she simply unlocked the passenger door. I slid into the seat, staring out at the glass facade of the hotel for a long moment before speaking. “Can you take me back to the apartment?” The apartment was a cozy two-bedroom unit that Louis and I had rented for two years before finally saving enough to buy and renovate it together. When we were deciding to buy, our combined savings were still short of the down payment. Louis had used his very first dividend check from his new tech startup, along with the proceeds from selling his beloved vintage camera collection, to make up the difference. When the escrow agent asked whose name should be on the title, Louis didn’t even hesitate. He wrote down both of our names. “This isn’t a house I’m buying “for” you,” he had said, pressing his forehead against mine as we signed the papers. “This is “our” home.” Back then, I truly believed that no matter how much hurt or chaos I faced in the outside world, that apartment would always be my sanctuary. Now, wedding albums, custom sample invitations, and half-finished decorative banners were piled high in a corner of the living room. Zoe unfolded a cardboard moving box for me. I knelt in front of the master closet, pulling my clothes off the hangers one by one and packing them away. I was halfway through the closet when the doorbell rang loudly. I thought it was Louis. When I pulled open the door, my parents were standing in the hallway, their faces pale and furious. The moment my mother saw the open suitcases cluttering the hardwood floor, her face turned bright red. “Kallie! What on earth are you doing?! The invitations are already sent out! Calling off the wedding now—do you want both of our families to be the laughingstock of the city?!” My father stepped inside and slammed the door shut behind him. “Put those clothes back right now.” I stood still, holding a sweater in my hands. “Kinsley has a massive social media following, and Louis working with her brings in millions for his firm,” my mother snapped, grabbing my arm. “Once you two are married, isn’t that money going to be spent on you anyway? Every couple has to make sacrifices! Can’t you just swallow a little pride for once?!” The fabric in my hands crumpled under the force of my grip. “Did Louis tell you to come here?” “He’s worried you’re making an impulsive mistake!” He hadn’t come here to respect my decision. He had simply dispatched two diplomats to handle me first. “Why is it always “me” who has to swallow my pride?” The sudden sharpness in my own voice startled even me. “Three years ago, he lied using Kinsley as an excuse, costing me my capstone project and my best friend—and I swallowed it! Now he lists me on a public app like garbage for nine dollars and ninety-nine cents, and you’re still standing here telling me to swallow it!” My mother opened her mouth, stunned into silence. My father’s expression darkened into a scowl. “It was an online joke! Nobody was actually selling you! You holding onto this just shows how petty and narrow-minded you are!” Tears burst from my eyes before I could stop them. “I’m your daughter!” My mother looked away first, her eyes flickering with discomfort. “Precisely because you are our daughter, we can’t stand by and watch you destroy such a wonderful marriage over nothing.” The electronic lock on the front door beeped loudly. Louis stepped into the entryway. His eyes swept over the cardboard boxes cluttering the floor, finally coming to rest on my red, tear-streaked face. He walked over in quick, firm strides, stepping directly between my parents and me. “Mr. and Mrs. Sanders, please don’t speak to Kallie like that,” he said, his voice soft and defensive. “Last night was my fault. I handled things poorly and failed to consider her feelings.” My mother’s tense posture softened instantly. “Kallie, look at him! Louis knows he was wrong!” Louis reached down, gently closing the lid of my open suitcase. “Moving forward, outside of essential business meetings, I won’t meet with Kinsley alone anymore,” he said, looking straight into my eyes. “The invitations are out, and relatives are already traveling here from out of state. I made a mistake, but I don’t want everyone we love to suffer humiliation because of my blunder.” He looked at me with deep, pleading eyes. “Give me one more chance, please?” My father immediately chimed in. “Louis, don’t you worry about a thing. She’s going through with this wedding.” My mother reached out, clutching my hand with tearful urgency. “Kallie, I’m begging you… don’t cause a scene and ruin everyone’s peace right at the finish line.” Louis didn’t press me any further. He simply reached into his jacket pocket, took out the velvet ring box, and set it on the box beside me. “You can punish me however you want,” he whispered softly. “I truly want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Everyone in the room was staring at me, waiting for my head to nod. I glanced over at Zoe, standing near the kitchen counter. She met my eyes, giving me a very subtle, almost imperceptible shake of her head. She was silently pleading with me not to back down. But I knew my parents. I knew Louis. They wouldn’t let me leave quietly today. As long as I kept saying “no,” my parents would physically guard that front door, and Louis would show up again and again, dragging out the agony. I didn’t need another screaming match. What I needed was for all of them to believe that I had finally surrendered. Only then would I have the uninterrupted time I needed to handle my job resignation, secure a new apartment, settle the property division, and systematically untangle myself from this life. Slowly, my fingers uncurled from the handle of the suitcase. “Okay.” The tension instantly drained from Louis’s shoulders. I picked up the ring box, though I didn’t put the diamond on my finger. “The wedding goes on.” The moment those words left my mouth, a collective exhale swept through the room. My mother wiped her tears and immediately pulled Louis toward the dining table to discuss the final seating chart. My father sat down on the sofa, opening his news app as if nothing had ever transpired. Louis looked back at me, a warm, triumphant smile returning to his eyes. “I knew it,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around my shoulders from behind. “I knew you couldn’t throw us away.” I didn’t pull away from his touch, nor did I hug him back. He took my stillness as residual anger, leaning down to whisper softly against my neck, “It’s okay if you don’t want to wear the ring right now. I’ll place it on your finger myself at the altar.” I nodded faintly. …… That evening, my parents left the apartment in high spirits. The moment the front door clicked shut, Louis brought over the final wedding decor binder and laid it open before me. “The florist still hasn’t finalized the backdrop for the welcome area,” he said smoothly. “Kinsley offered to come over and help set it up as a way of apologizing to you.” I flipped to the next page of the binder. “Whatever.” He blinked, caught off guard. “You’re okay with her coming?” “Isn’t the goal to make sure the wedding goes smoothly?” The last trace of anxiety completely vanished from his face. He reached out, affectionately ruffling my hair. “Kallie, I’ve always known you were the most sensible woman in the world.” “Sensible.” It was just another word for someone who had stopped caring entirely. Believing I had finally accepted the situation, Louis threw himself back into the wedding arrangements with renewed enthusiasm. Over the next few days, he and Kinsley were constantly together at the venue. Kinsley sent me draft photos of the floral backdrops, followed by a voice memo: “Kallie, please don’t be mad. Lou has just been turning to me for advice his whole life, and I felt bad turning him down. Once the wedding is over, I’ll definitely keep my distance!” I didn’t even play the voice note a second time. When Louis came home that evening, he was holding a box of the chestnut cake I used to love from a bakery across town. Seeing me sitting at the desk organizing paperwork, he leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “Once the wedding is over, I’m taking you on a proper tropical honeymoon,” he murmured. “We’ll turn off our phones and ignore the rest of the world.” I stared at him. Seven years ago, he had said almost those exact same words to me. Back then, he had postponed a trip he promised me because Kinsley needed him to drive her to a regional talent competition. Year after year, that trip was pushed back, never to happen. “Okay,” I said quietly. He never noticed that the documents spread out across the desk weren’t wedding vendor contracts. They were my formal resignation letter, the official employment offer from Oakridge High, and an irrevocable power of attorney granted to my lawyer to liquidate my share of our shared property. Over the next three days, I submitted my resignation and completed the handover at my school. My principal asked me warmly if I was leaving to finally focus on my upcoming marriage. I simply smiled. “No. I’m just ready to start fresh somewhere else.” I turned over my half of the apartment title and the wedding expense receipts to my lawyer, instructing her to handle everything according to the letter of the law. Zoe arranged for a discreet moving company. I took only my personal clothing, legal documents, and the old photo album my grandmother had left me. The custom wedding dress hanging in the spare room, the stacks of glossy invitations, and the boxes of party favors piled high in the living room—I didn’t touch a single one. On my final morning, Louis added me to a group chat for the venue setup, posting a photo. In the picture, Kinsley was standing on a stepladder arranging hanging white wisteria, while Louis stood below, holding the ladder securely with both hands to keep her steady. Below the photo, his text popped up: “Lou: Decor is almost done! Rehearsal is this afternoon, I’ll come pick you up at two.” I typed back a single word: “Okay.” In reality, I was already sitting in the passenger seat of Zoe’s car. As we drove past the luxury hotel hosting the venue, I didn’t cast a single glance at the glass towers. “To the train station,” I told Zoe. The scenery blurred outside the window as the car accelerated, leaving the city behind. Louis was probably still standing at the venue, waiting for me to show up for the rehearsal. What he didn’t realize was that the grand, elaborate wedding he was so excitedly piecing together… Would never have a bride.

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