Category: English

My childhood best friend always thought I was stupid. He spent three years trying to teach me how to swim and failed. Yet, he managed to teach his cute little junior from school in just three days. In the pool, the girl wrapped herself around him like she had no bones. “My leg cramped, Gavin. I have to hold onto you. Mia won’t be mad, will she?” I stared at them coldly for a moment. And then, I suddenly woke up. Later, when Gavin saw me at the natatorium, clinging like a koala to a coach with pale skin, broad shoulders, a snatched waist, and a six-pack, he ground his teeth so hard I thought they’d crack. “Mia! Get down from there right now!” I leaned into the massive, muscular chest of my protective new coach and feigned shyness. “You know what? You really do learn faster this way.” 1 I stood by the poolside. Gavin was helping his junior, Lily, practice kicking. They were facing each other, holding hands. It didn’t look like a swimming lesson. It looked like a scene from The Bachelor. “Mia, do you see this? She’s only been learning for three days and look at those splashes. I taught you for three years and you’re still doing the doggy paddle.” Gavin had taught me for three years, true. But every session ended with him mocking my posture or starting a splash fight until we both gave up. He never treated me with the patience he was showing her. Suddenly, a squeal echoed from the water. Lily yelped and threw her arms around Gavin’s neck. “Gavin! My thigh hurts…” Without a word, Gavin scooped her up in a bridal carry. He shot a provocative look my way. He was betting on my jealousy. After fifteen years of friendship, he was used to me pining after him. He thought he had me figured out. The girl shrank into his arms, looking at me with wide, innocent doe eyes. “My leg cramped. I had to have him hold me. Mia isn’t mad, is she?” Gavin raised an eyebrow at me, casual and arrogant. I stared at them. I felt something heavy in my chest sink to the bottom. And shatter. I turned around and walked away without looking back. 2 If this one can’t teach me, I’ll find one who can. Stop looking for problems within yourself and start blaming others. That’s my new motto. If Gavin could teach Lily instantly, then clearly, I just needed the right motivation. I needed a hot coach who could princess-carry me in the water, encourage me, and keep me entertained. I marched straight to the aquatic center my uncle owned. I slammed my list of non-negotiables on his desk. “I want pale skin. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. Abs are mandatory. Pecs are mandatory. Biceps are mandatory. He has to be over six feet tall, single-digit body fat, long legs, good proportions. No uggos, no old guys. He needs a nice voice and gentle eyes.” My uncle’s face twisted up like a pretzel. “Mia, honey, are you hiring a coach or looking for a boyfriend?” “I don’t care! If you can’t find a coach like that, I’ll never learn to swim!” “You child… who picks a swim coach based on their abs?” Just then, a splash echoed through the glass. A man stood up in the lap pool. Water droplets rolled down his porcelain skin, over broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and abs that looked carved from marble. His chest was distractingly defined. He swept his wet hair back with one hand, revealing a face so handsome it felt like an attack. I grabbed my uncle’s arm, shaking him. “Him! That one! I want him!” Uncle Ray slapped my hand away. “He doesn’t take students. Stop drooling. That’s Chase. He’s a pro athlete. He just trains here during his off-season.” I pouted, disappointed. The man tilted his head, towel-drying his hair. Water dripped from his sharp jawline. His gaze, half-amused, drifted over and collided with mine. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked my uncle. “Oh, Mia is my niece. She hasn’t learned to swim in three years and insists she needs a hot guy to teach her. It’s ridiculous. Blaming the coach’s face for her lack of skills…” “Three years and still can’t swim?” Chase raised an eyebrow. He looked at me, the amusement in his eyes deepening. “Uncle Ray, put her on my schedule. I’ll teach her.” 3 I didn’t expect Chase to be so easygoing. He was a literal National Level swimmer, yet he was willing to teach a potato like me. “No competitions coming up. I’m bored,” he said, leaning down toward me. His handsome face was suddenly inches from mine. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Is it true? Three years and you still can’t swim?” His voice was deep, magnetic. I nodded awkwardly. Chase smirked. “Then it really must be the coach’s fault.” Professional athletes really are built different. Before we even got in the water, he had to go over the theory. Chase was shirtless, a towel draped casually over his shoulders. Because I was significantly shorter, he had to lean in constantly. The distance was… intimate. High nose bridge, thick lashes, a bobbing Adam’s apple dampened by humidity… I quickly looked down. Full chest, deep-cut abs, the V-line disappearing into his trunks… Jesus. This was too much for a teenage girl to handle. “Got it?” Chase waved a hand in front of my face. “If you don’t understand any of the points I just made, just ask.” Points? What points? I was too busy connecting the dots on his abs. “Um… your physique is too distracting. I think I got dizzy. Can you explain it again?” I thought he’d be like Gavin—impatient, calling me stupid or unfocused. Instead, he paused, then let out a low chuckle. His eyes curved into crescents, utterly bewitching. “Sorry. That was inconsiderate of me.” He went into the locker room, threw on a T-shirt, came back out, and explained everything again, slowly and carefully. 4 Theory met practice. It was time to get wet. I’ve been terrified of water since I was a kid. The moment it goes past my chest, I panic. Chase seemed to sense it. He got in first and held out a hand. “Don’t be scared. Come on. I’ll catch you.” I plucked up the courage to step down, but my foot slipped on the tile. I pitched forward, losing my balance. The water rushed over my head. Panic set in. My hands flailed wildly, grabbing onto… well, something I probably shouldn’t have grabbed. Chase stabilized me, holding me up by the arms. My face exploded with heat. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! I slipped and panicked and—” His expression was calm, though the tips of his ears were a suspicious shade of pink. “When you’re drowning, anything is a lifeline, right?” I was mortified. “You aren’t mad?” He smiled faintly, his tone gentle. “Next time, I’ll hold you tighter. I promise I won’t let you slip.” When I got out of the pool, my phone was vibrating off the bench. It was a wall of texts from Gavin. You jealous? If you don’t reply, I know you’re actually mad. Okay, fine. I dropped the junior off. Where are you? I’ll come find you. Are you seriously mad? It’s such a small thing, don’t be dramatic. I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt and let out a long breath. I locked the screen. Out of sight, out of mind. “Boyfriend?” Chase’s voice came from the water. He was leaning against the pool edge, arms resting on the deck, water glistening on his muscles. “No,” I denied. “He’s…” I used to think of Gavin as my boyfriend-in-waiting. We grew up together. He was good-looking, and girls always flocked to him, but he treated me differently. He teased me, sure, but he always coaxed me back. I thought he was just dense. But seeing how gentle he was with Lily proved he wasn’t clueless. He just didn’t want to be that way with me. I forced a bitter smile. “He’s my former swimming coach. The one who couldn’t teach me in three years.” Chase nodded thoughtfully. “His loss. No wonder he’s the ‘former’ coach.”

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1 I was out shopping with my best friend this morning when I saw him—Kris Lockwood, my cool and composed husband, standing at the Chanel counter. He was buying the very haute couture gown I’d had on reserve for weeks. That evening, the gown appeared on his executive assistant. I didn’t make a scene. Instead, a playful, dangerous smile touched my lips. I had every identical Chanel gown from every boutique in the city delivered and piled up in front of him. Let him buy them all. My best friend, Nicole, had already drafted the divorce papers for me overnight. I have the money and the looks. The one thing I’m not short on is men. At the annual company gala, I drifted through the crowd, a glass of red wine in hand, laughing with the division heads from our various branches. The dance floor was just starting to fill as the music swelled. That’s when Kris made his grand, belated entrance, his assistant on his arm. I watched, from across the hall, as he stopped at the entrance to adjust the Chaumet brooch on Cathy’s dress. A faint smile played on his lips, his eyes full of doting affection, clearly pleased with his handiwork. Kris always did have an impeccable eye for detail; with that small adjustment, Cathy’s delicate features were instantly elevated, making her almost worthy of the Chanel gown she was wearing. In that single moment, every fantasy I’d clung to shattered. When I’d seen him leaving the boutique that morning, I’d been so sure he was picking up the dress for me. My heart had felt so full, so happy. I’d even had my makeup artist create a look specifically to match it. But as the minutes ticked by and the gala began, the dress never arrived. I called him, my tone light and probing, asking if he had a surprise for me. He brushed me off with a few words about being busy, but I caught it—the sweet, saccharine voice of another woman in the background. “Mr. Lockwood, do you think Mrs. Lockwood will be upset?” “Don’t worry,” he’d replied. “She has enough clothes to open her own boutique.” It was then I understood. The man I married was no longer purely mine. Now, Cathy stood before me, her face tilted up in a sweet smile, a pair of familiar, charming dimples deepening in her cheeks. “Mrs. Lockwood, you look stunning tonight.” Her compliment did nothing to soften my gaze. My eyes turned cold, raking over her from head to toe. “That’s a lovely dress. It’s the same model I had on order from Chanel.” We were all smart people here. Some things didn’t need to be spelled out. A fresh college graduate, not even a year into her first job, couldn’t possibly afford a twenty-thousand-dollar gown. My stare made her squirm. Cathy bit her lip, her hands twisting nervously in front of her as she shot desperate glances at Kris. Kris met my eyes, his expression as placid as ever. “Anna, don’t misunderstand. Cathy mentioned she’d never been to a gala like this, never worn couture.” He gestured vaguely. “She’s been working so hard, showing so much initiative. I just grabbed it for her on a whim.” I arched an eyebrow and nodded, then gave my assistant a subtle signal. A moment later, a line of thirteen Chanel sales associates, all dressed in immaculate uniforms, marched into the hall. Each carried an identical gown, and they advanced in a formidable, smiling line until they stood before Kris. He looked at me, confused. I leaned against a carved pillar, my arms crossed, a smirk playing on my lips. “Time to pay up.” I let my gaze sweep over the other executives in the room. “All thirteen of our division heads brought their assistants tonight. Every single one of them is hardworking and full of initiative. You wouldn’t play favorites, would you, Kris? Not and give a gift only to your own assistant?” Cathy knew I was publicly humiliating them. The color drained from her face, leaving it a stark white. When she spoke, her voice was thick with unshed tears. “Mrs. Lockwood, please don’t make things difficult for Mr. Lockwood. It’s all my fault. I’ll return the dress right now.” Listen to that. As if I was the one making a scene, the cruel wife tearing apart two innocent lovebirds. “Cathy, is it?” I said, my voice dangerously soft. “You’re overthinking things. Thirteen dresses is hardly ‘making things difficult.’ Kris grew up with someone to pick the bones out of his fish for him. It’s perfectly normal that he wouldn’t understand the implications of a man giving a woman a dress.” My eyes narrowed. “But you’re his personal assistant. You’re supposed to be more aware of these things. Didn’t you know better?” Cathy dropped her head in panic, mumbling apologies. Kris Lockwood—his looks, his family, his career—was the complete package. He was a star, brilliant and untouchable for most of his life, with countless women vying for his attention. Yet, for years, he’d maintained a cool, detached independence. Any woman who tried to get too close was met with nothing but a cold, distant stare. He was the one who had held me in his arms on countless nights, whispering softly in my ear that I was the only thing in his world worth cherishing. But everything had changed. Now, I could see it in his eyes: a flicker of pity and protectiveness for another woman. With a faint, resigned smile, Kris shook his head. He pulled a black card from his jacket and handed it to the lead sales associate. Then he walked over to me, his arm sliding around my waist, his gaze locking with mine. Over the swell of the music, his deep, pleasant voice murmured in my ear. “It’s just a dress, Anna. I didn’t realize you cared so much. Scaring the poor girl is one thing, but I’d hate to see you get so worked up. It breaks my heart.” His tone was light, almost joking, as if this were all a trivial misunderstanding. He effortlessly shifted the focus away from Cathy. A cold smirk spread across my lips. My fingers, pale and slender, curled around his silk tie, and I pulled him closer, inch by inch. “Cathy has a crush on you. You’re a smart man, Kris. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” I paused, letting the words hang between us. “I know a couple million is nothing to you. But this is the first time something like this has happened. I expect it to be the last.” The employees around us, assuming we were flirting, erupted in a chorus of good-natured hoots and whistles. We were so close I could feel his breath on my skin. A flush crept up Kris’s neck, and the first crack appeared in his carefully composed facade. He frowned, a hint of discomfort in his eyes. “Anna, not here. What will the staff think?” “There’s nothing between Cathy and me besides a professional relationship. You’re imagining things.” I let out a soft scoff and released his tie. Humiliating him here would be easy, but it wouldn’t do me any favors either. Getting into a public feud with some bland, watery girl was beneath me. I’d made my point. For now, I decided to let it go. Besides, I had no concrete proof of an affair. Taking his arm, I walked with him to the stage to deliver the annual address on our company’s stellar performance this year. The other executives’ assistants, all savvy women, delightedly collected their new gowns. They made sure to parade past Cathy on their way out. “We have you to thank, sweetie. If it weren’t for you, we’d probably never get to wear something so expensive in our lives.” “To Mr. Lockwood, giving away a dress is like handing a piece of candy to a child. You’re not going to get any silly ideas about him, are you?” “My, those eyes… and those dimples… they look so familiar. No wonder Mr. Lockwood took a special interest in you.” One after another, their faces were masks of mockery, their words dripping with warning. Cathy had probably never been humiliated like this in her life. Her head sank lower and lower, as if she wished the floor would swallow her whole. Fat tears splattered silently onto the marble. As soon as the crowd thinned, she fled the hall with red-rimmed eyes. She didn’t come back. After the dinner, we made a tactful early exit, leaving the younger employees to enjoy the rest of their night. The moment I got in the car, I knew something was wrong. My passenger seat had been adjusted. And stuck to the corners of the sun visor were several cute anime girl stickers. No one but me ever dared treat Kris as a chauffeur, and no one was clueless enough to sit in my seat. I knew exactly who had been here. A sudden, inexplicable rage ignited within me. I hated to admit it, but in that moment, my scalp tingled with fury, my reason slipping away. Finding out he’d given my dress to Cathy had been one thing—a waste of a good gown. But this—her leaving a trace of herself in my private space—was a declaration of war. In five years of marriage, I had never been this angry. I wanted to slap him across the face, kick him out of the car, and then drive at top speed to wherever Cathy was and give her a piece of my mind. I was about to confront him when his phone rang. Kris, completely oblivious to my simmering rage, answered the call. It was Cathy. I started yanking at the seat controls, my movements jerky and aggressive. “Okay, don’t worry,” I heard him say. “I’m on my way.” My hand froze. I slowly lifted my head and stared at him. He frowned slightly. “Cathy’s at the boutique trying to return the dress, but she doesn’t have the receipt. I need to go.” He was already looking past me, his mind elsewhere. “Anna, I’ll call the driver to pick you up. You go on home.” The words caught in my throat. “You’re leaving me here? For something so trivial?” “Anna, don’t make this difficult,” he sighed. “The girl’s pride is wounded. After what you did, she cried until her voice was raw. All she wants now is to return that dress.” “Is her pride wounded, or is she just provoking me in front of you? Couldn’t she just come and get the receipt herself?” Kris rubbed the bridge of his nose, his voice weary. “Anna, is it really necessary to torment a new hire like this? When did you learn to throw your weight around? This isn’t like you.” The white-hot anger that had been consuming me vanished, replaced by a wave of crushing disappointment. It was almost laughable. “Throwing my weight around?” I echoed. “Kris, you have never, not once, defended another woman to me—not even your own mother. This is a first.” A flicker of confusion crossed his handsome face. “When we got married,” I continued, my voice dangerously calm, “we made a deal. For the sake of both our families’ reputations, you wouldn’t play around, and I wouldn’t waste my nights in clubs. Are you really going to break that rule for her?” His gaze turned deep and cold. He was silent for a long moment before finally dialing the number for our family driver. Then, he leaned over, unbuckled my seatbelt, and spoke in a flat, even tone. “You’re always so forceful, Anna. We’re husband and wife, not just strategic partners. Outside of work, can’t you be a little more like other wives? Can’t you try to rely on me, to yield just a little?” He pulled back, his decision made. “I’ll handle things with Cathy, then I’m going to spend the night at my parents’ estate. I think we both need some time to cool off.” So that was it. He was tired of me. Bored. And now he was desperate to feel his masculine power with some other woman. He used to tell me he admired my decisiveness, my sharp, take-charge attitude more than anything. What a pathetic, high-minded excuse to pin all the blame on me. I got out of the car without another word, watching the black Maybach disappear from sight. I had given him a chance. He didn’t take it. I pulled out my phone and dialed my best friend. “Nikki,” I said, my voice steady. “Draft the divorce papers.” I never wanted it to come to this. Our families, the Lockwoods and the Archers, had been friends for generations. Kris and I were childhood sweethearts, though we’d lost touch for about a decade when he went abroad for his studies. We reconnected at the dinner our families arranged to discuss our engagement. He was polished and charming, handling the elders’ questions with an easy grace. In the years he was gone, I’d thrown myself into the family business, but I’d also spent my fair share of nights at high-end clubs, decompressing with male models. I thought things would be awkward between us after so long, but when we were alone, I discovered a witty, humorous soul hidden beneath his composed exterior. That old, familiar feeling from our youth came rushing back. We were both ambitious, at the peak of our careers. We admired each other, and soon, we were engaged and married. Our union was more than a marriage; it was a merger. Lockwood Industries and Archer Enterprises became intertwined, our stocks mutually held. Divorcing him would be a financial nightmare. Back at home, I showered, drank a glass of warm milk, and prepared for bed. My phone buzzed with a message from Kris. Goodnight, it read, followed by a kissing emoji. Even in the midst of a cold war, he never failed to perform the perfunctory duties of a husband. The next morning, as I was walking into my office building, a young man with bleached-blond hair nearly knocked me over. My Hermès Himalaya bag slammed onto the pavement, scuffing the exotic leather. The coffee and breakfast he was carrying flew through the air, splashing all over the hem of my cashmere coat. The two security guards at the door saw what happened and rushed over, scolding the kid for not watching where he was going. Panicked, he scrambled to pick up my bag and tried to wipe the coffee stains off my coat with a napkin. When he saw it was hopeless, he dropped to his knees, begging me to forgive him. It was the dead of winter, and he was only wearing a thin jacket and sunglasses, which didn’t quite hide the dark bruises under his eyes. I ignored the ruined coat, my heart aching as I frowned and gently wiped at the scuffed leather on my purse. And of course, Kris, who always arrived at work at the same time I did, saw the whole thing from across the street. Lockwood Industries was just opposite Archer Enterprises. He stood there, watching silently, his face a mask of stern disapproval. For the first time, I saw disgust in his eyes. He probably thought I was on another power trip, enjoying this poor kid groveling at my feet. I ignored his silent judgment. I took a step back, waved off the approaching guards, and pulled the young man to his feet. “I don’t know what you’re going through,” I said, my voice firm but not unkind, “but a man’s dignity is precious. You can lose anything, but you can’t lose your spine. That’s the only thing that truly belongs to you.” He mumbled a stream of apologies and thank yous as he cleaned up the mess on the ground, then scurried away. Just as he rounded the corner of the building, he shot a quick look back over his shoulder, a strange, unreadable smile on his face. Back in my office, I sat at my desk and examined the damaged bag. The scuff wasn’t large; you wouldn’t even notice it if you weren’t looking for it. But once a flaw appears, it can never be perfect again. It was so valuable that even this tiny imperfection would be nearly impossible to repair. Harder to fix than my bag was my marriage to Kris. The look in his eyes that morning was a thorn lodged deep in my heart. Our lunch was a long-standing ritual. The Lockwood family chef would prepare it and have it delivered to my office, and Kris would come over to eat with me. Today, I waited until one o’clock, assuming he wasn’t coming. Just as I opened the container, he walked in. Cathy trailed behind him. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she kept her head bowed, looking meek and fragile. I put down my chopsticks and simply watched them. Kris sat down beside me and sighed. “Because of last night, Cathy is being targeted and ostracized at the office.” I picked up my spoon and began to ladle some soup into my bowl, not even bothering to look up. “Is that so? She’s the President’s executive assistant. Can’t she handle a little office drama?” His voice grew tight. “What I mean is, I want you to call your people off. Stop tormenting a young girl!” It was an unspoken rule of our corporate marriage: we each had our own loyalists planted in the other’s company. He was accusing my people of defending my honor by going after Cathy. Last night’s gala was a joint event; nearly every employee from both companies had been there. It was inevitable that Cathy’s behavior would become a topic of gossip. I stirred my soup and took a sip. “First,” I said calmly, “I haven’t instructed anyone to target your assistant. You should know that’s not my style. Second, whatever she’s facing today is a direct result of her own lack of boundaries. Kris, you still don’t understand people. Your special treatment, your tolerance for her behavior—you’re the one making her a target. You are the one who will ruin her, not me.” Cathy, who had been standing silently, suddenly took two steps forward. “It has nothing to do with Mr. Lockwood,” she blurted out. “Mrs. Lockwood, I know what happened yesterday was my fault. It was the first time I’d ever received such an extravagant gift, and I got carried away. I offended you, and I sincerely apologize.” I paused, then laughed. “Kris, your assistant is fascinating. She doesn’t seem to understand plain English, but she’s certainly quick to defend you.” I didn’t accept her half-hearted apology, nor did I intervene to stop the office gossip. Cathy’s tears and victimhood finally snapped something in Kris. For the first time in our relationship, he lost control. He slammed his soup bowl onto the floor at my feet, the porcelain shattering. He demanded that I apologize to Cathy. I had done nothing wrong. Why should I apologize? That day, we parted on the worst terms imaginable. That very afternoon, Kris left on a business trip, taking Cathy with him, away from the toxic environment he had created. That night, I was drinking with Nicole. She complained that I was too sharp, too intimidatingly competent. That’s why a “dumb beauty” like Cathy had managed to catch Kris’s eye. My mother died when I was young, and my father never remarried. I was raised to be the heir, groomed from childhood to carry the weight of the entire Archer family on my shoulders. Feminine softness was a luxury I couldn’t afford; it was a weakness that would only hold me back. I could stick to my principles for thirty years without wavering. Why couldn’t he? In the end, it was simple. He just didn’t love me anymore. And I have no interest in things that don’t belong to me. “I actually went to Lockwood Industries today to get a look at this famous assistant,” Nicole said, swirling the ice in her drink. “And wow. At first glance, she’s practically a knock-off Annabelle doll. Especially her eyes and those dimples—they’re just like yours. I don’t get what’s going through Kris’s head. Why ignore the real thing to coddle an imitation? Does he love you, or does he not?” Her words cut through the alcoholic haze, sobering me instantly. No wonder I’d felt a strange, foggy sense of familiarity when I first saw Cathy. I let out a bitter laugh. “Who knows? Maybe the knock-off is gentler. More understanding.” My head was pounding. Nicole drove me home, her driving exceptionally smooth because she knew I was feeling sick. “The divorce papers are ready,” she said as she pulled up to my villa. “When are you going to give them to him?” “Mid-month,” I said. “He’ll definitely be back for the family dinner with his grandfather.” Every month, without fail, we would go to the Lockwood family estate for dinner with his grandparents. Divorcing Kris was no small matter. I needed this time to secure my position and prepare for every possible outcome. Cathy, meanwhile, wasn’t staying quiet. Her social media was a constant stream of updates. Breakfast with the handsome CEO. Working late into the night together. Standing atop the city’s tallest skyscraper, looking down on the world. Her first time skydiving, her first time seeing a real coral reef, her first time witnessing the ethereal beauty of the Northern Lights. This business trip was giving her a lifetime of experiences she could never have dreamed of, and her feed could barely contain her joy. I used to be the only one who did those things with Kris. Now, the looks my colleagues gave me were a mixture of pity and caution. Kris was allowing her to use this to humiliate me. It was a flawlessly cruel, soul-crushing move. For the next few days, Nicole practically lived with me, helping my legal team sort through the financial entanglement of my marriage. One afternoon, she stormed into my office, her face a mask of fury, clutching a manila envelope. “Anna, that bastard Kris has gone too far!” I was signing a contract and looked up, startled by her rage. “What is it? Is he back?” Nicole slapped the envelope down on my desk. A memory card and several photos slid out, showing Kris and Cathy in a hotel suite. Kris was shirtless, and the angry red marks on his chest were a glaring accusation. “He’s not back,” she seethed, “but his sex tape is!” My shoulders, which I always held so straight, slumped. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise, each beat a throb of pain. With a trembling hand, I picked up the memory card and inserted it into my laptop. The video showed a rooftop terrace at dusk. Kris was holding Cathy’s face in his hands, gazing at her with an almost obsessive look. Behind them, the sky was a fiery orange, the sunset weaving a tapestry of color behind them, lovers embracing against the sky like a scene from a romantic painting. Just as their lips were about to meet, I snapped the laptop shut. My voice trembled uncontrollably. “Who sent this?” “It was couriered. The front desk signed for it.” I took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly let it out. Methodically, I gathered the photos and put them back in the envelope, tucking them away in a desk drawer before I could regain my composure. “Don’t say a word about this to anyone. Find out who sent it.” “Who else could it be?” Nicole spat. “That shameless homewrecker is desperate to climb the ladder!” The angle of the video looked like it was secretly filmed, not staged. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Kris, my husband, was now truly tainted. Tomorrow was the middle of the month. It was time for all this rot to end. The next day, Kris returned to the office. The first thing he did was hold a company-wide meeting where he made an example of three employees, firing them on the spot. They were the ones who had been most vocal in mocking Cathy. Two of them were my people. I wasn’t surprised that he would defend her so brazenly. After all, they were sleeping in the same bed now. What did surprise me was that he brought her to the family dinner that evening. Cathy had brought a pile of expensive health supplements and gifts for my mother-in-law, clearly having done her homework. She charmed her completely, and Kris’s mother was beaming. When I arrived, my mother-in-law sent someone to fetch my father-in-law and Kris from the study, telling them it was time for dinner. She took my hand and began chattering away about trivial things. Kris entered the dining room, glanced at me once, and then looked away. Cathy followed close behind him and, without a moment’s hesitation, sat down in the chair next to him—the seat that had always been mine. Kris froze for a second, but said nothing. We weren’t divorced yet. We were still legally husband and wife. Yet here he was, with his assistant by his side, bringing her home to the family estate, letting her occupy the seat that had always been mine.

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Rhys Albright’s childhood legacy—a documentarian who had been in professional hibernation for years—needed a blockbuster hit to reclaim her former glory. So, Rhys, my boyfriend and my defense attorney, handed over the most humiliating details from my sexual assault case to Serena Sullivan, raw and unfiltered. He didn’t tell me about the documentary’s premiere. But I went anyway. On the colossal screen, the sheer, crushing despair of my violation had been meticulously edited, reframed as a sleazy, transactional exchange—me selling my body for cash. Meanwhile, the men who had shattered my life were somehow recast as mere “youths led astray,” unable to resist temptation. When the film ended, Serena was escorted to the stage, instantly surrounded by a constellation of admirers. She stood there, smiling down at Rhys, who was seated in the front row, and introduced him to the audience. “This is the attorney responsible for the case, the legal counsel for this documentary, and my constant source of inspiration—my muse.” The applause was deafening, a standing ovation. The host praised them, calling them a match made in professional heaven. Across the room, I watched Rhys’s face contort in alarm. In the stunned silence that followed my rising, I slowly, deliberately, raised my hand. “I have a question,” I said. “For the muse-slash-attorney.” 1 The host was visibly blindsided by the interruption but professional enough to pass a microphone toward me. “Yes, ma’am, what is your question?” I didn’t immediately take the mic. Instead, I stood my ground, staring across the sea of heads at Rhys. His lips moved slightly, forming a silent warning I knew all too well. Audrey, don’t do this. I gave a short, brittle laugh and accepted the microphone. “Mr. Albright,” I began, my voice quiet but amplified by the speakers, filling every corner of the theater. “I’d like to ask, as the legal consultant for this film, do you stand by the claim that all content is factually accurate, particularly concerning the victim, Audrey Shen?” I used my full name. Audrey Shen. The name he had, for a second time, personally shoved into the abyss and then nailed to a public pillar of shame. Rhys’s face went even paler. He looked as though someone had clamped a hand around his throat, utterly speechless. Serena, however, recovered instantly. She glided forward, gracefully taking the lead, her smile impeccable. “Thank you for your question, Miss. I can assure you that our team conducted rigorous verification of every single detail.” She paused, then looked at Rhys with an air of intimate admiration. “Mr. Albright, as the lead attorney on the case, provided us with the most authentic and authoritative material. It was only with Rhys’s help that we were able to get so close to the truth, wasn’t it, darling?” Rhys gave a stiff, mechanical nod. But his eyes were locked on mine, a desperate cocktail of pleading and warning. “Is that right?” I countered, a sharp laugh escaping me. I held the microphone closer. “Then why,” I asked, “do I know a completely different version?” Boom. The crowd exploded. This was more than just a question; it was a public execution. Flashbulbs started stroking the room like a sudden, aggressive thunderstorm. Reporters, sensing the scent of blood, surged forward like sharks. “It’s not a true story?” “Wait, is there a cover-up? This is the headline for tomorrow!” The host, panicking, tried to regain control. “Everyone, please! Quiet down! Miss, I need to ask you to—” “To what? Stop telling the truth? Should the truth be twisted to suit your narrative?” I moved. I started walking, step by deliberate step, toward the stage and toward Rhys. Security tried to stop me, but the frantic reporters shoved them aside. That winter, when I staggered out of the precinct, shaking, barely able to walk straight, Rhys had done the same. He had broken through the crowd, wrapped his heavy overcoat around me, and held my icy hands. “Don’t be afraid, I’m Rhys Albright, your lawyer. I’ll get you justice.” His warmth had been my only light then. Now, I was the one walking toward him. A mere foot separated us, and I could clearly see the cold sweat beading on his forehead. “Rhys,” I said, looking him dead in the eyes, asking each word like an accusation. “The film claims Audrey Shen accepted ten thousand dollars, and everything was consensual. Is that how it was recorded in the evidence you provided to Ms. Sullivan?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. His lips worked furiously, but no sound came out. “Speak up.” I took a final, forceful step closer. Confronted with my challenge, his face was wretched. Serena’s perfect composure finally cracked. She stepped in front of Rhys, adopting the pose of a fierce protector. “Miss, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the documented facts of the event are clear. Please don’t cause a scene here—” “Get out of my way.” I cut her off, the chill in my voice unmistakable. “I’m speaking to my boyfriend. Who do you think you are?” Serena’s expression froze solid. “Boyfriend?” She turned to Rhys as if she’d heard an obscene joke, her eyes demanding an explanation. Rhys instinctively recoiled half a step, averting her gaze.

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After graduation, the entire senior class went a little wild. It was the season of confessions, the air thick with hormones and the scent of cheap cologne. But the main event—the one everyone was waiting for—was Shane, the school’s golden boy and quarterback, finally confessing to me, Nora, his childhood sweetheart. I stood by the back door of the classroom, my cheeks burning. Just as my fingertips were about to graze the powder-blue envelope in his hand, a man in a sharp, tailored suit barged in. He snatched the letter and ripped it to shreds. He claimed to be Shane from ten years in the future. Twenty-eight-year-old Shane. “Don’t tell Nora you love her. She isn’t the one,” the man said. He grabbed eighteen-year-old Shane by the arm and pointed toward a girl in the corner, wearing a faded, oversized hoodie. “See Sophie? In ten years, you’re going to love her with a passion that burns the world down. You’ll die for her. Since you’re destined to be with her, why waste the next ten years?” Teenage Shane looked at him like he was insane. He shoved the man away. “You’re crazy! I only love Nora!” But the confession was ruined. The older Shane stuck around, claiming he was there to help his younger self “see his heart clearly.” And gradually, I noticed Shane changing. When Sophie tripped in the hallway, Shane rushed her to the ER, forgetting that I had been waiting for him at the carnival for over an hour. At the team dinner, he instinctively remembered that Sophie hated peanuts, picking them out of the Kung Pao chicken—and putting them on my plate, forgetting that I was allergic. When it rained, his umbrella always hovered over Sophie’s head first, while I stood right next to him, getting soaked. These tiny shifts were like paper cuts on my heart, bleeding me dry one drop at a time. Then came the day we submitted our college applications. “Nora, I’m sorry,” Shane said, his eyes darting away, unable to meet mine. “I can’t go to Stanford with you. The new AI program at South State is a better fit for me.” My blood ran cold. I knew exactly why. South State was the only school Sophie’s mediocre grades could get her into. He grabbed my hand, using that pleading tone I used to find adorable. “Come to South State with me? That way we can still be together. I’ve always listened to you before, just let me have this one thing, okay? I’ll listen to you for the rest of my life after this.” His words felt like needles. I pulled my hand away silently and nodded. But the moment I turned around, I finalized my applications. I sent my acceptance letter to a top university in London. Shane, if your love isn’t exclusive, then I don’t want it at all. Chapter 2 The day my acceptance letter arrived, I felt an eerie calm. I pulled out the giant storage bin from my closet. It was filled with everything Shane had given me over the years. Childish crayon drawings, limited-edition sneakers, a necklace engraved with our initials, a thick stack of movie stubs, the study notes he’d stayed up all night to write for me… Once, these were my treasures. Now, I carried the box downstairs to the dumpster and threw it all in without hesitating. As I turned to leave, I saw two figures arguing nearby. Twenty-eight-year-old Shane, in his expensive suit, was gripping teenage Shane’s wrist. Young Shane, his white dress shirt billowing in the wind, looked furious. “Let go of me!” “Why are you looking for her?” The older Shane’s voice was strained. “You need to go be with Sophie! She’s the one you actually love!” “Bullshit!” The boy yanked his hand free, his face full of teenage defiance. “I only love Nora. Can you just disappear, you psycho?” “Really?” The older man sneered. “Then why did you give up Stanford and your future for Sophie?” The boy froze, his voice dropping. “Who said I did it for her?” I didn’t want to watch this absurd drama anymore. I turned to leave, but Shane saw me. He rushed over, grabbing my wrist, his voice instantly softening. “Nora! You said you wanted to see that new romance movie, right? I bought tickets. Let’s go, okay?” “No,” I said, my voice flat. Shane’s smile faltered, then he pleaded again. “Are you still mad about the college thing? You already agreed to go to South State with me. The program there really is good. Just this once, indulge me, please?” His eyes drooped slightly at the corners—his signature ‘puppy dog’ look. It used to work every time. Now, I just felt numb. Before I could answer, he half-dragged me into his new sports car. The older Shane followed, looking grim, and slid into the backseat. The atmosphere in the car was suffocating. Older Shane glanced around and spoke abruptly. “You just bought this, right? Change the air freshener. Sophie hates ‘Starry Night,’ she likes fruity scents. And the strawberry milk in the console—toss it. Sophie is lactose intolerant. Get soda crackers.” Teenage Shane’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “Are you done? I’m going to say this one last time. I only like Nora. I will never, ever like that Sophie girl!” Older Shane acted like he didn’t hear the outburst. “Is that so? Because later, you love her to the bone. You drink until your stomach bleeds for her. You wait outside her apartment all night. You even…” He listed every crazy, romantic thing the “future” Shane did for Sophie. I sat in the passenger seat, every word an ice pick to the chest. I looked out the window, the blurring streets matching the blur in my vision. At the theater, Shane bought a massive bucket of caramel popcorn—my favorite—and shoved it into my arms. During the movie, he leaned in to whisper jokes about the plot. The screen’s light reflected on his handsome profile. I watched him, feeling dazed. Memories flooded back. Three years old, dragging his pillow to my bed. Seven years old, fighting a bully for my hair clip. Twelve years old, skipping class to hold my hand when I had a fever. I couldn’t understand. How could this boy, who had carved me into his very existence, turn into the man in the backseat? How could he love a plain, manipulative girl like Sophie so desperately in ten years? But everything happening lately forced me to believe it. Suddenly, Shane’s phone buzzed violently. The name on the screen: Sophie. He glanced at it and hung up. It rang again. He hung up again. After the fifth time, Older Shane in the seat next to him grabbed his arm. “What’s the date?” “The 10th. Why?” Shane snapped. “Answer it! Answer it now!” The older man’s voice was frantic. “It’s today! Sophie gets cornered by a gang. To escape them, she jumps from the second floor and breaks her leg. She’s in the hospital for a month! Go!” Shane frowned. “What are you talking about? Even if something happened, it’s not my problem. We’re just classmates!” “If you don’t go, you will regret it! You will hate yourself forever!” Older Shane was practically growling. Teenage Shane scoffed. “If I leave Nora here alone right now, that is what I’ll regret!” He silenced his phone and flipped it face down on the armrest. Older Shane stared at him, his expression complex, before standing up. “Fine. You won’t go? I will!” He stormed out of the theater. The movie continued, but I could feel that the boy beside me was gone. He was jittery, tapping his fingers, his eyes constantly darting to the face-down phone that kept lighting up silently. Finally, after another buzz, he shot up. “Nora, I… I forgot to get you a Coke. Wait here, I’ll be right back!” He lied. He couldn’t even look me in the eye. He grabbed his phone and bolted out of the theater. I watched his retreating back, my heart sinking to the bottom of a frozen ocean. He wasn’t coming back. Minutes later, my phone buzzed. It was a video message from “28-Year-Old Shane.” Chapter 3 I clicked play. The video was shaky, filmed in a dim alleyway. In the frame, the boy I knew so well—my Shane—was red-eyed, fighting like a madman. He was beating a group of thugs with a brutality I’d never seen. Sophie was huddled in the corner, crying delicately. When Shane stopped, gasping for air, she threw herself at him, hugging his waist. “Shane, stop! I’m so scared…” Shane froze, panting, and looked back at her. His voice was a mix of fear and anger. “Are you stupid? Why didn’t you call the cops?” Sophie looked up, tears streaming. “I… I don’t trust anyone. I only trust you. I called you so many times, but you didn’t pick up. I was so scared…” Shane paused, looking at her total dependence on him. Finally, his voice softened. “Set me as your emergency contact. From now on… I won’t miss the call.” Set me as your emergency contact. That sentence was a poisoned dagger. Once upon a time, he had demanded that of me. When I accidentally dialed him in my sleep and didn’t answer, he took an eight-hour train ride just to check if I was alive. I thought that spot was mine forever. It wasn’t. The video ended. My heart throbbed with a dull ache. I stared numbly at the screen, unable to process the movie. The lights came up, the credits rolled, and the crowd began to shuffle out. Just as I reached the exit, a terrifying, grinding groan came from the ceiling. Then, screams. “The roof is collapsing! Run!” Boom! A massive crash, a violent tremor, and then darkness swallowed everything. I didn’t even have time to react before heavy concrete and debris buried me. Before I lost consciousness, a wave of bleak irony washed over me. Look, Nora. The Shane from the future remembered Sophie getting harassed by thugs. He forced his younger self to save her. But he conveniently forgot—or didn’t care—that on the same day, at the same time, you would be buried under a collapsing building. In ten years, he really, truly doesn’t love you anymore. I woke up in heavy darkness. “Here! We have a pulse! Hurry!” When I was pulled from the rubble, the sunlight blinded me. I felt myself being moved, heard the ambulance sirens wailing. When I woke again, it was to the smell of antiseptic. The anesthesia was wearing off. I was being wheeled out of surgery. The doctor was speaking. “Surgery was successful. Left leg fracture set, mild concussion, lacerations… just needs rest.” The gurney stopped abruptly. I struggled to open my eyes and met a pair of horrified, familiar eyes. Shane. He was walking out of a nearby room. Sophie was leaning weakly against him, a small bandage on her forehead. The older Shane was on her other side. When Shane saw me—wrapped in gauze, pale as a ghost, leg in a cast—the color drained from his face. He let go of Sophie instantly and rushed to my gurney. “Nora? What happened?” His voice was panicked. He reached out to touch me but pulled back, his hand trembling in the air. Older Shane steadied Sophie and looked at me with a flicker of surprise, which was quickly replaced by indifference. I was too tired. I closed my eyes. My doctor sighed and explained to Shane, “This young lady was pulled from the cinema collapse downtown. She was buried deep. Lost a lot of blood. If we’d found her any later…” Shane’s face went grey. He whipped his head around, glaring at his older self with lethal intensity. He turned back to the doctor. “I’m her boyfriend. I’ll take her to her room.” “She needs absolute quiet,” the doctor blocked him. “Wait before you visit.” As the nurse pushed me into the room and the door clicked shut, I heard the shouting match erupt outside. “You’re me from ten years in the future!” It was teenage Shane, voice shaking with rage. “You remembered Sophie getting harassed by some punks, but you didn’t say a word about Nora being crushed in a building collapse? She almost died!” “Why should I remember?” Older Shane’s voice was cold, impatient. “I only care about Sophie. Why would I remember the life or death of someone irrelevant?” “You bastard!” The sound of a fist hitting flesh, nurses screaming, Sophie crying… Inside the room, I lay still. Tears slid silently from the corners of my eyes, soaking the pillow. Someone irrelevant. Chapter 4 So, in ten years, that’s all I am to him. Two words. Irrelevant. Once, he remembered every trivial thing about me. He used to say, “Nora, I don’t want to forget a single thing about you.” When the commotion outside finally died down, the door opened. Shane walked in, radiating guilt and lingering anger. He sat by the bed, reaching for my hand—the one without the IV. I pulled it away. His hand froze. His eyes dimmed. “Nora, I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I really didn’t know… I just… I was afraid Sophie would actually get hurt. I didn’t want a classmate dying on my conscience. I lied about the Coke because I didn’t want you to worry… I never thought…” He apologized over and over. “It won’t happen again, Nora. I swear. Trust me.” I listened, my heart feeling like a block of ice cracking. I was leaving soon. Going to a place without him. His promises meant nothing now. So I pretended to sleep. For the next few days, Shane barely left my side. He peeled apples, poured water, and tried clumsily to make me laugh. But Older Shane haunted the hallway like a ghost. “Shane, think. Sophie is the one you love. She twisted her ankle, she’s alone. You shouldn’t waste time here. Nora has nurses. Sophie only has you.” Shane told him to get lost every time. “I only love Nora. Sophie needs care? Fine! I’ll hire three nurses. Now shut up!” But as evening approached, Shane would get restless. Eventually, he would look at me with conflicted eyes. “Nora… I’m still a little worried about Sophie’s situation. I’m just going to check on her, make sure she’s okay, and come right back. Wait for me.” He went. And he never came back that night. Late that night, my phone lit up. A message from Older Shane: Nora, face reality. The Shane of ten years from now belongs to Sophie. Let go. Save the eighteen-year-old me for her. I don’t want to miss a single minute with Sophie. Then, another video. In the video, Shane was sitting by Sophie’s bed, carefully peeling an orange, removing every single white string. “Shane,” Sophie’s voice was soft, “will Nora be mad that you’re taking care of me?” Shane paused, then spoke casually. “Nora is generous. She won’t be mad.” I watched the screen, my heart spasming. Yes. I was “generous.” Generous enough to leave. To let him have his destiny. The day I was discharged, Shane finally rushed in, looking exhausted. “Nora, sorry, things got complicated with Sophie. You look so thin. Come on, let’s go get some good food.” As we walked out, Older Shane appeared, supporting a fragile-looking Sophie. “You’re going to eat?” Older Shane raised an eyebrow. “Perfect. We’ll join. Sophie is hungry.” Shane frowned, but seeing Sophie’s timid glance, he didn’t refuse. At the restaurant, Shane rattled off a list of dishes—all my favorites. Older Shane knocked on the table. “Why are you ordering things Sophie hates?” “I don’t know what she likes,” Shane snapped. Older Shane sneered, grabbed the menu, and ordered several bland dishes. Then he shoved his phone in teenage Shane’s face. “Read this. This is what Sophie loves.” Sophie’s eyes widened. “How did you know?” Older Shane looked at her with undisguised adoration. “I told you. I am Shane from ten years in the future. And in the future, I love you more than anything.” “Enough!” Shane slammed his hand down, grabbing mine. “Nora! Don’t listen to him! I only love you!” Older Shane snapped. “What’s the use of being stubborn? You’re just infatuated with her now. Sophie is your soulmate! In the future, you drive across the state at midnight just to buy her a plushie because she can’t sleep! You wish you could take her pain when she’s sick! You will break Nora’s heart a thousand times for Sophie!” He opened the notes app on his phone again. “Look! Memorize it! Sophie’s likes and dislikes!” Shane looked at the list. Then he looked at the pale girl beside him. He went silent.

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Three months into my pregnancy, Julian finally agreed to give me the wedding I had always dreamed of. We invited friends over to discuss the details. That’s when his “female bro” laughed and said: “Sister-in-law, you’re so lucky. You caught Julian after he grew up and stopped being a jerk. Unlike me. Back then, we played too hard, and I even had an abortion.” “This idiot didn’t even know how to put on a condom. Daddy had to teach him!” She chuckled and punched Julian in the shoulder. My breath hitched. Seeing my expression change, she quickly tried to explain. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m just saying, back then he was immature. He watched too much porn and had nowhere to vent, so he insisted on using me for practice.” “But it’s all good now. I trained him for you. You just get to enjoy the finished product. So, how is my son in bed? Pretty good, right?” I couldn’t take it anymore. I splashed my tea in her face. “If you know it’s in the past, why are you telling me this? What’s your intention?” Before Sarah could speak, Julian exploded. He accused me of being unreasonable and threw me out of the house in the middle of the night. The last thing I heard before leaving was Sarah’s teasing voice: “Son, you’re being naughty. Want a beating? Take a punch from Daddy!” They bet ten million dollars that I would come crawling back on my knees, begging for forgiveness. But this time, I was truly done. 1 When Julian kicked me out, his eyes were full of rage. “We’re all friends here. Did you have to make it so ugly?” “I told you, Sarah is my bro. Bros don’t have genders!” “If there was anything between us, why would I choose to marry you?” “If you’re going to be crazy, get out and calm down!” He turned back to Sarah, his expression instantly softening into his usual gentleness. “Keep drinking. Ignore her. I spoiled her too much! Just because she’s pregnant, she thinks she’s the Queen Mother.” Someone asked, “It’s freezing outside, and Haley is pregnant. Don’t freeze the baby. Careful she doesn’t leave you for real!” “Leave me? Look at her now. She gained thirty pounds since getting pregnant. Who would want her?” “I’m doing her a favor by marrying her. Give her an inch and she takes a mile.” Sarah immediately slung her arm around his shoulder. “Pregnant women are so much trouble. Bros are way easier. Drink! If I don’t drink you under the table tonight, I’m not your daddy!” “Screw you, I’m your daddy! Call me daddy or I’ll wreck you!” “With your little needle? Hahaha—” Outside the door, I wiped my cheek. My hand felt ice cold. I didn’t realize I had been crying. Without hesitation, I called a cab to the hospital. The doctor hesitated. “Miss Haley, scheduling an abortion requires the father’s signature. Is he not here?” “He’s dead.” The doctor didn’t say anything else. She finished the checkup and filled out the appointment form. The pity in her eyes tore my heart to shreds. When I first met Julian, he wasn’t like this. His eyes and heart were full of only me. Until he introduced me to his “bro,” Sarah. Everything changed. While I was in a daze, the paperwork was done. As I was paying, a video popped up on my phone. It was from Sarah. In the video, Julian was kneeling on the floor, licking her diamond-encrusted nails. He looked up with a disgusted face but kept joking. “Damn, Sarah, do you have foot fungus? Are you trying to gross me out?” “Daddy is giving you a chance to redeem yourself. It’s an honor! Dare to talk back, and I’ll teach you a lesson!” Then came a text from Sarah. “Sister-in-law, don’t be mad. I taught this rebellious son a lesson for you. He’ll be obedient from now on!” I don’t know how I felt watching that video. Boom. The sweet memories in my head exploded into shrapnel. They pierced my chest, churning my insides with pain. Julian was a germophobe. I knew this from the day we met. He never held my hand. He even found my hugs disgusting. I got pregnant because one night, he drank himself into a stupor with Sarah. When he got home, his friends were gone, leaving a mess. Julian sat on the sofa smoking, feet up, ordering me without looking up: “Clean this up. Those bastards did this on purpose to annoy me.” Usually, I would have cleaned up like a maid without him asking. But this time, I didn’t respond. instead, I said: “Julian, let’s… break up.” 2 Hearing my voice, he reluctantly looked up from his phone. “What did you say? The game was too loud. Sarah, that idiot, fed the enemy team ten kills in a row. Dragging me down so hard my pants are falling off.” He shouted into the voice chat. “Son, feed one more kill and Daddy will spank you red!” I took a deep breath and repeated myself. “Julian, let’s break up.” This time he heard it. He threw his phone. “Are you crazy?” “What nonsense are you spouting?” I shook my head and sat down, clutching my aching stomach. “I’m not joking. I’m serious.” “I think… Sarah suits you better.” From the broken phone, Sarah’s furious voice leaked out. “Rebellious son, where did you go? Don’t go AFK! Daddy is about to win! It’s a rank-up match!” Julian ignored her, but anger was brewing in his eyes. “So it comes back to me being close to Sarah?” “How many times do I have to explain? We have nothing going on. It’s pure friendship!” “Right. Pure friendship. Friendship where you lick feet. Friendship where you cuddle. Friendship where you screw without a condom.” I smiled mockingly. Julian snapped. He rushed over and pinned me to the sofa, his lips brushing my nose. “Jealous?” “It’s just kissing, right? I’ll compensate you.” As he leaned in to kiss me, the image of him kissing Sarah’s toes flashed in my mind. I shoved him away violently. “Don’t touch me!” He hugged me tighter. “Stop pretending. Isn’t this what you want?” “I know what you’re mad about, but we’re having a baby. Why compare yourself to that idiot?” Our intense argument was interrupted by Sarah’s voice chat. “Son! Where the hell are you! They’re at our base! Get online or Daddy disowns you!” Julian glanced at me. “She’s breaking up with me. I’m the one whose base is getting stolen.” “Just coax her! Women are so troublesome. You have one minute to log on!” The call ended. Julian immediately went back to the game. He brushed me off casually: “Be good, stop making a scene. Tomorrow I’ll take you shopping. Buy whatever you want, hubby pays.” In that moment, I didn’t even have the energy to argue. That night, my stomach hurt badly. I called out softly for Julian. He didn’t answer. The bathroom light was on. Laughter came from inside. Mixed with the sounds of the game battle, piercing my ears. I heard Sarah ask. “So you smoothed it over? Your combat power is skyrocketing! That’s my son! Keep going, Daddy is hitting King rank tonight!” “Smooth what over? Just buy a few gifts to shut her up. Damn, how did you die again? Can you ping?” I didn’t sleep all night. At dawn, Julian pulled me out of bed. “I promised to buy you gifts. I keep my word.” “Good wifey, don’t be mad anymore, okay?” I fought back the nausea in my throat and got in the car. The GPS voice had been changed to Sarah’s custom pack. “Son, turn left ahead, then go straight.” “Damn it, you didn’t use your turn signal again! Take a hammer from Daddy!” Seeing my expression, he laughed it off: “I lost a bet last time. That bastard insisted on prankng me. I have to listen to it for a month. Just bear with it, it’s almost over.” At the mall, I spotted an Hermès bag I liked. I was about to pay for it myself when Julian rushed to the counter to pay. A familiar voice came from behind. “Hey, this bag is nice. Suits me.” Julian came back from paying and bumped right into Sarah trying on the bag. He was beaming. “Changed your style? Not carrying your hiking backpack? So feminine, Daddy almost didn’t recognize you.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “What, charmed by Daddy? Get in line, there are 10,086 people ahead of you.” I really didn’t want to listen anymore, so I interrupted. “Miss Sarah, I was here first. It’s already paid for.” “But I like this bag too. Son, who gets it? You say.” She tapped a threatening finger on Julian’s chest. “Bros before hoes? Don’t you dare choose sex over friendship!” 3 Julian burst out laughing. “It’s yours. It’s rare to see you buy a bag. When the son asks, how can Daddy refuse?” Sarah took the bag and left happily. My breath trembled. Sharp pain stabbed my abdomen. Julian quickly supported me. “Wifey, don’t be mad. Sarah never buys bags. It’s rare she likes something, just consider it a favor.” “There are so many other styles in the store. Which one do you like? Pick again, hubby will buy it for you.” But I didn’t want things I couldn’t have anymore. I forced a smile, swallowing the bitterness. “Julian, we need to talk.” He immediately pulled out his phone to search for restaurants. “You said you wanted to try that place last time. It’s good. I’ll make a reservation. I’ll accompany you tonight.” “Heaven and Earth are big, but wifey is the biggest.” But that night, I waited in the restaurant for three hours. He was late again. I got a text saying he had to work overtime, busy earning diaper money for the baby. Then, Sarah posted an update. A picture of that Hermès bag. “Son is filial to Daddy. I am very comforted! Treating Son to drinks tonight as thanks.” The comments were all mutual friends. “Damn, isn’t that the new limited edition? Two million? Julian is generous. Why doesn’t he give me stuff?” “Sarah, watch out or Sister-in-law will come beat you up. She’s not the generous type.” “Don’t mention it. Talking about Haley makes me mad. Last gathering she ruined the mood. Never drank so unhappily before! If Julian hadn’t kicked her out, I would have made her kneel and apologize!” Sarah replied with a bomb emoji. “Can a bro be the same as a wife? You guys better not get married. Be careful you get stuck with a trouble magnet like Haley. Can’t even come out for a drink.” Julian didn’t reply, but he liked Sarah’s comment. My fingers trembled. The pain spread from my heart to my limbs. The waiter approached me for the eighth time. “Miss, the guests for the next reservation have arrived. Are you still… eating?” “No need. Throw it away for me.” People who won’t come aren’t worth waiting for. Sincerity you have to beg for never belonged to me. When I rushed to the bar, the deafening music made my stomach cramp. I forced myself to endure the discomfort. I wanted to see. I wanted to see what kind of filth was hidden under the skin of the man I had loved for five years. Sometimes you have to see the betrayal with your own eyes to give up on a relationship. Outside the private room, through the glass, I saw Sarah had taken off her clothes. Only a lace bra hung loosely on her shoulders. Julian’s friend teased: “Didn’t know you were so stacked. You hide it well.” “Screw you. Rabbits don’t eat the grass near their burrow. You want to die? Believe it or not, I’ll have my son beat you up!” The man laughed loudly. “Yes, yes, yes. You’re Julian’s grass, I wouldn’t dare look. Last time someone hit on you, Julian almost broke his legs. I have the heart of a thief but no guts!” I remembered picking Julian up from the police station last time. He said he was being a good Samaritan, saving a stranger girl from harassment. It was Sarah. A bucket of ice water poured over me from head to toe. The jokes inside continued. The invincible Julian lost a game. Immediately, people started chanting: “Kiss! Kiss! Last time was only five minutes, not enough fun. Double it this time! No one stop them!” Another guy punched him. “Kissing is boring. These two have kissed enough. Change it!” “How about Julian takes off Sarah’s bra with his mouth! Hahaha!” 4 Sarah blushed and threw a pillow at the guy’s head. “Screw you! If you want to see, just say so!” Julian was instantly amused. “Oh, my son is shy? Come let Daddy take a picture for a souvenir. I’ll show it at your wedding.” “You’re the one who’s shy! Take it off then! Who’s afraid of who! I’m afraid your mouth skills aren’t good enough!” Julian raised an eyebrow, grinning wickedly. “You don’t know if it’s enough? Who was begging for mercy?” Amidst the jeering, Sarah lay on the sofa. Julian slowly approached. It was a front-clasp bra. Julian’s lips grazed the curve several times. The jeering stopped. Everyone stared. Snap. The clasp popped open. Sarah panicked, quickly covering herself. Julian didn’t expect it to be so fast either. He hurriedly used his jacket to cover her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone holding up a phone, grinning. A look of anger I had never seen appeared on Julian’s face. “You took a picture? Delete it!” The guy joked: “Come on, Julian. Just for fun. We’re bros, don’t you trust me?” “I said… delete it!” “Nope, nope. Hahahaha Sarah you’re done for!” Amidst the laughter, no one expected Julian to throw a punch. By the time they reacted, the guy taking pictures was on the floor, head covered in blood. “Julian!” Sarah reached out to pull him back, forcefully hugging him. “Julian, don’t be impulsive! Calm down!” Miraculously, Julian calmed down in her arms. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have agreed to this game.” “I don’t blame you. Who let you be my son!” The joking words instantly relaxed the atmosphere. Before the ambulance arrived, I fled the bar. I had imagined him being ambiguous with Sarah. I thought I was prepared. But I never expected him to lose control like that for her. That moment of vicious indifference, I had never seen it. Even when we were deeply in love and I was bullied, he only said threateningly: “I called the police. Talk to my lawyer later.” It turned out he wasn’t naturally indifferent. It was just that the person who could make him break his rules wasn’t me. I took a taxi to the hospital and got the abortion. Before the surgery, Julian texted me to pick him up from the police station. I didn’t reply. I turned off my phone. It was two hours later when I came out. When I turned my phone on, 99+ messages popped up, all from Julian. “Why aren’t you answering? I told you to come to the station. Can’t you see the messages?” “What do you mean? What are you doing?” “Wifey, please, come get me. I just helped a little girl and got impulsive.” Then a message came in his “Bros” group chat. “Julian, you lost. Sister-in-law didn’t come. Twelve thousand dollars. Pay up.” “Did Haley change her personality? Julian, you’re losing favor!” Julian replied immediately. “Screw off. Haley must be busy, otherwise she wouldn’t ignore me.” Someone realized something and panicked: “Crap, you guys sent it to the wrong group! Haley is in this one!” From the moment he introduced me to his friends, Julian had pulled me into a group chat. The group was always silent. No one spoke. I suspected the group was fake. Until now. My guess was finally verified. My heart died completely. The messages were quickly recalled. Julian then called me. “Are you… busy?” “Didn’t check your phone just now?” I replied with a “Mmhmm.” Julian didn’t send any more messages. Thinking we were breaking up, the wedding house wasn’t needed anymore. I contacted an agent to sell the house, only to be told the deed had already been transferred to someone else’s name. I skillfully opened Sarah’s social media. She had updated, of course. The photo was the living room of my wedding house. The floor-to-ceiling windows, the rabbit dolls, the couple ornaments. Everything I had carefully chosen. Caption: “Compensation from Son to Daddy. Not bad. Satisfied. Forgiven this one time.” Julian replied gently: “Glad you like it. Housewarming tonight. Invite everyone.” Housewarming? How could there be no housewarming gift? I went back to the hospital, retrieved the unformed embryo, and put it in a gift box. I hired people to hang banners full of warm congratulations on the building. A neighbor lady asked me: “Miss, is there a happy event in your family?” I smiled and nodded. “Yes, Auntie. My husband gave our wedding house to his female friend. I’m helping them warm up the place.” Her husband’s eyes widened. He poked the aunt’s arm. “See? I told you other wives aren’t as petty as you. Learn from her!” The aunt slapped him and dragged him away by the ear. I stood downstairs, throwing red envelopes continuously. “Welcome everyone to come celebrate! Ten thousand dollars cash for everyone who comes!” I stroked my stomach gently. “Just accumulating good karma for the unborn child.” In the blink of an eye, thousands of people surrounded me. When the door opened grandly, Julian had just lost a game and was being punished with a deep kiss with Sarah. Seeing me arrive, he hurriedly pushed her away. “Why are you here?” I shook the gift box in my hand. “Bringing you a housewarming gift.” Behind me, gasps erupted. All the neighbors raised their phones and started taking pictures.

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Liam Thorne chased me for three years. He proposed sixty-six times. The day I finally said yes, he sank to his knees and wept with joy. Everyone said I was the jewel he treasured above all else. Until I saw him holding an umbrella for his pretty underclassman in a downpour. They were kissing in the rain, lost to the world. I filmed it all, quietly, and sent it to the entire campus. Then I deleted my accounts and left the country. He searched for me like a man possessed, kneeling outside my family’s home for three days and three nights. “Forgive me,” he begged. “I just made a mistake any guy could make.” Later, I returned with a new man on my arm. He asked me, his eyes red-rimmed, “Then why did you accept my engagement ring?” I smiled, twisting the new diamond on my finger. “Oh, that?” “I threw it away.” Turns out, my mother was right all along. 1 My mother once told me that for a boy like Liam Thorne, love wasn’t about affection. It was about conquest and the thrill of the new. For a family like ours, for a girl with a face like mine, I was nothing more than a respectable, easily controlled stepping stone. The story of Ava Reed and Liam Thorne was the stuff of campus legend at King’s University. He was a Thorne heir, born with a silver spoon so firmly in his mouth it was a wonder he could speak. He was campus royalty, worshiped and feared, a reckless star no one dared to cross. I was Ava Reed. From an ordinary family, with little to my name besides a decent face and a permanent spot at the top of the Dean’s List. He pursued me with the subtlety of a flash flood. It was a campus-wide spectacle. Breakfast delivered to my door every morning, seats saved for me in crowded lecture halls, gifts piling up in my dorm room until it looked like a high-end department store. Every time I rejected him, he came back twice as hard the next day. “Come on, Ava. Just say yes,” he’d plead, blocking my path after class with that infuriating, wolfish grin. Three years. Over a thousand days. He got into fights for me. He pulled all-nighters to catch up on the coursework he’d blown off, just to impress me. For my birthday, he hijacked the campus bell tower’s digital display to scroll “Ava Reed, Marry Me” in glittering lights. Sixty-six proposals in total. For the sixty-sixth, he knelt by the fountain in Centennial Plaza, drenched to the bone, clutching a diamond ring custom-made by a Parisian master. His eyes were as red as a rabbit’s. “Ava,” he choked out. “I’ll die without you.” The crowd around us was a roaring sea of voices. “Say yes! Say yes!” In that moment, the plaza lights shattered in his eyes, reflecting a galaxy of desperation. Maybe, I thought, this is what love looks like. I finally nodded. He spun me around, laughing and crying like a child, asking again and again, “You really said yes? Ava, you’re going to be my wife!” He was genuinely happy then. And he truly did, for a time, treasure me above all else. Which is why, when our mutual friends saw the post I dropped on my private Instagram story—the high-definition video, filmed from a damningly perfect angle that captured every raindrop clinging to Liam’s eyelashes as he kissed her, followed by a series of crystal-clear screenshots—our entire world exploded. 2 It took less than a minute. My phone began to vibrate like a disturbed hornet’s nest, threatening to leap from my hand. The screen vanished under a tidal wave of notifications. “HOLY SHIT, AVA! IS THIS REAL?! Is Liam insane?! I thought he was obsessed with you!” “Ava, where are you? Pick up the phone! I need the tea, NOW!” “I always knew there was something weird with him and that Sienna girl. At every party, his eyes were glued to her!” “Ava, are you okay? Don’t cry over a scumbag like him!” “LMAO, Liam Thorne is FINISHED! This is gonna be the King’s University story of the year!” … The messages flooded in. An avalanche. The digital equivalent of sharks smelling blood in the water. I could picture them on the other end of the screen—shocked, gossiping, reveling in the drama, or draping themselves in flimsy cloaks of feigned sympathy. What a spectacle. The sincerity of their past congratulations now felt like a prelude to the biting mockery and pity of the present. I didn’t reply to a single one. I just opened my contacts, found Liam’s name, and blocked him. WhatsApp. Blocked. Every social media connection we shared, severed with a single tap. Then, I began to cleanse the space that had been built on lies. My photo gallery held thousands of pictures of us, from awkward beginnings to intimate moments. Delete all. Our chat history, filled with the goodnights and sweet nothings that once made my heart race. Clear. Every trace of him on my social media profiles. Erase. It felt like excising a tumor, one digital snapshot at a time. Cool, precise, surgical. Outside, the sky began to pale. The night’s rain had stopped, leaving the air with a clean, crisp, and utterly false scent of renewal. I zipped up my last suitcase and took one final look around the apartment, a place that had once been the backdrop for so many of my hopes and dreams. Everything in it—the furniture, the decor, even the lingering scent of his signature cedarwood cologne—was suffocating me. The phone was still buzzing relentlessly. A new, unknown number flashed on the screen. I knew who it was without having to guess. I powered the phone down, popped out the SIM card, snapped it in two, and dropped it into the trash. My eyes fell on the gaudy diamond ring sitting on the table. It felt cold to the touch. I picked it up, weighed it in my palm for a second, then tossed it into a box of scrap paper. Then, I dragged my suitcases to the door, opened it, and walked out. I didn’t look back. The elevator descended, the numbers dropping away. On the ground floor, the lobby TV was playing the morning news. The anchor’s polished voice was a world away from the silent chaos in my head. At the airport, I made my way to the international departures terminal. I handed my passport and boarding pass to the customs officer. “Ma’am, are you traveling to Berlin for tourism or…” “I’m moving there.” He stamped my passport. I was through. As I walked down the jet bridge, the city I had lived in for over twenty years—and the man I thought I would spend my life with—receded behind me. The plane ascended, and a familiar sense of weightlessness pressed down on me. I stared out the window at the city shrinking below, a miniature model in a life that was no longer mine. The storm-ravaged landscape of my heart had, strangely, fallen silent. You see, Liam. What you treasured, another could throw away like trash. And me? I no longer wanted it. 3 Life in Berlin felt like it was on fast-forward, set to an entirely different rhythm. I rented an apartment with a small balcony that caught the sun until three in the afternoon. My days were a blur of German language classes, prep courses for my master’s program, and navigating a foreign city’s streets and transit systems. I filled every waking moment, leaving no room for memories to seep in. Occasionally, during sleepless nights, I’d open a secondary, almost-abandoned social media account known only to a handful of my closest friends back home. I had blocked everyone connected to Liam. But ghosts from the past still flickered across my feed. The social circle we once shared, a pot of hot oil that had been doused with cold water, was now sizzling more violently than ever in my absence. At first, it was an overwhelming chorus of support for me and condemnation for Liam. “Where the hell did Ava go? Liam, you bastard, you drove her away!” “Sienna is such a snake. I always knew she was trouble, with that pathetic damsel-in-distress act!” “Liam Thorne is officially the biggest disgrace on campus!” … Then, the tide began to subtly turn. About two weeks after I “vanished,” a new post appeared, written by a girl from one of my classes who thrived on stirring up drama. “Unpopular opinion, but wasn’t Ava a little too harsh? Didn’t even give him a chance to explain, just nuked his reputation with a video and then skipped off to Europe to live her best life? Yeah, Liam screwed up, but it’s not like he killed someone. He’s been a complete wreck, looks like he hasn’t eaten in days.” A few comments below echoed her sentiment. “Yeah, relationships are complicated. Maybe it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing.” “The Thornes are a powerful family. Liam’s never been humiliated like this. I almost feel bad for him.” … I scrolled, my fingertips cold against the screen, a bitter laugh caught in my throat. There it was. The fickle nature of public opinion, the instinct to side with power and punch down. The same people who had put me on a pedestal were now eager to find a new angle, to showcase their own “rational” and “unbiased” perspective. A few days later, Liam seemed to have recovered from the initial shock and chaos. He began his counter-offensive. First, he used his family’s influence to scrub the video and photos from the King’s University online forum and most social media platforms. Then, he made an appearance at a mutual friend’s birthday party. Someone snapped a candid photo of him in profile: sitting in a shadowy corner, a drink in his hand, his expression dark, his jaw clenched. The caption read: “Liam Thorne is not in the mood. Approach with caution.” A brave soul commented below: “Still thinking about Ava?” He, who rarely engaged, replied personally. Three words. “She lied to me.” Even through the screen, I could feel the venom, the raw, wounded fury of a man betrayed. I lied to him? I lied through three years of his pursuit, through sixty-six proposals, through his grand declarations of love? What a fucking joke. 4 A month later, Sienna started appearing by his side. Or rather, she started appearing in photos, strategically placed by his side. At a charity gala, she wore a revealing evening gown, her arm looped possessively through his, a practiced smile on her face. At the polo club, he was pictured teaching her how to ride, his arms wrapped around her from behind in an intimate embrace. Someone even photographed them entering his downtown penthouse together late at night. The gossip blogs ran wild with sensational headlines: “Liam Thorne Heals Broken Heart with Underclassman Rebound? Ex-Fiancée Ava Reed is Yesterday’s News!” The comments section was a battlefield. “Of course. A man can’t stand to be alone for five minutes.” “This Sienna girl knows how to play the game way better than Ava. Look how she dotes on him.” “Family status matters. Ava was never going to fit into the Thorne family anyway.” “I’ll bet a hundred bucks this one doesn’t last either.” … I stared at the photos—at Liam’s blank, emotionless profile and Sienna’s triumphant smirk that practically screamed from the screen. The dead lake of my heart couldn’t even be bothered to produce a single ripple. It was all just… noise. The incessant, irritating buzz of flies. I closed the browser, shut my laptop, and picked up my German textbook. I had a three-thousand-word essay to write and a presentation to prepare for next week. I was busy. Too busy to care about the cheap drama unfolding an ocean away. 5 The call came on a new number, an international one. It was Liam’s best friend, Ethan. His voice on the other end was heavy with exhaustion and anxiety. “Ava… I finally found you. Are you… are you doing okay?” “I’m fine,” I said, my voice flat. “Listen… Liam… he’s…” He paused, searching for the right words. “He’s in a bad place. He’s drinking every day, and when he’s drunk, all he does is say your name. He’s ignoring his work at the company, his family is freaking out…” “Oh,” I cut him off. “And how is that my problem?” Ethan was taken aback. His tone shifted to one of pleading. “Ava, I know he was an asshole. I know what he did was unforgivable. But… you two were together for three years. He knows he was wrong. Can’t you just… give him a chance? Even just to meet, to talk things through?” I looked out my window at the gray-blue Berlin sky, where a few pigeons were landing on my balcony railing. “Ethan,” I said slowly. “Do me a favor and give him a message for me.” “What is it?” “Tell him to stay the hell away from me.” I hung up and blocked the number. The world was quiet again. 6 I thought the drama would eventually fade with time and distance. Then, one weekend, I was coming home from the library and saw a figure at the entrance to my apartment building. A ghost who had no business being there. Liam. He was leaning against the wall, wearing a wrinkled trench coat that was completely wrong for the weather. A few cigarette butts lay scattered at his feet. His hair was a mess, his eyes were sunken, and a dark stubble shadowed his jaw. He was so haggard and broken, he looked like a different person. His eyes lit up the moment he saw me, like a dying man spotting a lifeline. He stumbled forward, reaching for my arm. “Ava!” I took a step back, avoiding his touch, my gaze calm and steady. His hand froze in mid-air. The hope on his face shattered, replaced by a raw, painful vulnerability. “Ava… I… I finally found you…” His voice was a harsh rasp, thick with emotion. “I’m sorry. I know I was wrong, I really, really know… Forgive me. Please, just forgive me this one time, okay?” I said nothing. He seemed to take my silence as encouragement, or perhaps it pushed him further into desperation. He continued, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “I was an asshole! I’m not human! I was drunk that day… I wasn’t thinking straight! The only one I love is you, Ava. It’s only ever been you!” He tried to step closer, but my icy stare pinned him in place. “Ava, don’t be like this… Look at me. Please, just look at me,” he begged. “Hit me, scream at me, do whatever you want! Just don’t ignore me… I can’t live without you…” “Are you done?” I finally spoke, my voice devoid of any warmth. He froze. “If you’re done, you can leave.” The color drained from his face, as if I’d siphoned the life right out of him. His lips trembled, and after a long moment, he managed to force out the words. “Ava… I just… I just made a mistake any guy could make…” I almost laughed out loud. The classic, shameless excuse. “So?” I raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to applaud you for this… universal male achievement?” “No… that’s not what I meant…” he stammered, shaking his head, a look of profound, desperate confusion in his eyes. “Ava, you were never like this… You were always so kind, so forgiving… Why have you become so… so cold?” Yes, I used to be kind. I used to be forgiving. That’s why I let him fool me for three years, like an idiot. Believing his sweet words while he was off kissing another woman in the rain. “Liam,” I said, looking straight at him, my voice clear and sharp. “Your love is filthy.” “And it disgusts me.” He recoiled as if struck by lightning, stumbling back a step, his body swaying. His eyes were wide with utter disbelief and a crushing despair. “No… that’s not true…” he muttered, then his head snapped up, his gaze turning wild as he clung to one last thread of hope. “Then why did you accept my ring?! You said yes to my proposal! Ava! You loved me, you know you did!” Ah, yes. The ring. The one I had casually tossed into a box of trash. I looked at his bloodshot, obsessive eyes and suddenly felt an immense wave of exhaustion, followed by a sharp, satisfying clarity. I slowly raised my hand. In the pale afternoon light, my fingers were long and bare. I met his gaze, and a faint, cold smile touched my lips. “Oh, that?” I paused, watching his pupils constrict in anticipation, and then I let the two words fall between us, soft and final. “I threw it away.”

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During the hardest, poorest year of my life, I intentionally crushed two of my fingers in a factory machine to pay for my grandmother’s $30,000 surgery. The factory owner frowned, his face etched with genuine pain, and offered me $80,000 in compensation. Guilt-ridden, I only accepted the $30,000 I needed. Years passed. Grandma has long since left this world. Then I saw the news trending on X (Twitter). That factory had burned to the ground. The owner died of a “heart attack.” His wife vanished without a trace. Their twelve-year-old son was sent to foster care. Looking at the helpless, terrified eyes on my screen, I poured the pills I was about to swallow down the drain. Fine… let’s live one more time. For the sake of that thirty grand. 1 Even after all these years, whenever I look at my severed fingers, a wave of guilt washes over me. But if I went back, I know I’d do it again. Because back then, I truly had nowhere else to turn. Grandma found me by a dumpster in a snowstorm. If not for her, I would have frozen to death on that bitter night. She got stomach cancer. The doctor said surgery and follow-up treatment would cost at least $80,000. We sold everything—our dilapidated studio apartment, the worthless furniture—everything we had. It only amounted to $50,000. We were still short $30,000. “Don’t treat it, Tara. I’ve lived long enough. I can’t let you sleep on the streets for me,” she said. I shook my head. “I’d rather sleep on the streets than live without you, Grandma. We… we have to treat it.” Grandma held me in her arms, her sighs mixed with sobs. We cried together. It was a desperate, freezing night. We both knew that $30,000 was an astronomical figure for us. Where could we possibly scrape that together? Grandma had no family. She only had me. But I… I didn’t have the money to save her. However, at nineteen, I had infinite guts and courage to face any difficulty! When I shoved my fingers into the rapidly spinning gears, the pain nearly made me black out. But in the panicked eyes of my coworkers, I saw hope. Grandma could be saved! It was the only door I could open for her. 2 The factory owner, Mr. Miller, was a good man. By the time he rushed to the hospital, my hand was already bandaged. He squatted down, wanting to touch my hand but looking helpless, not knowing where to start. Finally, all he could say was a heavy sigh full of heartache: “Child, you’re so young. What will you do now…?” I turned my head away, not daring to meet his eyes. I wasn’t a good kid. I didn’t deserve his sincere pity. His wife, Mrs. Miller, came to take care of me personally. She handled everything. She gently combed my messy hair. She cut fruit into small pieces, warmed them up, and fed me bit by bit. It was the first time I felt that kind of delicate, maternal tenderness. It was completely different from how Grandma cared for me. A coworker who came to visit whispered a warning: “Be careful. This is a honey trap. They’re being nice so they can pay you less later.” I was instantly on guard. I tried to reject their kindness. But they continued to care for me, both physically and emotionally, ignoring my deliberate coldness. After I was discharged, Mr. and Mrs. Miller drove me home. Grandma held my hand, missing two fingers, and wept silently. For a long time, she couldn’t say a word, her whole body trembling with sobs. In that moment, I started to regret using this method to get money. The Millers were wiping tears too. Our home was bare walls. Grandma looked jaundiced, clearly very ill. They took out $80,000 in cash and stacked it neatly on the table. Grandma stood up in a panic, waving her hands, terrified and unsure of what to say. She could only look at me in silent distress. “This is the factory’s compensation for Tara. Please take it. The factory will cover future medical bills too,” Mr. Miller said. I lowered my head in shame. This compensation far exceeded my expectations. I had consulted a lawyer, and the amount he quoted was far less than what Mr. Miller offered. And this was just a small factory. The kind where the boss had to go out and make sales calls himself every day. Every penny was hard-earned. I needed money, but… I couldn’t be conscienceless enough to take the extra. Even though I wasn’t sure if the current me had a conscience left. “It’s too much. I can’t take this much.” Mrs. Miller patted my head and said softly, “Child, don’t be shy. The road ahead is long. Take this money and learn a trade to support yourself.” I looked down, unable to wipe away my tears or speak, just stubbornly shaking my head. I only took $30,000. I resolutely pushed the rest back to them. Grandma looked at the $30,000 I kept in shock. Thirty! It was thirty thousand! A number so painfully familiar to her. The old lady looked confused, shocked, and then… a flash of heartbroken realization crossed her eyes. No one else knew why Grandma suddenly burst into loud wails. Only I kept my head down, afraid to look into their eyes. I was afraid to see my own despicable, shameful, ugly reflection in their pupils. In the end, the Millers couldn’t beat my stubbornness. I practically kicked them out with a cold face. I threw the $50,000 back at them. I knew I was being rude, but I really didn’t know how else to refuse such warm kindness. Grandma cried all night. No one was sadder than her. I just regretted not hiding my intentions better; Grandma figured it out instantly. The next day, we packed up and moved out of that dilapidated apartment and into the hospital. We said goodbye to that home forever. My only home with Grandma. I had no home left, but I still had Grandma. With Grandma, I still had a home. 3 Grandma’s surgery went smoothly. But after being discharged, we had nowhere to go. We set up a tent under a bridge. Renting an apartment or staying in a motel cost too much. Every penny had to be spent wisely. I had no idea how much follow-up treatment would cost. I could only cut expenses as much as possible. Many times, I regretted not taking that $50,000. But I knew clearly that if I went back in time, I still wouldn’t take it. If I took it, the weight on my spine would keep me bent forever. After two rounds of chemo, Grandma’s body clearly couldn’t take the drafty bridge anymore. We moved into a cheap basement room in an alley. Winter arrived. It was freezing. I found a job delivering food via DoorDash. I took care of Grandma while working like a tireless machine. In between, I picked up odd jobs at nightclubs—promoting drinks, being an atmosphere girl. I tried everything. As long as it paid. That was the closest I ever came to falling into the abyss. I saw countless ways to make quick, dirty money. Reason pulled me back in the end. If I truly fell, Grandma would rather die than accept treatment bought with that money. The Millers visited us once during that time. I didn’t even know how he went to the trouble of finding our address. He said, “Tara, actually, you can come back to work at the factory. We’ll move you to an easier position.” My nails dug deep into my palms. Stubborn and hostile, I said, “Easier positions definitely don’t pay well. Are you going to charitably inflate my wages?” He nodded without hesitation. I didn’t appreciate it. “But I don’t need it. Are you pitying us? I can take care of Grandma just fine on my own.” The couple opened and closed their mouths, looking heartbroken, but said nothing more. Grandma seemed afraid of something, clumsily waving her hands to refuse: “Our Tara isn’t going back to work. Thank you, really, thank you.” She rubbed my frostbitten, stubby fingers, terror in her eyes. The Millers left with heavy sighs, looking back three times with every step. I whispered at their backs, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Forgive my rudeness, forgive my ugly, dark heart. All my strong disguises were supported by despicableness. I wasn’t a good person. At least, I didn’t feel like one then. Grandma cried too. “Grandma is dragging you down, Tara. I’m an old useless thing, how can I burden a child like this?” I turned around fearfully and hugged her tight. “Don’t say that! I only have you, Grandma. You get better, and we will be okay. We will get better.” But would we? Looking at Grandma’s sallow face, a seed of helpless despair was planted in my heart. Grandma didn’t speak. The tears soaking my sleeve silently told a story. Drop after drop, endless tears. She suffered too much. How could I let her leave without enjoying a single day of happiness? Absolutely not. But that night, a plastic bag inexplicably appeared at our door. On top were two cans of nutritional milk powder for seniors. Underneath was a neat stack of $50,000. Fifty. Another sensitive number. I knew who it was immediately. I called Mr. Miller, but no one answered. Grandma touched my rough, frozen hands. “Tara, stop calling. Take it. Later… we’ll find a way to pay them back.” I stared at Grandma. Her cloudy eyes were filled with heartbreaking pain. I nodded, turning my head to let the tears flow into the shadows. That was the last bit of endurance and stubbornness of my youth. 4 That winter was the fullest and most exhausting year of my life. Delivering food by day, working at the club by night. I was so tired I could fall asleep sitting anywhere. It was exhausting, but the decent monthly income still left me worried sick. Grandma’s chemo every three weeks. Medical bills, nutrition costs—these were expenses I couldn’t skimp on. The doctor said if she ate well and kept her nutrition up, the side effects would be less severe. During that time, every extra bite of rice or sip of soup Grandma took made me happy for a long time. As if she wasn’t eating food, but life points. Four rounds of chemo ended. Time for a routine checkup. I was on a delivery run when the oncologist called. “Your grandmother’s response to chemo isn’t good. The scans show the tumor… has metastasized to the liver and lungs.” Crowds streamed past me. I squatted on the street corner and wailed helplessly. Why? Why did I try so hard only to face this result? Could the god of luck not spare a single glance for us? I got off work early that day. I secretly went to see the doctor first. The follow-up treatment plan was just heavy sighs of unbearable helplessness. The doctor was a young man. He said, “Take Grandma home, Tara. Don’t spend any more money in the hospital. Let her eat whatever she wants.” I knew he meant well, but I didn’t want to hear a word of it. It felt like the Grim Reaper reading a death sentence. I couldn’t accept it. I still believed in miracles. “If we just go home like this, what will happen to Grandma?” “It will be very painful. She might get fevers, lose mobility, lose appetite, or develop ascites,” the doctor’s voice got quieter. He didn’t want to look me in the eye anymore, looking down at his screen pretending to be busy. “What if I insist on treatment?” I wasn’t giving up. The doctor looked up at me steadily, lowering his voice. “Even if you insist… your grandmother will still go through all of that.” Hearing this, my tears burst forth uncontrollably. I tried to dry my eyes in the stairwell before seeing Grandma, but my small eyes couldn’t hold that many tears. I wiped for half an hour, and they still wouldn’t stop. A middle-aged man smoking nearby looked equally worried. Seeing me cry, he numbly handed me a crumpled tissue. “Eyes hurt if you cry too long. Wipe them.” His exhaustion made me wonder if he also had family in treatment. Everyone suffers. Each has their own suffering. So… let’s try to make the last leg of Grandma’s journey a little sweeter. Maybe because I came back early today, I saw Mrs. Miller. A thermos was on Grandma’s bedside table. I walked in, and the room smelled of chicken soup. A very familiar smell. I said thickly through my congestion, “Thank you, Mrs. Miller. You don’t need to come tomorrow. Thank you for visiting Grandma all this time.” This time, it was sincere gratitude. I wasn’t an idiot. I should have known those exquisite, delicious meals weren’t takeout. Takeout wouldn’t make Grandma dodge my eyes. Takeout didn’t come in high-end thermal lunch boxes.

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Four years. That was the tally of our long-distance marathon. I never once worried that Holden would betray me. Why would I? My best friend, Sienna, attended the same university as him. She was my eyes and ears, my proxy on the ground. She kept me synced to his life, beat for beat. Over those four years, Holden came to see me more than two hundred times. Between the flights and the hotels, he must have burned through thirty thousand dollars. I remember how he used to smile, his hand warm and heavy as he ruffled my hair. “You get air-sick, and cars make you nauseous,” he’d say, his voice a soft rumble. “So let me come to you. I never want you to look at other girls and envy their boyfriends. Not for a second.” “I can make money tutoring,” he’d insist. “If I’m not spending it coming to see my high-maintenance girl, what’s the point?” On the day of his graduation, I told him a lie. I said my advisor was chaining me to the lab for three days. In reality, I endured a twenty-hour trip from hell—three layovers and a Greyhound bus—just to make it to his ceremony. I had a ring in my pocket. I was going to propose to him. When I arrived at the university, the air was electric. A crowd had gathered on the main quad, the cheering deafening. It was the sound of a spectacle. I tilted my head, curious. Through the gaps in the crowd, I saw a man down on one knee. It was my boyfriend. It was Holden. And the girl standing before him, hands over her mouth? That was my best friend. Sienna. 1 I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. My vision blurred, static filling the edges of my sight. Rub your eyes, Avery, I told myself. It’s the travel fatigue. The stale air. You’re hallucinating. But when I focused again, the image sharpened, and the tears came before I could even process the pain. I saw Holden’s hand trembling as he held the velvet box. “Sienna,” he said, his voice projecting clearly over the hush of the crowd, “I have never imagined spending the rest of my life with anyone else.” “To me, there is only you, and then there is everyone else. Will you marry me?” My head turned mechanically, locking onto Sienna. She was weeping, that beautiful, delicate cry she had perfected. She looked stunning today. She was wearing a white, tiered chiffon dress paired with little leather loafers. In the sunlight, it looked almost like a wedding gown. Sienna, who hated makeup, was flawless today. The kind of beauty that makes your heart ache. A memory, sharp as glass, sliced through my mind. Two weeks ago. Her voice on the phone. “Babe, which dress should I get?” I had told her to pick the white tiered one. “But it’s three hundred dollars over my budget,” she had hesitated. “Is it worth it?” “It’s gorgeous,” I had insisted. “It’s perfect for you. If you love yourself, buy it. I’ll Venmo you the difference.” At the time, I thought she was wearing it to a dinner with her roommates. Now I realized: She was wearing the dress I paid for, to accept a proposal from my boyfriend. The shock was physical. It froze my blood, locking my limbs in place. Part of me wanted to scream, to sprint into the center of that circle, snatch the ring, and crush it under my heel. Instead, I watched Sienna smile through her tears. “I couldn’t imagine loving anyone but you,” she sobbed. “I’d rather die.” “Holden… yes! I will! I will marry you!” I watched, paralyzed, as Holden slid the ring onto her finger. They embraced, their lips meeting in a kiss that looked like it belonged on a movie poster. The crowd erupted, a tidal wave of applause and cheers. Beside me, two girls sighed in admiration, their words twisting the knife deeper. “Holden and Sienna are literally perfect. From freshman year sweethearts to marriage… I’ve been shipping them since they got together first semester!” “Right? He’s the Student Body President, she’s the brilliant Lit major. You couldn’t write a better romance novel. Three years together and straight to a proposal? I’m dying. It’s too romantic.” The bouquet of flowers in my hand slipped. The ring box I had been clutching tumbled onto the pavement. Three years. Only now, amidst the confetti of my shattered reality, did I learn the truth. My best friend and my boyfriend had been the campus power couple for three years. Everyone knew. Except me. A metallic taste—blood—surged in my throat. My body began to convulse, a violent rejection of what I was seeing. The world tilted, and I hit the ground. Strangers, kind students, rushed to help me, carrying me toward the campus health center. In the distance, Holden and Sienna were still lost in their kiss, oblivious to the universe outside of their deceit. When I woke up in the clinic, the nurse looked relieved. “Honey, your blood sugar bottomed out,” she said gently. “You need to take better care of yourself.” I sat up, hands shaking, and dialed Holden. No answer. I messaged Sienna on every platform. Called her. Nothing. Tears dripped onto my phone screen, blurring the keypad. The nurse handed me a candy wrapped in gold foil. “Why the tears? Here, have a chocolate. Some students dropped these off. Party favors from the big proposal.” “That Sienna girl and Holden… they’re a sweet couple. Big scene on the quad today. Very exciting.” I walked out of the clinic like a ghost haunting the campus. The nurse’s words echoed in my ears, a loop of torture. “Freshman year, Sienna fainted during physical fitness tests. Holden carried her all the way here. You should have seen how panicked he was.” “After that, they were inseparable. Wanted to be together twenty-five hours a day. People even wrote stories about them on the campus forum. Totally codependent. And now, look at them. Happily ever after.” Every sentence was a razor blade, carving fresh wounds into my heart. Freshman year. I had fainted during my fitness test, too. My roommates had helped me. I never imagined Holden and Sienna were lying to me. They were building a romance in the very clinic where I imagined him worrying about me. My phone buzzed. A voice message from Holden. I played it. His voice was thick, slightly slurred. “Baby… graduation was crazy. Went out drinking with the guys, sorry I missed your call.” “Don’t be mad, okay? Can we FaceTime? Actually… no, I smell like a brewery. I’ll FaceTime you tomorrow.” “I ordered breakfast for you, it’ll be at your door in the morning. Remember to eat. Love you.” My heart plummeted into the abyss. A message from Sienna followed seconds later. “Avery! Is the thesis stressing you out? I was so busy taking grad photos with my roommates I totally missed your texts. My bad!” “Your boy Holden is behaving, by the way. Some girls tried to get photos with him, but he shut them down. He only wants to take photos with you.” They were so coordinated. They had built a fortress of lies, timing their messages to cover the cracks. If I hadn’t seen the proposal with my own eyes, I would have believed them. I would have been the fool who thanked them for their loyalty. I sank into a crouch right there on the sidewalk, burying my face in my knees, and wept until I couldn’t breathe. Then, I heard them. I looked up. Under the streetlights by the campus lake, Holden had his arm around Sienna. They were laughing, that intimate, secret laughter of lovers. They were feeding a stray orange tabby cat. Sienna’s voice was wistful. “Mittens… we’ve been feeding you for three years. You’re like the witness to our happiness.” Holden looked at her, and the love in his eyes was so potent it was terrifying. “I love you, Sienna.” The words shook my very soul. Sienna bit her lip, looking tragic and beautiful as she buried her face in his chest. “You’ve done enough for me. After today… we can’t love each other out loud anymore.” “You have to go live with Avery. Build your little home. And I’m going to France for grad school. We might never see each other again.” Holden held her tighter. “Sienna, no matter how far you go, you are the one in my heart. I proposed to you.” She nodded, a sad, accepting smile on her face. “I have enough memories. At least you asked me first. Even if you marry Avery later, I won’t be jealous.” “Don’t feel guilty. Even if we don’t get the marriage license… maybe you’ll remember me longer because of it.” My fingernails dug into my palms until the skin broke. I watched them kiss again, desperate and passionate. Holden’s voice was ragged. “I’m sorry, Sienna. I’ll find ways to come to France. I’ll see you.” The wet, intimate sounds of their kissing drifted through the night air. Holden was a master at partitioning his heart. He would secretly propose to Sienna, the love of his life, and then settle for marrying me. Sienna was his ‘one that got away.’ His golden ghost. My face felt like it was burning. Tears plastered my hair to my cheeks. I looked at the chocolate in my hand—the “party favor”—crushed it into a shapeless lump, and threw it into the nearest trash can. Then, I turned around. I went straight to the airport and boarded the first flight back. I had arrived full of hope. I left with a heart that had turned to ash. Exhaustion pulled me into a feverish sleep on the plane. Dreams flickered like a horror movie reel. Holden and Sienna holding hands on the quad. Feeding the kitten until it grew into a fat cat. Eating in the cafeteria, picking out the vegetables the other didn’t like. Walking through the first snow, sharing a scarf. I woke up gasping, sweat chilling my forehead, tears soaking my pillow. I was back in my dorm. My roommates were hovering, looking worried. “Avery? You’re back? We thought you were proposing! Why do you look like a wreck?” “Yeah, did Sienna get a video? Show us! It must have been so brave. Seriously, you’re a legend for doing that.” I had kept the trip a secret to surprise Holden. Surprise. The word tasted like bile. I looked at their curious, kind faces and couldn’t even force a smile. “Holden… he had to go collect data with his advisor suddenly. I missed him. So I came back.” They glanced at each other, sensing the lie but kind enough not to press. I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t say that the “World’s Best Boyfriend” I had bragged about for four years had been sleeping with my best friend the entire time. My head was splitting. I went to the balcony to brush my teeth, needing air. That’s when I saw him. Downstairs. Holden. Standing there, looking windblown and desperate. He was holding a bouquet of Cappuccino roses—my favorite. And a box of that expensive pistachio cake from the bakery I loved. He looked up, his eyes full of that familiar, deceptive warmth. Last night he was making love to Sienna. Today, he was playing the perfect boyfriend for me. “Avery!” he shouted. “Let’s take graduation photos!” My roommate poked my shoulder, swooning. “God, he’s romantic. Go down there!” I moved like a robot. I didn’t even put on shoes. I walked out of the dorm barefoot. When Holden saw me, he frowned, running over to scoop me up and deposit me on a nearby bench. “Are you happy-shocked? Why no shoes?” “We’re going to live together soon,” he scolded gently. “I have to break you of this bad habit.” Soon? The word made me want to laugh hysterically. He paused, noticing my expression. “Avery, do you feel sick?” “Are you still mad? I know, I know. Not texting back last night was terrible. That’s why I caught the first flight out. Flowers and cake as a peace offering.” The rage hit me all at once, a physical blow. I grabbed the cake box and smashed it into his face. Before he could react, I took the roses—thorns and all—and hurled them at his chest. “Holden! Do you think I’m an idiot? Do you think you can just play me like a fiddle?” My voice was a scream, raw and terrifying. I didn’t recognize myself. The ring was still on his finger. The one he gave Sienna. How much did he love her that he couldn’t even take it off to see me? Holden’s temper was terrifyingly good. It made my skin crawl. He wiped frosting from his eye, forcing a smile. “Babe, is the lab work going badly?” “It’s okay. I handled everything at my school. I’m here to help you prep for graduation. I’m here. Don’t stress.” “We have our trip coming up. Smile for me.” “And hey, didn’t you want to buy a going-away gift for Sienna? I’ll pick up some extra shifts. You can buy her something expensive.” He started cleaning up the mess, cautioning me, “Watch out for the thorns.” I didn’t feel the thorns. I walked up to him and slapped him across the face. Hard. “Holden. You are absolutely disgusting.” But the grief was a vacuum, sucking the energy out of my cells. The world went black, and I collapsed. The last thing I saw was Holden’s face crumbling into panic as he lunged to catch me. When Holden heard the doctor say I had fainted from acute gastroenteritis and stress, guilt washed over his features. He gripped my hand. “Avery, this is my fault. I made you feel like you couldn’t even tell me you were sick.” “Don’t be scared. I’m staying right here. I already emailed your professor.” He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A perfect mask over a rotting soul. I couldn’t even muster the energy to be angry anymore. I watched him bustle around—wiping my face, buying food, dealing with the insurance forms. Since high school, he had taken care of me. Peeling fruit, remembering anniversaries, the grand gestures. After finals senior year of high school, he had confessed to me with a bouquet he arranged himself. I fell into that sweet, first-love dream. Sienna, interestingly, hadn’t liked him. “Babe, I don’t think Holden is good enough for you,” she’d said. They were like oil and water. I was always the mediator. When we got into different colleges, I cried for days. Sienna stayed by my side, volunteering to keep an eye on him. “Babe, I’ll watch him. If Holden so much as talks to another girl, I’ll report back instantly.” I remembered leaning on her shoulder, looking at Holden with arrogant pride. “See? Don’t think about cheating. Sienna is my CCTV.” He had promised, hand over his heart. “Don’t worry. She won’t have anything to report.” I thought I had the world’s most thoughtful boyfriend and the world’s most loyal best friend. I didn’t know they were using my trust—and my lack of social media stalking—to build a life together. They were the campus sweethearts, living a romance everyone else envied. Holden’s phone rang on the bedside table while he was getting water. It was his mom. Mrs. Warner. I remembered how she always held my hand, bringing me homemade dishes. I picked up. Her voice froze me solid. “Son! When are you bringing Sienna home for dinner? Your dad and I miss her.” “Don’t bring Avery this time. Every time she comes, I have to fake a smile and cater to her. She’s such a princess. High maintenance. I like Sienna so much better.” “Tell Sienna I miss her. I have that vintage pearl necklace for her—grandmother’s pearls. I couldn’t bear to give them to Avery.” My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. The woman who smiled at me… behind my back, she had already chosen her daughter-in-law. My voice rasped. “Mrs. Warner. If you hate me that much, why do you call my parents ‘family’ every time you see them?” She recognized my voice. The line went dead instantly. I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. Driven by instinct, I reached into Holden’s jacket pocket. There it was. The second phone. I typed in Sienna’s birthday. It unlocked. The photo gallery. Thousands of them. Intimate, domestic, happy. Every wallpaper was Sienna. Every app was organized by her. No wonder Holden always let me check his phone with such confidence. He had a burner life. A message popped up from the pinned contact: My Sienna. “Honey, I’m coming to see Avery now. She won’t suspect anything, right?” “I need to see you. Plus, with her princess temper, if I don’t show up, she’ll blame me for not caring.” The words were poison. I typed back: “Come over.” “On my way! Wait for me, my love!” I put the phone back. I sat in the silence, waiting for the curtain to rise on their little play.

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My new employer, an Ivy League grad who’d just returned from a stint overseas, told me that traditional parenting was primitive. She demanded I raise her child according to the instructions of an AI. “The AI says 30ml. You will not feed him 31ml.” “The baby’s crying? Don’t you dare pick him up. First, log the decibels and duration into the app, then select a tag for the cause. The AI will analyze if it’s an ‘unproductive cry.’” “Remember,” she said, her eyes sweeping over me with disdain, “you are here to execute commands, not to act on ‘experience.’” She added, “My son is destined for the Ivy League. His life must be managed with the utmost scientific and efficient methods from day one. I’m paying you top dollar, and it’s not to be his ‘second mommy.’” I looked at the tiny infant in the cradle, his small body yearning for a simple embrace, and for the first time, I questioned my title as a top-tier maternity nurse. But when I followed her AI’s instructions to the letter, I have to wonder… why did she come to regret it so deeply? 1. “He’s crying. Log it.” Amanda’s voice was as sterile and sharp as a scalpel, utterly devoid of emotion. I clenched my fists, my eyes fixed on the monitor where the decibel level of the cries was spiking violently. In the cradle, the baby, only twelve days old, had a face flushed a furious, blotchy red. His cries were piercing, punctuated by pathetic, ragged gasps for air. My heart felt like it was caught in a vise. “Amanda,” I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper—a first in my entire career. “From the sound of it, he has gas. Let me give him a little massage to help relieve it.” Amanda didn’t even look up, her fingers flying across the iPad screen. “The AI analysis concludes ‘attention-seeking cry.’ It’s classified as unproductive.” She swiped the pop-up away and issued a cold command. “The instruction is to ‘observe in place for fifteen minutes to cultivate independence.’” “Fifteen minutes?” The words escaped my lips in a horrified gasp. “He’ll cry himself sick!” Amanda finally lifted her gaze, her eyes holding the same look one might give a Neanderthal trying to explain quantum physics. “Sarah, have I not made it clear? You are here to execute commands.” “Your experience, your ‘I think,’ is worthless.” “I paid a fortune for this ‘Ivy Prep’ development system. It’s backed by the research of hundreds of child psychologists and behavioral scientists.” She scoffed. “You really think your folk wisdom trumps that?” She tapped the iPad. “This is science. Do you understand science?” The seconds ticked by like tiny, agonizing drops of water. The baby’s cries faded from sharp shrieks to a raw, hoarse rasp. His little body twitched and trembled. Every sound was a lash against my heart. I’ve been a premium maternity nurse for a decade, caring for over a hundred infants. Not a single one had ever been tortured so “scientifically.” Amanda sat on the sofa, sipping coffee, noise-canceling headphones clamped over her ears. She occasionally glanced at the timer on her screen, her brow furrowed—not with concern for her crying child, but with annoyance that the process was “inefficient.” “Fourteen minutes, thirty seconds… thirty-five…” I stared at the cradle, my own breath catching in my throat. At exactly fifteen minutes, an alarm chimed. Amanda removed her headphones, a flicker of satisfaction on her face. “You see? The command is complete. He cried himself out and stopped on his own.” But the baby in the cradle hadn’t stopped. His cries were just too weak to be heard, a faint, desperate mewling. He had exhausted himself completely. His face was turning bluish, his lips trembling. “Amanda, something’s wrong!” I rushed forward. Ignoring her protocol, I reached out to touch his forehead. It was clammy and cold, slick with sweat. “What do you think you’re doing!” Amanda’s voice was a whip-crack. She shoved me away. “Who gave you permission to touch him? Do you have any idea how many germs are on your hands? Try that again, and you won’t see a dime of this month’s pay!” She walked to the cradle and peered down, her brow knitting in confusion. “Why is he still whimpering? The system clearly stated he’d reached the ‘silence threshold.’” She poked his cheek as if testing a faulty machine. I couldn’t take it anymore. I darted around her and scooped the baby into my arms. Laying him gently across my lap, I expertly began to massage his tiny belly. In less than thirty seconds, a series of soft poots broke the silence. The baby’s tiny, tense body went limp, and he let out a long, shuddering sigh. The weak cries ceased. He smacked his little lips and drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep. The world was finally quiet. Amanda stood frozen, her face a shifting canvas of purple and white. There was no relief in her eyes, no gratitude for her son’s comfort. Instead, she fixed me with a look laced with venom. “Sarah, this is a flagrant challenge to the rules I have established.” “You are undermining my son’s foundational understanding of order.” “You think you’ve won, don’t you?” Cradling the warm, soft life in my arms, I said nothing. For the first time in my career, I didn’t answer my employer. All I could think was that this magnificent, gilded apartment felt as cold and unforgiving as hell. 2. The next day, a giant whiteboard appeared on the living room wall. Drawn on it in multi-colored markers was a “Performance Evaluation Chart.” My name, “Sarah,” was written at the very top, followed by a dense list of metrics: “Feeding Duration Variance (sec).” “Instructional Deviation (%).” “Non-Essential Physical Contact (count).” “Subjective Intervention (count).” Next to each item was a deduction amount in glaring red ink. “Well, Sarah,” Amanda said, holding a pointer like a stern headmistress, “since you seem to struggle with modern app-based management, we’ll use a more traditional method you might understand.” She tapped the whiteboard. “From now on, every action you take will be logged. Any deviation from the BabyAI’s directives will be quantified and penalized. One point, one hundred dollars.” She lifted her chin, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “I’m going to let you see for yourself just how worthless that ‘experience’ of yours really is.” I stared at the chart, a wave of dizziness washing over me. This wasn’t a job. It was a sentence. At noon, the app prompted a 100ml feeding. As I brought the bottle to the baby’s lips, he turned his head violently and started wailing. I checked the nipple—it was the smallest size. The flow was too slow, and he was getting frustrated. “Amanda, he’s outgrown this nipple. We need to switch to a medium-flow.” “The app hasn’t indicated a change is necessary,” she noted, not looking up from her logging. “‘Crying Cause’ tag selected: ‘Feeding Resistance.’ The AI recommends a five-minute pause before retrying.” “But—” “No ‘buts,’” she cut me off. “Sarah, your job is to execute.” Five minutes later, the baby was frantic with hunger, his cries tearing through the apartment. When the bottle approached again, he screamed even louder, choking and sputtering as milk dribbled down his chin, soaking his collar. My heart ached. I reached to swap the nipple. Amanda’s hand shot out and clamped down on mine. “What are you doing? Another ‘subjective intervention’?” “He’s choking! He could get aspiration pneumonia!” I pleaded. “The app indicates the choking is due to improper breathing during a tantrum, not the nipple.” She pointed a manicured finger at the whiteboard, at the “Subjective Intervention” line. “That’s a five-hundred-dollar deduction. Think carefully.” I looked at her cold, impassive face, then at the infant struggling in agony. My hand, clenched into a fist, slowly went slack. I was forced to watch as the minutes ticked by, the milk in the bottle remaining untouched. Finally, Amanda logged the entry: “Feeding attempt failed. Reason: Executor failed to pacify infant effectively.” Then, on my performance chart, she drew a heavy, deliberate “-5.” That evening, Amanda’s sister, Jessica, came to visit. She was as impeccably dressed and radiated the same air of elite superiority as Amanda. “Mandy, this system is genius! He’s so little and already getting an elite education.” Amanda preened. “Exactly. It’s all about the starting line, you know?” She gestured to me in the corner, changing the baby’s diaper. “Look at the nanny I hired. Yesterday she was arguing with me. Today, she’s as tame as a lamb.” Amanda came over to inspect my work. She ran a finger along the diaper’s edge, and her brow furrowed. “Sarah, come here.” My stomach dropped. “The app’s standard tutorial specifies the diaper’s anti-leak guards must be extended outward by 3 millimeters. I’d estimate yours are at 2.5 millimeters. Substandard.” She picked up her marker, ready to make another deduction. Jessica giggled, covering her mouth. “Mandy, you’re being a little intense. It’s like you’re managing an IPO.” “Parenting is the most important project of my life,” Amanda stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Any oversight, no matter how small, can lead to a deviation in the final outcome.” She turned back to me, her tone dripping with condescension. “Sarah, I pay you the highest salary in the industry, and it’s not for you to slack off. I know you were probably respected in your previous households, that people listened to you. But can those families compare to us? Can their children’s futures compare to my son’s? You need to recognize your place. You are a service provider. Act like one. Swallow that unnecessary pride and your so-called ‘experience.’ Only then can you truly improve.” With that, she deducted another point from my chart. I stared at the glaring red marks on the board, then at the patronizing, smug smiles on the sisters’ faces. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I said nothing. I just walked quietly to my room, reached into the bottom of my suitcase, and pulled out a small recording pen I hadn’t used in years. I pressed the button. 3. “Cry-it-out conditioning, Day Three.” Amanda’s voice, crisp and cold, came through the baby monitor. “Objective: Achieve over four hours of continuous, unassisted sleep. Zero intervention.” It was one in the morning. In the nursery, the baby had been screaming himself hoarse for two straight hours. I sat in my small room, listening to those agonizing, desperate cries. My heart felt like it was being fried in boiling oil. My door was locked from the outside. Amanda had said it was to “prevent my sentimentality from compromising the training’s efficacy.” I had begged her through the monitor. “Amanda, his throat is raw! He’s running a low-grade fever. We have to take him to the hospital!” Her derisive laugh crackled back. “Sarah, how many times do I have to tell you? This is a necessary phase for ‘resilience forging.’ The stress threshold was precisely calculated by the AI based on his weight and development. A slight temperature increase is a normal immune response to stress. Your alarmism will only create a weak, dependent mama’s boy. My son will one day be a titan on Wall Street. You think he can’t handle this?” I pounded on the door in desperation. “This isn’t resilience, it’s abuse!” “Abuse?” Her voice shot up, laced with fury at the accusation. “I’m investing millions in his future, and you call it abuse? What does a woman from some backwater town know about elite education? Say one more word, and you’re fired. Get out!” After that, the monitor transmitted only one sound: the baby’s cries, growing weaker and weaker until they were nothing more than the whimpering of a kitten. I slid down the door and sat on the floor, tears streaming silently down my face. I hated how powerless I was. I even began to wonder… was I wrong? Were my beliefs in love and experience truly outdated? Did this elite class really possess a secret formula for success that was beyond my comprehension? At 3 a.m., the crying finally stopped. The silence that followed was absolute, terrifying. My heart leaped into my throat, seized by a primal fear. I threw myself against the door, banging with all my might. “Amanda! Open the door! Something’s wrong! The baby’s not making a sound!” Several long minutes passed before the lock clicked open. Amanda stood there in a silk robe, her face a mask of irritation. “What are you screaming about? The training was a success. He’s achieved a ‘state of silence.’ You’ve woken me up.” I shoved past her and ran to the crib. The baby’s face was flushed crimson, his lips cracked and peeling. His breathing was so shallow it seemed like it could stop at any moment. I touched his forehead—it was burning. “We have to go to the hospital! Now!” I scooped him up and made for the door. Amanda blocked my path like a stone wall, her face a mask of crazed obsession. “You are not going anywhere.” “This is the most critical moment of the stress test! I need the complete twelve-hour data set! If you take him to the hospital now, the data will be contaminated. All of this will be for nothing!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She didn’t care if her son lived or died. She only cared about her data. “Get out of my way!” I tried to push past her, clutching the baby. She ripped him from my arms, holding him tight like a precious artifact. But she wasn’t looking at her son; she was looking at the camera of the baby monitor. “Stay back! You stupid woman, you’re trying to ruin everything!” While she was distracted, I grabbed a cup of water from the nightstand, trying to get a few drops onto the baby’s lips. The moment it touched him, she slapped me across the face, hard. The sting was fiery and sharp. “Who told you to give him water!” she shrieked hysterically. “Hydration levels are a core metric of this endurance test! You performed an unauthorized humanitarian intervention! The data is contaminated!” Right in front of me, she grabbed her iPad. With a trembling finger that held a strange, ecstatic energy, she typed a new entry. “Event Log: Executor Sarah performed an unauthorized humanitarian intervention at 03:15, contaminating the data for the ‘Endurance Limit Training.’ Assessment… Failure.” She looked up, her bloodshot eyes filled with a venomous hatred. “You destroyed my data model!” In that instant, looking at her twisted face, contorted with rage over “contaminated data,” looking at the tiny, dying baby in her arms being treated like a lab rat, the last shred of warmth I held for the word “mother” shattered into ice. I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and slowly stood up straight. I looked at her, my expression as calm and still as a dead sea. Fine. You want data. I’ll give you the most perfect data you’ve ever seen. 4. The next morning, I was a different person. At breakfast, Amanda announced a new “punitive clause.” “Given your appalling behavior last night, your bonus for the week is canceled. Furthermore, to eliminate your subjective interference, from now on, you must request my permission before every action. Only after I approve may you proceed. Upon completion, I will sign off on the process log.” “I will make you understand,” she said, savoring her power, “who is the master of this house, and who makes the rules.” She thought this was a final humiliation, a way to break me. She didn’t see the cold, almost imperceptible smile that touched my lips as I lowered my head. This was exactly what I wanted. At 10 a.m., the app issued a command: “Initiate ‘Visual Tracking Training.’ Use black-and-white cards at a distance of 25cm from the infant’s eyes. Move at a constant speed for 3 minutes.” I held up the cards, moving them in front of the baby’s face. As a newborn, he couldn’t focus. His eyes were wide and vacant, showing no reaction at all. After one minute, I stopped and turned to Amanda. “Amanda, the baby is still weak from his fever. Continuing this will cause visual fatigue and could even lead to strabismus.” Amanda, in the middle of a yoga pose with a face mask on, didn’t even open her eyes. “The app says three minutes. It will be three minutes. Don’t make excuses for your laziness.” “Understood,” I replied calmly. I continued to wave the cards mechanically in front of the baby’s vacant eyes. With my other hand, I discreetly activated the recording app on the phone in my apron pocket. “Amanda, it is now 10:05 a.m. I have advised you of the potential risks of excessive visual training. Is it your directive to continue for the full three minutes?” A grunt of annoyance came from the yoga mat. “Yes.” “Instruction received.” I continued the motion until the three-minute alarm sounded. Then, I walked over to her with the logbook and a pen. “Amanda, please sign here. ‘Visual Tracking Training,’ completed for three minutes as per your direct order.” She scribbled her name in annoyance, not even glancing at me. At noon, it was time for a feeding. The app, having processed last night’s “failure,” had automatically adjusted the plan. “To correct risk of ‘overfeeding,’ current feeding volume is reduced to 60ml.” The baby, ravenous, screamed in protest. He drained the 60ml in seconds, then sucked desperately on the empty bottle, his little body trembling with hunger. Again, I approached Amanda. “He’s clearly still hungry. Based on my experience, he needs at least another 40ml.” “The app’s judgment is more scientific than your experience,” she said with a cold glance. “It has identified this as ‘suckle dependency,’ not hunger.” “Understood.” I turned on the recorder again. “Amanda, it is now 12:30 p.m. I have advised you that the infant is in a state of hunger. Is it your directive to adhere to the app’s 60ml limit and refuse additional milk?” “Are you always this annoying? Yes! Execute the command!” “Instruction received.” I walked back and pried the empty bottle from the baby’s mouth. His cries immediately filled the apartment. Amanda put on her headphones and blasted her music. I brought the logbook to her. “Amanda, please sign.” In the afternoon, during a diaper change, I pointed to the baby’s bottom. It was an angry, inflamed red, with tiny points of blood beading on the broken skin. “Amanda, he has a severe diaper rash. He needs cream, and the area must be kept dry.” The app’s instruction read: “To build skin tolerance, reduce use of chemical skincare products. Apply ointment once daily.” It wasn’t time for the scheduled application. “Then wait until it’s time,” Amanda said, her tone leaving no room for argument. Once again, I mechanically repeated my process: verbal warning, recorded confirmation, signed authorization. For three days. Three whole days. I became a machine—no emotion, no judgment, only obedience. I followed every one of Amanda and the AI’s absurd commands. I bundled the feverish baby in thick clothes to “sweat it out.” I fed him AI-recommended fruit juice while he had diarrhea. I allowed his diaper rash to fester into open sores. And every single time, I first offered my professional advice. Every single time, Amanda shot it down with a new, more cutting insult. And every single time, I would calmly record her verbal confirmation before having her sign her name to the log. My book filled with her arrogant, looping signature. Next to each one, I noted the time and the baby’s exact condition. The baby visibly withered. His initial roars of protest faded to whimpers, and then to silence. He lost the energy to even cry. He would just lie there, staring blankly at the ceiling, his once-bright eyes now clouded with a dull, grey haze. Amanda was thrilled. “You see, Sarah? This is what science looks like. His crying frequency is down 70%. His sleep duration has increased by 30%. He is becoming efficient and independent.” She gazed at her dying infant as if admiring a masterpiece. On the evening of the fourth day, Amanda’s husband, Mark, returned from a business trip. He was a gentle-looking man who immediately headed for the nursery. When he saw the tiny, sallow, lifeless creature in the cradle, he froze. “What… what happened? Leo… what happened to him?” His hand trembled as he reached for his son, but he recoiled when he saw the raw, broken skin on the baby’s bottom. “His rash! My God, what did you do!” Amanda walked in, a hint of annoyance on her face. “What are you overreacting for? It’s just a normal diaper rash.” “Normal? It’s raw meat!” Mark’s voice cracked as he pointed at me. “He was fine when I left! Was it you? Did you neglect him, Sarah?” Before I could speak, Amanda jumped in, her voice dripping with scorn and blame. “It has nothing to do with her. I’ve been scientifically correcting her outdated parenting methods. What do you know? It’s called ‘skin desensitization therapy.’ The process is difficult, but the results are worth it.” Mark stared at her as if she were insane. “Are you crazy? What kind of sick therapy tortures a baby like this!” “You’re the one who’s crazy! You’re a fool, trapped in your traditional mindset!” Amanda’s voice rose, and she jabbed a finger at me. “It’s her fault! This nanny has been whispering in my ear the whole time, trying to sabotage my judgment! She intentionally failed to follow my instructions because she wanted to prove me wrong! She can’t stand to see my child be superior! She’s a malicious, evil woman!” Stunned by her tirade, Mark’s suspicious gaze fell back on me. I stood my ground, my face a blank mask. Slowly, I lifted my head to meet his questioning eyes. “Mr. Collins, your wife is right. I am an executor of commands.” “Which is why, starting three days ago, I began video recording all of my procedures.” “Every feeding, every diaper change, every so-called ‘training session.’” “Especially the ‘optimized instructions’ that Mrs. Collins gave, which often contradicted the app.” “And every time, I recorded her signature of approval, along with her frequent mockery of my ‘stupidity.’” “I have it all on a separate phone. She said it was for my own performance review, so a ‘simple nanny’ like me could learn.” I calmly watched the color drain from Amanda’s face as I woke up my phone’s screen. “Which part would you like to review first? The ‘cry-it-out conditioning,’ or the ‘hunger endurance test’?”

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My boyfriend suddenly regained his memories. He remembered his first love, the girl he’d been obsessed with for years. He couldn’t wait to break up with me. Our two-year relationship was instantly voided. He warned me: “Forget this relationship ever happened. Pretend we never met.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Just yesterday, the System notified me: [Host, your mission is complete.] [Commencing erasure of mission-period memories.] 1 On our two-year anniversary, Asher got into a car accident and fell into a coma. I sat by his bedside for eight hours, only to hear him say: “Anything that happened while I had amnesia was not my own will. Naturally, this two-year relationship doesn’t count.” He got his memories back, and he wanted to break up. I wasn’t surprised by this ending. From the beginning, we hadn’t been honest with each other. Back then, he was an amnesiac with broken legs, hurt by love. I was a Redeemer with a mission, sent specifically for him. The System told me: [The mission objective is to help him stand up again.] Not just physically, but mentally. He was too negative and refused treatment. A person who doesn’t remember the past and can’t see the future is lonely and lifeless. To visualize the mission progress, the System displayed his “Love Value” for me, saying that love could give a person courage again. With love in your heart, you can face any difficulty. When his Love Value for me reached 100, my mission would be complete. I spent two years pulling him out of the abyss, accompanying him as he learned to walk again. The Love Value climbed slowly at first, then soared. Until it stopped at 99. It wouldn’t budge. I was anxious but couldn’t find the reason. Finally, the System couldn’t stand it anymore and reminded me: [Love requires sincerity. You must exchange a true heart for a true heart.] So, I sat on the balcony all night and decided to let go of the mission mindset. I decided to gamble with my real heart. Finally, on our two-year anniversary, while Asher was driving me to our date, we collided with a truck running a red light. In that life-or-death moment, he desperately turned the steering wheel toward himself, leaving the chance of survival to me. In that instant, the System announced: [Love Value Progress: 100%] [Host, your mission is complete.] Fortunately, the cars only scraped past each other. There were no casualties, but Asher fainted from the impact of the airbag. I sat in the hospital room from night until dawn, watching his Love Value drop from 100 to zero. Then it fluctuated up and down until the progress bar disappeared completely. As the sun rose, he opened his eyes and said to me: “Yvonne, let’s break up.” From the beginning, every Redeemer who completes their mission faces two outcomes. One: Be with the mission target forever. Two: Forget each other and disappear into the crowd. Asher frowned, enunciating every word: “Forget this relationship ever happened. Pretend we never met.” This was the ending he chose for us. I looked at him quietly and summoned the System: “Will Asher’s Love Value change anymore?” The System was silent for a few seconds, then told me: [Mission complete. The ending is set.] [From now on, Love Value will not be displayed.] Makes sense. Outside of the System, human love and hate don’t have visible data anyway. Besides, every look and action from Asher right now was telling me clearly—he didn’t need a progress bar. The person he loved now wasn’t me. It was his “White Moonlight”—his first love. Sophie. 2 They were childhood sweethearts. Before I even met Asher, the System told me about his past with Sophie. It was a cliché story of unrequited love. Sophie fell for someone else and planned to go abroad with him. Asher chased after her in his car during a heavy rainstorm, crashed, lost his memory, broke his legs, and fell into a deep depression. His friends couldn’t stand it and called Sophie. From across the ocean, she only said three things: “It’s better if he forgets me. Saves him from pestering me.” “We just grew up together. Helping him recover isn’t my obligation.” “Please don’t bother me anymore. My boyfriend will be upset.” Asher felt nothing about this. In fact, he was annoyed by his friends constantly bringing up Sophie and emphasizing his love for her. Their reminders only highlighted the fact that he, who should have shared memories with everyone, remembered nothing. Every gathering was full of acquaintances who felt like strangers. He was part of the group, yet an outsider. Surrounded by noise, but empty inside. That was probably why I could approach him so easily. We had no shared past, which was a kind of equality. I smiled and told him: “Our memories start now.” Countless moments of eye contact and touch condensed into an Asher who loved me. But when his past memories resurfaced… Our two years couldn’t compare to their twenty. To make matters worse, Sophie was back. Just a few days ago, she had a fight with her boyfriend, secretly returned to the country, and appeared in front of the amnesiac Asher in the rain, crying her eyes out: “I have nowhere to go, Asher.” Faced with this uninvited guest, Asher was annoyed. He ruthlessly pointed out: “Go home. Stay in a hotel. Sleep under a bridge. Even if you really have nowhere to go, my place isn’t a shelter.” Sophie looked like she was about to faint, staring at him in disbelief: “You’ve never spoken to me like that.” “Well, sorry about that,” Asher sneered. “I forgot how I used to talk to you.” I couldn’t bear to see her getting soaked, so I handed her an umbrella. She slapped it away, looking at Asher with hurt eyes. “Even if you don’t remember, Asher, someone must have told you about our twenty years together. Aren’t you afraid you’ll regret treating me like this when you get your memory back?” “Or are you doing this on purpose to get back at me for leaving? Finding a random girlfriend just for revenge?” Then she looked at me and scoffed: “Do you know what this is called? Taking advantage of a vacancy.” I didn’t know if I was taking advantage, chipping away at his defenses while he forgot his love for her. But Sophie was right about one thing. Asher, with his memories restored, regretted it. Unexpectedly, when Sophie heard he was hospitalized, she came to visit. Facing Asher’s soft question: “Aren’t you mad at me?” She huffed cutely and said: “I’ll settle the score after you’re discharged.” “You got into a car accident; how could I not come?” 3 The hospital room quickly filled with people, and I became the extra one. They chatted animatedly about the past—a life I had never been part of. The conversation always circled back to Asher and Sophie. They went to school together, skipped class together. Asher fought for her, took punishments for her. I suddenly felt it was pointless, so I turned to leave. But Sophie called out to me, extending a warm invitation: “Miss Yu, we’re going to celebrate Asher’s new lease on life. You should come too.” I was about to refuse when Asher spoke up first: “No need. We’ve broken up. I’m saying it here so everyone knows—don’t mention it again.” The room went silent for a few seconds before Sophie feigned surprise: “Oh, is that so? Okay then.” “But I have to warn you, Miss Yu, don’t do things like this in the future. You’ll only get hurt.” She glanced at Asher playfully and said to me: “Especially… stay far away from big bad wolves like Asher.” I nodded and smiled gently: “I will.” Asher frowned. Someone laughed and teased: “Tsk tsk, if Asher is a big bad wolf, how did you survive growing up with him, Sophie?” She beamed, her voice crisp: “I’m not afraid of him. I’m the kryptonite for big bad wolves.” Everyone laughed. I walked out of the hospital, finally feeling like I could breathe. Bending over, pressing hard on my chest, I asked the System: “How much longer?” Yesterday, when the System announced I had completed the mission, it also notified me: [Commencing erasure of mission-period memories.] This protocol starts by default upon mission completion, but can be terminated at any time once the ending is set. It’s a protection mechanism for the Redeemer. After all, a mission is like an immersive life simulation. Many Redeemers suffer severe mental and emotional trauma from the second ending, unable to continue their original lives. Giving your heart is handing someone a knife to hurt you. Right now, that knife was stuck in my heart. It really hurt. The System replied quickly: [Integrating mission data. Please wait.] I couldn’t wait. The uncontrollable pain was making me lose it. I needed a distraction. My phone rang. A restaurant name. They said I left something there. Without thinking, I rushed over. When I arrived, the manager told me it was actually Asher’s item, but he had listed my number as the emergency contact. I was about to say my identity had changed when the elevator doors opened. I froze. A sea of tulips flooded my vision. Gentle lights twinkled amongst them, stretching all the way to the main hall at the end of the corridor. It was like stumbling into a romantic floral ocean. The manager handed me a velvet box from a cart, smiling warmly: “Mr. Asher rented the entire floor yesterday, but he never showed up, and we couldn’t reach him. He left this here.” The scene stung my eyes. I didn’t need to look inside the velvet box to know what it was. The setting, the atmosphere, and yesterday being our two-year anniversary… it wasn’t hard to guess. This was a proposal setup. 4 Asher had planned to propose yesterday. I remembered the nervous look in his eyes in the car, and his excited tone when I asked where we were going: “It’s a secret. Saying it early ruins the surprise.” So this was the secret he couldn’t hide. I never expected it to be revealed like this. I stood there in a daze, then heard footsteps coming from around the corner. Voices, excited. I recognized Asher’s friends instantly. “Double happiness, huh?” “Memory recovered! Single again!” “What do you mean ‘single again’? Sophie pouted. “He had amnesia, so it doesn’t count. It was just play-acting.” “You guys, too. I wasn’t around, and you didn’t watch him properly.” “Letting just any woman get close to Asher.” Asher’s friends never really liked me. They saw me as an intruder in their circle. They only held back because Asher liked me enough, and they saw he was getting better with my help. The relationship maintained a delicate balance. Sophie’s return had caused a ripple. After Asher refused to let her in that rainy night, he got an angry call from a friend: “It’s pouring rain, and you won’t even let her in? Asher, you grew up together! You just don’t remember how much you liked her.” “Aren’t you afraid you’ll regret this?” Everyone was sure he would regret it. Asher sneered into the phone: “How many times do I have to say I only like Yvonne? You keep bringing up Sophie—is it me who likes her, or you guys who like her but are too chicken to admit it, using me as a cover?” Silence on the other end. Asher threw the phone aside and hugged me, his voice softening: “So annoying. Why does everyone say I like her?” “Is liking someone hidden in memories?” I smiled and hugged him back, thinking for a moment. “Liking someone is hidden in the heart.” But now, the ‘like’ in his heart was clearly no longer for me. Around the corner, Sophie’s voice continued. She pretended to be angry: “You better think of how to make it up to me.” “I’m still mad.” Asher’s voice sounded weak, probably because he just woke up: “What kind of compensation do you want? I—” He stopped abruptly because he saw me. And the romantic proposal scene behind me. The manager, realizing something was up, stepped forward to explain. He thought Asher had brought friends for the proposal. He congratulated them with a big smile until he saw everyone’s faces darken. He slowly stopped talking. Someone muttered, “Play-acting… with a proposal?” Asher’s face was cold. He watched as I walked closer, shoved the velvet box into his hand, and said gently: “Since you’re here, I’m leaving. Here’s your stuff.” “Wait.” He suddenly spoke, looking down at me. “If we meet again, pretend we’re strangers.” I didn’t look back. “Okay.” The elevator doors opened and closed. The last thing I saw was Sophie taking the ring from his hand, playing with it, and telling the manager unhappily: “Hurry up and get rid of these flowers.” As the elevator went down, a ding sounded. System notification: [Data integration complete.] [Beginning erasure of Host’s mission memories and all traces of existence.] [Beginning unsealing of Host’s pre-mission emotional module.] [Mission reward—Full Recovery Card—issued.] [Your fiancé is about to wake up.]

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