Category: English

Because my parents always claimed they treated my sister and me completely equally, they expected us to split the burden of supporting them down the middle. But while my sister, Coral, makes eight thousand dollars a month, she has never contributed a single dime to our family. She donates every spare cent she has to impoverished kids through a charity in rural Appalachia. So, the mortgage on our house and the car payments? I pay them. Our parents’ prescription copays and my younger brother’s school expenses? I cover them. Even Coral’s new clothes every month are charged to my credit card. Crushed under the suffocating weight of it all, I finally broke down one evening and asked her, “Coral, can you please start keeping some of your paycheck for the family?” Coral’s face instantly went cold. “Do you have any idea how miserable those kids in the mountains are, Beverly? How can you be so incredibly selfish and heartless?” My parents immediately chimed in, taking her side. “Coral’s charity work was just featured in the local paper. If you can’t be proud of her, how do you have the nerve to criticize her?” My brother, Zack, rolled his eyes. “Beverly, you’re just jealous of Coral’s spotlight. You’ve been jealous of her since we were kids. Aren’t you tired of it yet?” A cold weight settled in my chest. Silently, I locked my phone screen, dark-screening the promotion notification I had just received from my manager. The next morning, I applied for an out-of-state transfer—a high-security, off-site project in Alaska, completely isolated for three months. Before I boarded the flight, I reported all my credit cards as lost and cancelled every single automatic payment linked to my accounts. I wanted to see exactly how this family would survive without me. … My mom had proudly forwarded a clip of Coral’s latest local news interview to our family group chat. Predictably, the extended family flooded the chat with praise for her generosity. “Coral is incredible! She’s such a credit to you, Mary. We’re all so proud to be related to her.” “She’s so much more accomplished than her younger sister. It’s hard to believe they were raised in the same house.” The compliments kept rolling in, but my hands were shaking so hard the screen blurred before my eyes. This month, the mortgage and car payments totaled fifteen hundred dollars. My parents’ medication copays, Zack’s SAT prep classes, and his allowance came to another eight hundred. And then there was the stack of credit card bills Coral had run up on my account. I had been out of college for less than two years. For twenty-four months, I had been working myself to the bone, selling pieces of my health just to keep this family afloat. When I pulled late nights at the office, I would agonize over the price of instant ramen, calculating if a store brand could save me fifty cents. My clothes were cheap clearance items worn until the threads frayed and pilled. Yet every payday, my salary barely sat in my account for half a day before the balance plunged straight back into the red. That evening, after clocking out, I gathered enough courage to talk to Coral. “Coral, do you think you could start keeping a small portion of your salary for the house? Our expenses have been so high lately, and I’m really struggling to—” Before I could even finish, she cut me off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Beverly, if you’re always short on cash, have you considered that you might just be terrible at budgeting? Besides, you should focus on negotiating a raise. You need to learn how to increase your income, not complain about expenses.” Coral looked at me with deep disapproval. I opened my mouth to defend myself, to tell her I hadn’t bought a single non-essential item in months, but she beat me to it. “Just because you had the luxury of a college education and never went hungry doesn’t mean you can ignore the plight of young girls in impoverished communities. Every dollar I give them is a lifeline to help them escape a cycle of poverty. You can’t be so incredibly selfish, Beverly.” Selfish? The sheer absurdity of her words cut me to the quick. Every time she played the generous savior and drained her bank account to zero, who was the one quiet backstop keeping her alive? Me. When other kids went to college, their parents or older siblings sent them pocket money. I, on the other hand, had to juggle three part-time jobs during my undergraduate years just to pay off Coral’s credit card balances. I had naive dreams that things would get better once I graduated and started a real corporate job. Instead, the demands only intensified. On top of my demanding 9-to-5, I spent my weekends freelancing just to plug the endless financial leaks at home. Meanwhile, Coral, who earned significantly more than me, acted as though the concept of household expenses didn’t exist in her universe. Coral was scrolling through the comments under her interview video, her face flush with validation. She thrust her phone screen in front of my face. “Look at this. Everyone is calling me an angel. Every single dollar I earn goes toward something beautiful. Stop worrying about my money just because you can’t manage your own. You shouldn’t stand in the way of charity.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. Her money was hers to give away, but what about mine? Since elementary school, my wardrobe had consisted entirely of Coral’s faded hand-me-downs. When I finally graduated and saved a tiny emergency fund, my parents immediately demanded “family contributions.” Not a reasonable fraction—they wanted my entire paycheck. They claimed they were completely fair to all three of us. Because Zack was still in school, they said Coral and I had to carry the family’s financial weight together. My peers, two years into their careers, were building savings, planning vacations, and starting their own lives. But I was stretching myself so thin I felt transparent. Ordering a five-dollar iced coffee felt like an unforgivable luxury. “Beverly, you’re being incredibly immature,” my mother spoke up from where she sat on the sofa, her eyes glued to the TV. “Saving a soul is the highest calling on this earth, and your sister is literally saving those girls’ lives. Do you have any idea how much blessing that brings to our family? Instead of learning from her grace, you blow through your own money and then try to siphon hers.” My father nodded in agreement. “Coral is the pride of this family. Everyone in town knows how charitable she is. If you force her to keep her money for household chores, you’ll ruin her reputation. You can’t lose your humanity, Beverly.” Despite the rising lump of frustration in my throat, I forced my voice to remain calm, trying to appeal to their logic. “Mom, Dad, even if we want to help others, shouldn’t we look at our own bank accounts first? The mortgage and car payments are due this week, and Zack’s school just sent another bill for his textbooks. On top of that, Dad, your pulmonary fibrosis medication and Mom’s arthritis therapy are incredibly expensive. I can’t shoulder all of this alone. I really can’t…” “Stop using our health as an excuse to dodge your responsibilities,” my father snapped, cutting me off. “We got by just fine before you started working. You’re just looking for a way out. Selfish is selfish, Beverly.” My mother sighed, shaking her head at me with deep disappointment. “We know our own bodies. When it comes down to it, you’re just lazy and want to live a life of luxury. When are you finally going to grow up and stop embarrassing this family the way your sister never does?” Even though it was a humid May evening, a shuddering chill went straight to my bones. I was working myself to death, taking on extra shifts, spending my rare days off driving them to hospital appointments and sitting in crowded waiting rooms. During those doctor visits, they would hold my hand and call me their angel. But the moment I asked Coral to carry a fraction of the weight, I became the ungrateful, embarrassing child. Zack, who had just come home from his tutoring session, sneered at me. “Are you throwing another tantrum because you’re jealous of Coral, Beverly? I know exactly how your mind works. You’ve been doing this since we were kids. Don’t even bother coming to my parent-teacher conferences anymore. Coral is my role model. Having a sister like you makes me look bad at school.” Fine. Let them be the perfect, saintly family of four. I was nothing but the workhorse—blindly pulling the plow, feeding them all, and getting whipped the moment I let out a sound of exhaustion. Seeing my silence, Coral assumed she had won the argument. She offered a patronizing smile. “Look, Beverly, I know you work hard. But those girls in the rural districts have absolutely nothing. You need to open your heart and understand their pain. Tell you what—in my next interview, I’ll make sure to mention how supportive you are.” She spoke with the casual condescension of a queen tossing a scrap of bread to a servant. The coldness inside me hardened into stone. I was done being the fuel that kept their fire burning. Gathering every ounce of resolve, I looked Coral straight in the eye. “From now on, you pay half of the household expenses. If you don’t, I stop paying mine.” Before Coral could respond, my mother let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Oh, stop it. You’re just throwing a tantrum because you want to keep more money for yourself. You only care about your own comfort, completely blind to what those poor girls go through every single day.” I grabbed the worn, pilled fabric of my cheap sweater, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “They are struggling, but what about me? You have all the empathy in the world for strangers, but you can’t spare a single ounce of it for your own daughter who is drowning right in front of you?” My father slammed his fist onto the dining table, making the plates rattle. “Shut your mouth, ungrateful brat! Do you think we’d starve to death without you? If you don’t want to contribute, get the hell out of my house. But before you pack your bags, you’re going to pay us back every single cent we spent raising you!” Pay them back? While I stood there in absolute shock, my mother walked into her bedroom and emerged with a thick, leather-bound notebook. “Beverly, you brought this on yourself by turning your back on your family,” my mother said coldly. She opened the notebook, revealing neat, cramped rows of handwriting. She had recorded every single expense she had ever incurred for me since the day I was born. “Let’s start with rent. We’ll call it three hundred dollars a month. Over twenty-two years, that’s seventy-nine thousand two hundred dollars. Your clothes and school supplies were hand-me-downs from Coral, so we’ll give you a discount on those—call it five thousand. Add in your food, health insurance, and school fees… we’ll round it down to a flat hundred and twenty thousand dollars.” My mother slid the notebook across the table. Staring at the microscopic handwriting, a bone-deep chill washed over me. I had lived under the impression that I was a member of this family, not a tenant being billed for my existence. “You kept track of everything,” I whispered, my teeth clenching so hard my jaw ached. “Down to the boxes of cereal and the band-aids. Do Coral and Zack have notebooks like this too?” My mother rolled her eyes. “Coral is our pride, the face of this family. And Zack is our only son; he’s going to carry on our family name and build a life of his own. They aren’t strangers. Why would we charge them?” So, the ledger was reserved only for me. I was the only stranger under this roof. I stared at the faces of my parents, suddenly unable to recognize the people who had raised me. We used to live in a cramped, drafty two-bedroom apartment. The summer I got my college acceptance letter, my parents insisted we upgrade to a larger house in the suburbs. But almost immediately after they paid the down payment, their health began to fail. Feeling guilty and wanting to ease their burden, I volunteered to help carry the household expenses so they could retire early, foolishly believing Coral would do the same. For six years—four in college and two in my career—I had been paying the mortgage. This house belonged to me as much as anyone, yet I was treated like a trespasser. I swallowed the bitter bile rising in my throat and forced my face to go completely blank. “Fine. I’ll pay it.” I pulled out my phone and opened the calculator app. “But before I write a check, let’s look at my ledger.” I tapped the screen rapidly. “I’ve paid the mortgage and car payments for six years. I’ve covered every single one of your medical bills and physical therapy appointments, Mom. I’ve paid Zack’s school fees, and I’ve cleared Coral’s credit cards every month. I won’t charge you interest. Let’s round it down to a flat hundred and thirty thousand dollars.” They owed me ten thousand dollars. The smug satisfaction drained from my parents’ faces instantly. Before they could speak, Coral lunged forward and slapped me across the cheek. “We are family!” she shrieked, her face contorted with rage. “How can you be so incredibly cold-hearted? You’ve probably been plotting this for years, waiting for a chance to rob Mom and Dad. You think you can just make up some arbitrary number and demand money from us? We don’t owe you a single cent!” It was exactly the response I expected. I should have known that a single person’s sacrifices could never satisfy a pack of ravenous wolves. “Evidence?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet as my cheek stung. “I have bank statements, digital receipts for every mortgage payment, hospital invoices, and credit card histories spanning six years. How many pages would you like me to print out?” Coral’s face turned a sickly shade of white. Part of me wanted to tear this house apart, but the residual exhaustion of six years of obedience held me back. I took a deep breath. “Either we split the expenses fifty-fifty from today on, or you pay me back.” Coral glared at me with a pure, unadulterated hatred I had never seen in her eyes before. She snatched her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen for several minutes. When she finally looked up, a cruel, triumphant smirk played on her lips. “You want to touch my salary? Dream on. I just set up an automatic recurring donation. The moment my paycheck hits my account, every single dollar is swept straight to the charity. You won’t get a penny of my hard-earned money.” To show their solidarity, my parents immediately handed Coral their pension debit cards and savings books. “We stand together as a family,” my father declared, looking at me with utter disgust. “We support Coral’s beautiful heart completely. You, on the other hand, have lost your damn soul. Pack your things and get out of our house.” I hadn’t anticipated Coral would go to such self-destructive lengths just to spite me. “Why should I be the one to leave?” I countered, my voice shaking. “I’ve been paying the mortgage. If we sell this place, half of the equity belongs to me.” My mother let out a sharp, mocking sneer. “Oh, we knew exactly what kind of snake you were. You’ve been eyeing this property from day one, haven’t you?” She reached into her drawer and pulled out the property deed, flipping it open to the title page. There, printed in bold, official ink, were the names of the co-owners: Coral and Zack. Only their names. Not mine. A terrible numbness washed over me, as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. They had shut me out before the first payment was even made. This was the house I had bled for over six long years, working double shifts, skipping meals, and fainting from sheer exhaustion and low blood sugar. This was my reward. In that moment, the anger died, replaced by a profound, hollow silence. I didn’t even have the energy to ask why. My mother stood there, gloating over her own cleverness. “See that?” she said, waving the paper in my face. “This house has nothing to do with you. Your sister has always been our pride. You’re just a parasite who brings us shame. Honestly, we should have married you off years ago.” I kept my head down, refusing to let them see the tears that refused to fall. I unlocked my phone and tapped “Accept” on the email invitation for the Alaska assignment. It was a blessing in disguise. If their house and their lives had nothing to do with me, then whatever happened to them next was no longer my concern. I packed a single suitcase with my few belongings and walked out of the house that had held me hostage for my entire life. As I crossed the threshold, my mother called out behind me, “Good riddance! Now that the dead weight is gone, we finally have our perfect family again.” I heard her, but I didn’t slow my pace. Because of the high-security nature of the remote Alaska facility, we were required to log our personal phones into secure storage upon arrival. I turned off my device before the flight, slept through the journey, and checked into the company housing late the following evening. When I finally turned my phone back on at my desk, the screen lit up with a relentless barrage of missed calls and urgent text messages. “Beverly, where the hell are you? The bank didn’t receive the mortgage or the car payment this month!” “The bank is threatening foreclosure and repossession! They’re coming for the house!” “Your father collapsed when the bank representatives showed up. He’s in the ICU right now! Get your self-centered ass back here immediately!”

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I asked Virginia for a divorce while she was on her phone, soothing her heartbroken first love. She didn’t even look up from her screen. “Hell must have frozen over. You’re asking for a divorce?” In our five years of marriage, Virginia was always the one to throw the word “divorce” around whenever we fought. And every single time, she would wait for me to bend, to apologize, to coax her back. “What’s your reason?” she asked. I pointed at her phone, where the screen was overflowing with comforting messages to Jordan. “Is that not reason enough?” Virginia frowned. “He’s going through a hard time. What’s wrong with me comforting a friend?” She let out a cold laugh. “If you don’t even have this basic level of trust, then fine. Let’s end it.” I slid the signed divorce agreement across the desk. “Fine. Sign it.” Virginia froze for a second, then carelessly scribbled her name at the bottom. “Have fun with your little tantrum.” She didn’t think I was serious. She truly believed I would never leave. But this time, I meant it. I was done chasing her. 1 The study was silent except for the dry scratch of her pen. When she finished, Virginia pushed the agreement back to me, her eyes already drifting away. “It’s signed. Take it.” Her tone was light and dismissive, like a boss handing an idle chore to an intern. The moment I picked up the paper, Jordan’s FaceTime call came through. Virginia answered immediately. “Virginia, thank you so much for talking to me…” Jordan’s voice crackled through the speaker, thick with tears. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” My hands tightened on the document. Virginia’s voice softened into that warm, indulgent tone she reserved only for him. “Oh, stop it. It’s just a breakup. You don’t need to cry like this. When you broke up with me back then, you didn’t seem nearly this devastated.” “That’s not true… I was miserable. I just didn’t let you see it,” Jordan whined, his voice dripping with practiced vulnerability. I looked down, burying the familiar ache deep inside. Whenever Jordan hurt, Virginia was there to soothe him. When he got sick, she would drive through the night just to bring him soup. For his birthdays, she spent months hunting down the perfect gifts. Every minor tremor in Jordan’s life was an earthquake to Virginia. And to me? She left nothing but the threat of divorce. A dull, heavy bitterness settled in my chest. “I’ll pack my things and move out tomorrow,” I said quietly. Virginia looked up, her brow furrowing with that familiar, sharp annoyance. “You’re taking it this far? Fine. Do whatever you want.” “Is Drew there?” Jordan asked over the phone. Virginia turned her attention back to the screen, a dry laugh escaping her lips. “Yeah. He’s throwing a fit. We just signed the divorce papers.” Jordan let out a soft, performative gasp. “Oh… it’s not because of me, is it?” His voice pitched higher, directed at me. “Drew, seriously, Virginia and I are just friends. She was just keeping me company. Please don’t take it the wrong way.” I almost wanted to laugh. He called this blatant disregard for boundaries “just keeping a friend company.” “What does he have to do with this?” Virginia snapped, her irritation turning back to me. “His own mind is just dirty. We grew up together. What’s the big deal?” Yes. To Virginia, Jordan wasn’t just her first love; he was her childhood sweetheart. After his parents passed away, her family took him in. In her heart, Jordan would always occupy the throne. Even though they had broken up years ago, her devotion to him had never wavered. If anything, it had grown. He was always first, and I, her husband, was a distant second. They were never “just friends.” “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I said, my voice dead calm. “I won’t be in your way.” “Drew, that’s enough,” she sighed, rubbing her temples. “You know exactly what Jordan means to me.” “I do,” I said. “I finally do.” Before she could reply, Jordan’s voice pulled her back to the screen. I picked up the divorce papers and walked out of the study. Through the heavy wood, I heard Jordan’s muffled voice. “Virginia, maybe you should go check on him?” “Don’t worry about it,” she replied, her voice dismissive. “There’s no point.” A bitter smile touched my lips. She was right. There was no point. In this marriage, I had always been the one to bend, to apologize, to bridge the distance. I used to think she just didn’t know how to apologize, that she was just too proud. But the truth was simpler: she just believed I would never actually leave. I looked down at the signed papers, my fingers clutching the edges. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to comfort someone. She just didn’t want to comfort me. 2 Back in our bedroom, I began to pack. I pulled my passport, birth certificate, and important documents from the safe, laying them out on the bed. Tucked at the bottom of the drawer were our two marriage certificates. I took mine. I’d need it soon. I didn’t hear Virginia walk in. She leaned against the doorframe, watching me fold my shirts, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Where do you think you’re going?” She had always treated my words like background noise. I was used to it. “I’m moving out,” I said. She let out a sharp, mocking breath. “Oh, drop the act, Drew. You’ve made your point.” “You’ll pack your bags, go stay at a hotel for a night, and then drag them right back here. Aren’t you tired of the drama?” She didn’t believe me. She thought this was a performance to get her attention. And why wouldn’t she? Everyone knew I loved her to the point of self-destruction. One second she would threaten to leave, and the next I would be apologizing, swallowing my pride just to keep her. At social gatherings, her friends would laugh and say: “Virginia, you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger. He’s totally obsessed. Not like Jordan—whenever Jordan got mad, you had to be the one to chase him. Drew is so much easier.” And Virginia would just shrug, her eyes cold. “Yeah, well. I’m used to it.” I folded another sweater, keeping my eyes on the fabric, ignoring her. When I didn’t fire back, her tone shifted, becoming quiet but laced with a threat. “Drew. Don’t push this too far.” My hands paused. I looked up at her. “You think I’m just throwing a tantrum?” “Aren’t you?” she retorted. “We had a conversation. That’s it. And now you’re demanding a divorce? When did you become so incredibly petty?” I actually laughed. To her, a lifetime of being sidelined was just “a conversation.” My breaking point was just “pettiness.” A profound, bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. All the arguments, the defenses, the explanations I had prepared over the years evaporated. “Fine,” I said softly. “Then I’m petty.” I didn’t have any words left. Her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at it, silent for a moment, before looking back up. “I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight. Since you’re so set on this little exit, pack light. It’ll save you the hassle of unpacking when you come back.” I didn’t answer. I just kept folding. “You know what Jordan and I are,” she added, her voice dropping, though it sent a chill straight to my chest. “Jealousy is a bad look on you, Drew.” She turned and walked away. The next morning, I carried my suitcase downstairs. Virginia was in the kitchen, sipping coffee as if it were any other Tuesday. “Jordan’s birthday is in a couple of days,” she said, her tone conversational, almost pleasant. “He wants to spend it here in Chicago. I told him he could stay in our guest room for a bit.” It wasn’t a question. It was an announcement. I gripped the handle of my suitcase so hard my knuckles turned white. The sheer absurdity of it made me want to laugh. “Do whatever you want,” I said. She looked at me, taking a sip. “You should come to the dinner. Otherwise, Jordan’s going to think you’re holding a grudge.” She didn’t care about my feelings. She never had. It was just another box for her to check. She checked her watch and stood up. “He’s landing soon. I’m going to go pick him up.” As she reached the front door, I called out. “Virginia.” 3 She turned, her eyebrow slightly raised. There was no surprise on her face, only that familiar, smug indifference. She thought I was finally breaking. She thought I was going to apologize. “Are you free tomorrow?” I asked. “If you are, we need to go to the courthouse to file the petition.” The smugness vanished, replaced by a dark, simmering anger. She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Are you serious, Drew?” “I let you play your little signing game, and I let you pack. But this is getting ridiculous.” I looked at her. “I am serious. Let’s go tomorrow. It takes thirty days for the court to finalize it anyway, so the sooner we file, the better.” She cut me off, her voice sharp with impatience. “Drew, drop it. We both know you can’t survive without me. You’re throwing a fit over Jordan because you have nothing better to do. It’s pathetic.” She checked her watch again. “I have to get Jordan. If I’m late, he’ll be upset. We’ll talk about this when you’ve calmed down.” She slammed the door, leaving me in the quiet foyer. I stood there for a long moment, then pulled my suitcase out into the cold morning air. That night, I sent her a text. “Nine o’clock tomorrow at the county courthouse. Don’t be late.” It took hours for a response. When my phone finally buzzed, it was an audio message. But it wasn’t Virginia’s voice. It was Jordan’s. “Hey Drew, what’s this about nine o’clock?” Jordan’s voice was bright, backed by the loud thrum of music and laughter. “Virginia is throwing me a welcome-home party. You should come!” In the background, I heard someone yell, “Whoa, Jordan, you’re just answering Virginia’s texts now? Aren’t you worried she’ll get mad?” Another voice chimed in, laughing. “Are you kidding? Drew touched her phone once last year and she practically bit his head off.” “Exactly! You can’t compare Drew to Jordan. Jordan’s special.” The message went on, filled with drunken laughter. I knew Jordan had sent it on purpose. But they weren’t wrong. At a dinner party months ago, my phone had died, and I’d reached for Virginia’s to check the time. She had snatched it out of my hand instantly. “Drew, do you have absolutely no concept of privacy?” she’d snapped in front of everyone. I had sat there, burning with embarrassment, while someone else quickly changed the subject. A second audio message from Jordan came through. “Sorry about that, Drew! The guys are just joking around. Don’t take them seriously.” I didn’t reply. Ten minutes later, Virginia called. “Jordan said you texted?” She sounded amused, as if she were waiting for my inevitable surrender. “Yes,” I said, my voice flat. “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock at the family court. I’m calling to make sure you don’t forget.” “Drew, are you seriously doing this?” Her voice flared with sudden, sharp anger. “Don’t you think you’ve humiliated us enough? Do you want everyone laughing at us? Take a few days to cool off. This constant jealousy is exhausting. You’re acting like a child.” I let out a soft laugh. “I’m not jealous, Virginia. I’m done. I want a divorce.” But before I could finish, the line went dead. Jordan must have called her back to the party. A minute later, my screen lit up with a video from Jordan. “Hey Drew, we’re playing a game. You don’t mind, right?” 4 I hesitated, then tapped play. It was the card-passing game. Virginia and Jordan were face-to-face, holding a thin playing card between their lips. The crowd around them was cheering wildly. “Oh my god, Virginia’s going to be sleeping on the couch tonight!” someone yelled. “Childhood sweethearts, first loves… come on, just kiss already!” “Thank god Drew isn’t here, or we’d never hear the end of it.” As they leaned in, someone blew on the card. It fluttered to the floor. Their lips met. The video cut off to a chorus of wild screams. I felt… nothing. Just a vast, hollow emptiness. Another text from Jordan popped up: “Drew, you’re not mad, are you? It was just a party game. Don’t take it seriously.” I locked my phone and went to sleep. The next morning, I went back to the house to grab the rest of my things. When I tried the keyless lock, the code didn’t work. I tried it three times before the door finally clicked open from the inside. Jordan stood there, wearing a silk pajama set. “Drew?” He smiled warmly. “Oh, sorry about the lock. Virginia had a few too many drinks last night and ended up changing the code to my birthday. I guess she forgot to tell you.” I didn’t say a word. My gaze traveled down to the pajamas he was wearing. They were mine. A set Virginia had bought me for our anniversary that I’d never even worn. Jordan noticed my gaze and offered a sheepish, apologetic smile. “I packed in such a rush, I forgot to bring pajamas. You don’t mind, do you?” I pushed past him. Virginia was coming down the stairs, tying her robe. She stopped when she saw me. “What are you doing here?” I ignored her and went straight up to our bedroom. When I opened the door, I froze. My suitcase had been dragged out of the closet and left open on the floor. The clothes I had neatly packed were rummaged through, scattered everywhere. Virginia walked in behind me. She looked at the mess, then cleared her throat, a rare flash of self-consciousness crossing her face. “Jordan forgot his clothes. I was looking for something he could wear. I didn’t mean to make a mess. I’ll clean it up later.” She dismissed it as if it were nothing. I didn’t say a word. I knelt down, picked up my clothes, and stuffed them back into the bag, zipping it shut. Virginia frowned. “It’s just a shirt, Drew. I’ll buy you a new one. Stop acting like this.” “No need,” I said, pulling the suitcase upright. “Keep it. Let Jordan have it.” I looked her in the eyes. “Find some time today. Let’s go file the papers.” Jordan hurried into the room, his eyes red and pooling with tears. “I’m so sorry, Drew. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have borrowed your things. I’ll buy you a new set… please, don’t divorce Virginia because of me.” Virginia’s expression softened immediately. She put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Jordan. Don’t apologize.” Then she turned to me, her voice cold. “That’s enough, Drew. You’re making a scene over a t-shirt. Is this really who you want to be?” To Virginia, everything was a minor issue when it came to Jordan. I was always the unreasonable one, the villain in their beautiful, tragic story. “Yes,” I said, looking at her one last time. “I’m making a scene. And I’m leaving.” I wheeled my suitcase out. As I walked down the hall, I heard Jordan’s quiet, worried voice behind me. “Virginia, he seems really mad this time. What if he actually leaves?” And then, Virginia’s confident reply: “He won’t. I know him. He can’t live without me.” I kept walking. That afternoon, we met at the courthouse. We filed the petition, and the clerk informed us of the mandatory thirty-day waiting period. Virginia let out a small, knowing smirk as we walked down the steps. “Nice show. You knew about the waiting period, didn’t you? Is that why you insisted on coming today? Just to keep up the act?” I didn’t answer. I hailed a cab and got in. A text from her arrived ten minutes later. “Jordan’s birthday dinner is tomorrow night. Make sure you’re there. And don’t forget to buy him a gift.” I didn’t reply. I blocked her number, opened my airline app, and booked a one-way ticket to Denver.

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The year I turned eighteen, the Winslows found me. They told me I was their long-lost second daughter, a child swept under the rug of their vast, untouchable empire. On my third day in their cold, cavernous estate, Benson, the family butler, approached me with a silver tray and a flat voice. “The late eldest daughter was betrothed to the Crawford family,” he said, not looking me in the eye. “Mr. Winslow says you are to take her place.” I pulled my hair back into a tight, no-nonsense ponytail, threw on the worn, oversized coat I’d lived in for years, and caught a cab to the Crawford estate. A man in a tailored charcoal suit stood by the towering iron gates, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked impatient, checking his watch every few seconds. “So, you’re the one the Winslows dragged out of the gutter?” He tilted his head, studying me like a stray cat that had wandered onto his manicured lawn. “Is the Winslow estate a charity now? They’ll take back just about anything.” The woman beside him stepped forward, handing him a bottle of sparkling water. Her smile was sweet, but her eyes were razor-sharp. “Oh, Damian, don’t be cruel. She’s survived out there on her own for so long; she must be quite… resilient. Tell me, Iris, what was your last job? A waitress? A grocery cashier?” “Lindsay, don’t tease her,” Damian said, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked down at her. Then he turned back to me, his tone dry and transactional, as if we were negotiating a cheap lease. “I don’t recognize this betrothal. But since you’ve dragged yourself all the way out here, I’ll throw you a bone. Our housekeeper is retiring next week. You can take the job. I’ll pay you thirty-two hundred a month.” I didn’t say a word. In my palm, my cheap phone buzzed. My grandfather had just wired me twenty million dollars. 1 “What’s the matter? Thirty-two hundred too little for you?” Damian’s voice broke the silence. He loomed over me, his condescension naked and heavy. “Let’s be clear about who you are. You’ve been living like a vagrant for years. You have no degree, no manners, and you can’t even afford a decent coat. I’m only offering you this job as charity, out of respect for your late sister.” Lindsay giggled, hiding her mouth behind a manicured hand. “You’re too kind, Damian, really.” She stepped closer, pinching the pilling fabric of my sleeve with two fingers, her face twisted in theatrical pity. “Iris, sweetie, this coat is practically disintegrating. It’s time for an upgrade. I suppose thirty-two hundred is a fortune to someone like you. Did you ever see that much money at the shelter?” I looked at her beautiful, hollow face, then glanced down at the screen of my phone. The notification was still glowing: “Incoming wire transfer: $20,000,000.” Twenty million. So this was what my grandfather meant by “taking her place.” I slipped the phone back into my pocket, keeping my face entirely blank. “Mr. Crawford, my family sent me here to honor a commitment. A marriage.” Damian let out a harsh, bark-like laugh. “A marriage?” He stepped in closer, his shadow falling over me. “Iris, do you actually think you’ve become a princess overnight? If the Winslows cared about you, would they have let you take a dingy yellow cab here? No security, no driver, not even a decent car. To them, you’re just a pawn they threw out to absorb a blow.” Lindsay sighed on cue, wrapping her arm around his. “Damian, don’t be so blunt. You’ll break her heart. She just got a taste of the high life; let her have her little dream.” She looked at me, her eyes dripping with mock sympathy. “Take some advice, Iris. Damian doesn’t owe you anything. This arrangement belonged to your sister. Since you’re just a cheap knockoff, you should know your place. Being a maid is a good gig. At least you’ll have a roof over your head and won’t starve on the streets.” A cheap knockoff? I slightly raised an eyebrow. Right then, my phone rang. It was the custom ringtone for my eldest brother, Charles. Before I could move, Damian snatched the phone right out of my hand. “Look at that. Is the Winslow family checking up on their stray?” He pressed speakerphone without asking. Charles’s voice came through, cold and sharp enough to cut glass. “Are you dead out there yet? Still haven’t settled in?” Damian shot me a smug, triumphant look, leaning down toward the microphone. “Charles, it’s Damian Crawford. Iris just got here, but she doesn’t seem to understand the Crawford family’s expectations.” There was a brief pause on the other end. When Charles spoke again, his voice was ice. “Tell her to behave. Running around looking like a beggar is embarrassing to this family. If she wants to ruin her life, tell her to do it quietly. Don’t come crawling back here to annoy me.” With a sharp click, the line went dead. The dial tone droned in the quiet air. Damian burst into laughter, tossing my phone onto the gravel. “Hear that, Iris? That’s the family you’re so proud of. They don’t even want to look at you. They’re disgusted by your very existence.” Lindsay shook her head, looking at me like I was a pile of trash. “How pathetic. Cast out by your own flesh and blood. Iris, if you have any dignity left, go down to the basement and clean up the maid’s quarters. If you’re late, you won’t even get dinner.” I bent down and picked up my phone. A hairline fracture spiderwebbed across the glass screen. I blew the dust off it. “Where are the maid’s quarters?” I asked. Since Charles wanted me to “settle in,” I wanted to see exactly how much rope these two would give themselves to hang with. Damian scoffed, pressing the intercom by the gate. “Mrs. Landis, take the new maid down to the basement. Lay down the rules. Make sure she doesn’t wander around and get dirt on my carpets.” 2 A middle-aged woman in a stiff, dark grey uniform marched over. She swept a dismissive gaze over me. “Understood, Mr. Crawford. Leave her to me.” She turned to me, her tone sharp. “Follow me. Don’t dawdle.” I followed her through the grand, gilded foyer, past towering marble pillars, and down a flight of narrow, dimly lit wooden stairs. The air in the basement clung to the skin, damp and smelling of old mildew. Mrs. Landis pushed open a warped wooden door. “This is your room.” It was a cramped, windowless box. There was a single rusted metal bed frame and a dented locker. The sheets on the thin mattress were yellowed and threadbare. Mrs. Landis crossed her arms, her eyes hard. “Mr. Crawford says your duties include scrubbing the toilets and cleaning up after the dogs in the garden. You’re to be up by five every morning to prepare breakfast for the household. Any mistakes, and it comes out of your pay. Got it?” I stared at the stained, yellowed sheets and said nothing. Mrs. Landis gave me a rough shove. “Are you deaf? I asked you a question!” I sidestepped her next touch, my eyes instantly turning cold. “Don’t touch me.” She blinked, caught off guard, before her face flushed with fury. “Oh, think you’re someone special, do you? You’re trash that even the Winslows didn’t want. You don’t put on airs in this house. In this basement, “I” am the law.” She pointed at a pile of dingy rags in the corner. “Now, get moving. Scrub the five toilets on the main floor.” I ignored her, walking over to the metal bed. I gave one of the rusted legs a sharp kick. The frame let out a loud, agonizing groan, swaying precariously. “I don’t sleep on cheap beds,” I said. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. Mrs. Landis let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t sleep on cheap beds? Who do you think you are, a guest at the Ritz-Carlton? If you don’t like it, sleep on the street!” Ignoring her screeching, I dialed a number. “Hello, is this the concierge at the Ritz-Carlton? I need a complete set of your signature presidential suite bedding delivered. Silk sheets, premium down pillows. Yes, deliver it to the Crawford estate. Bring it down to the basement.” I hung up and turned to the stunned housekeeper. “You can leave now. I’d like to rest.” Mrs. Landis stared at me as if I had completely lost my mind. “Are you insane? You think you can afford the Ritz? Just wait! I’m telling Mr. Crawford!” She slammed the door behind her as she stormed out. Within ten minutes, Damian and Lindsay burst into the basement room. Damian’s face was dark with rage, his finger practically touching my nose. “Iris! What the hell is wrong with you? You’re a maid! Why are you ordering luxury bedding from the Ritz?” Lindsay held her nose, waving a hand in front of her face. “Ugh, Damian, the smell down here is atrocious.” She sneered at me. “Iris, did living in shelters rot your brain? Your salary is thirty-two hundred a month. How do you plan to pay for this? Or were you expecting Damian to foot the bill?” Damian sneered. “In your dreams! I won’t pay a single cent. Let’s see how you handle it when they show up with the bill!” I leaned against the dented metal locker, watching them play their little roles. “I’m paying with my own money. What does it have to do with you?” Damian laughed as if I’d delivered a killer punchline. “Your own money? You were a homeless stray! How much could you possibly have? The rags on your back wouldn’t even clear ten dollars at a thrift store!” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “I’m warning you, Iris. If you try to use the Crawford name to run a scam, I will personally throw you out of here in pieces!” Just then, a sleek black Mercedes Sprinter with the Ritz-Carlton logo pulled up to the estate gates. A team of immaculate hotel managers in tailored suits entered the mansion, carrying several oversized, pristine boxes. The lead manager bowed politely to me. “Excuse me, are you Miss Iris Winslow? Your signature silk bedding collection has arrived. The total comes to one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.” 3 A suffocating silence fell over the basement. Damian’s eyes bulged, staring at the high-end packaging. Lindsay’s face twisted into an ugly mask of disbelief and envy. “One… one hundred and twenty thousand dollars?” she shrieked. “For some bedsheets?” The hotel manager kept his professional smile. “Yes, ma’am. This is custom-tailored Italian silk, a limited global release.” Damian snapped out of his daze, pointing at me. “Iris! Where did you steal that money? Did you swipe a Winslow credit card?” I didn’t bother answering him. I tapped my phone screen against the payment terminal the manager held out. “Ding.” A crisp, clear electronic chime echoed in the cramped basement, confirming the transaction had cleared. The manager’s smile grew even wider. “Thank you for your patronage, Miss Winslow. Would you like our staff to set it up for you?” “No, thank you. Just leave them here.” The managers set the boxes down carefully, bowed, and withdrew. Damian stared at my phone, utterly speechless. Lindsay gritted her teeth, her eyes flashing with jealousy. “It has to be stolen! There is no way the Winslows gave her that much cash! Damian, this is a crime! We need to call the police!” Damian’s eyes lit up. He pulled out his phone. “Yes! The police! You’re finished, Iris!” Right in front of me, he dialed my second brother, Chase. “Chase, it’s Damian. I have to report something urgent. Iris stole from your family!” On the other end of the line, Chase’s voice came through, thick with sleep and sheer, unadulterated irritation. “Are you out of your mind? Who calls this early?” Damian rushed to explain. “No, Chase, listen! Iris just dropped a hundred and twenty grand on silk sheets without blinking! She’s an orphan! Where would she get that kind of cash? She must have stolen your card!” There was a two-second silence on the other end. Then, Chase’s roar practically rattled the phone. “She bought a bed, so what? Did she spend your damn money? A hundred and twenty grand is pocket change! A single tire on my car costs more than that! If you ever call me again with this pathetic garbage, I will personally ruin you!” The call disconnected with a sharp beep. Damian stood frozen, his hand still holding the phone to his ear. Lindsay’s jaw dropped. Damian took a deep, shaky breath, desperately trying to salvage what was left of his dignity. He glared at me, his voice trembling. “Did you hear that, Iris? Chase doesn’t even care enough to look into it. You’re such an embarrassment to them that they won’t even prosecute you for stealing. They treat you like you don’t even exist!” Lindsay chimed in, eager to soothe Damian’s bruised ego. “Exactly! The Winslows are so wealthy that a few hundred thousand is nothing to them. But their attitude toward you says it all. Iris, don’t think a little stolen money makes you queen of this castle.” Damian sneered. “Mrs. Landis! Throw all of this trash out! A maid sleeping on Italian silk? Not in my house.” Mrs. Landis eagerly complied, waving in a couple of male groundskeepers to grab the heavy boxes. I watched them calmly. “Damian, are you sure you want to touch my things?” Damian threw his head back. “In this house, I make the rules! Throw them in the dumpster outside!” I didn’t stop them as they dragged the boxes away. Instead, I quietly opened my phone and marked the order as delivered. 4 The next evening, the Crawford estate was ablaze with lights. Damian was hosting a lavish party to celebrate some minor, third-rate charity award Lindsay had won, inviting the city’s second-tier trust-fund crowd. Mrs. Landis tossed a skimpy, black-and-white maid costume onto my bed. “Put it on. Mr. Crawford wants you serving drinks to the guests tonight. He had this specially ordered in your size.” The fabric was insultingly sparse; the hemline wouldn’t even cover my thighs. I dropped the uniform onto the floor and stepped on it. “Tell him to wear it and serve the drinks himself.” Mrs. Landis bristled, her finger shaking as she pointed at me. “Don’t push your luck! Mr. Crawford said if you don’t put this on, he’ll have your old suitcase thrown into the fountain!” My gaze turned ice-cold. Inside that worn leather suitcase was the only thing left to me by the director of the shelter who had raised me—an old, battered diary containing the names of all the orphans she had cared for. I walked out of the basement and entered the grand ballroom. The air was thick with expensive perfume, loud laughter, and jazz music. Damian, dressed in a custom tuxedo, stood in the center of the room with a glass of champagne, holding court among his wealthy friends. Lindsay stood beside him like a proud swan in a white couture gown. When he saw me walk in wearing my old, oversized coat, his expression instantly darkened. “Iris, who said you could come out looking like that?” He marched over to me, his voice carrying over the crowd. “Where is the uniform I bought you?” Whispers began to ripple through the room. “Is that the stray the Winslows dragged back?” “I heard she’s practically illiterate.” “The Winslows must be mortified. Sending her to work as a maid at the Crawfords’…” Lindsay giggled behind her hand, her eyes glittering. “Oh, Damian, let it go. Maybe she’s just shy. She’s probably never seen an event like this before.” Damian sneered. “There is no negotiating in this house.” He turned to Mrs. Landis. “Go. Throw her suitcase into the fountain. It seems she needs a wake-up call.” A couple of security guards ran down to the basement and dragged my battered leather suitcase out into the courtyard. I moved toward them. “Stop.” Damian stepped in front of me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Hurts, doesn’t it? If you get down on your knees and beg Lindsay to forgive your rudeness yesterday, I might think about giving it back.” Lindsay looked down her nose at me. “I don’t even need you to kneel, Iris. Just say, nice and loud, that you don’t deserve to bear the Winslow name, and I’ll have Damian let you go.” I stared directly into Damian’s eyes. “If you throw that in, I will make you regret the day you were born.” Damian burst into a loud, mocking laugh. “Make me regret it? Do it! Throw it in!” With a heavy splash, my suitcase—the one that had been my only constant for fifteen years—was hurled into the deep waters of the stone fountain. The latch broke on impact, and my belongings spilled out into the water. The old diary, its pages fragile with age, instantly began to soak and disintegrate. A sharp pain squeezed my chest. The blood rushed to my ears, and my hands curled into tight fists. Lindsay walked to the edge of the fountain, looking down. “Oh dear, it’s just a bunch of garbage anyway.” She lifted her foot, intending to step on an old photograph that had landed on the wet stone rim. Before she could, my hand whipped out. “Slap!” I put every ounce of my strength into the blow. The impact cracked through the courtyard, and Lindsay was thrown off balance, hitting the stone tiles hard. The courtyard fell into absolute, terrified silence. Damian stared at her, then turned to me, his face contorted with rage. “Iris! You’re dead!” He raised his hand, swinging a heavy, open-palmed strike toward my face. But a split second before his hand could connect, the phone in his pocket blared with a shrill, demanding ringtone. Damian froze mid-swing, his eyes instinctively darting to the screen. “Caller ID: Benson (Winslow Family Butler).” Frowning, he swiped to answer and put it on speakerphone. In the quiet of the courtyard, Benson’s dry, commanding voice carried clearly to every ear. “Mr. Crawford.” “The elder Mr. Winslow is deeply displeased to hear how his granddaughter is being treated. Your hospitality has certainly been… eye-opening.”

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My neighbor’s hand had just been severed by the elevator door, and she was screaming at my doorstep, begging for help. I was on my knees, reaching for the plastic bag to help her preserve the severed limb, when a scrolling feed of glowing text suddenly flashed across my field of vision. It looked exactly like a live-stream chat overlay, hovering in the air. [DON’T PICK UP THAT SEVERED HAND! DON’T TOUCH IT!] [She chose you on purpose! The moment you lay a finger on that hand, she’ll blame you for any complications that happen down the road!] [You’re the ultimate fall guy she handpicked out of this entire building!] [Nicholas had it so rough in the original timeline. Not only did she sue him for every penny and organize a massive cyberbullying campaign against him, but she used her ruined hand as an excuse to leech off him forever. She literally drove him to jump off a building.] My hand began to shake violently. I snatched my fingers back and stood up. The floating text froze for a fraction of a second, then went absolutely wild. [Yes! Get the hell out of there!] [Martina has a dozen relatives hiding in her apartment right now, just waiting for you to take the bait.] What? At that last sentence, a chill shot down my spine. I backed into my apartment and slammed the door shut. To hell with playing the hero. 1. My hand was trembling so hard I could barely lock the door. Martina Hobbs was right outside, covered in blood. The moment the door clicked shut, the frantic begging on her face hardened into something cold and rigid. She clutched her bleeding wrist, her body shaking as she screamed through the wood. “Nicholas! What the hell are you doing?!” “We’re neighbors! How can you just leave me here to die? My hand is still stuck in the elevator! Aren’t you going to help me get it?!” Her voice cracked, slipping back into a desperate, pathetic wail. “I’m begging you, Nicholas. Just give me some ice. At least give me enough ice to keep it cold until I get to the ER.” For a split second, guilt gnawed at my chest. I reached for the deadbolt. But the moment my fingers brushed the metal, the floating text flared up again, glowing a harsh, warning red. [Don’t fall for it!] [She’s only crying to manipulate Nicholas into touching the severed limb!] [The injury wasn’t even an accident—she brought it on herself. The Hobbs family was having a massive party today. She got wasted, threw a violent tantrum in the elevator, and got her hand caught. Now they just need a scapegoat to cover the medical bills!] [Don’t even give her ice. There are no security cameras in this part of the hallway. She’s trying to force her way inside!] [Exactly! Her own apartment is literally right next door. Why doesn’t she get her own ice?] My breath caught in my throat. My hand froze. [Besides, Martina has over ten people hiding in her living room right now.] [Why is she only knocking on your door?] Ten people? My heart hammered against my ribs as I took a slow step backward. The color completely drained from my face. Just a minute ago, when I had first opened the door, I had caught a fleeting glimpse of the shoe rack outside Martina’s apartment. It had been piled high with extra footwear—heavy men’s sneakers, women’s heels, and even a couple of pairs of children’s boots. Smash. A muffled sound of breaking glass echoed from the balcony next door, followed by a man’s hushed, urgent voice trying to quiet someone down. “Shh! Keep it down! Don’t let the neighbors hear you!” “Be quiet!” A child’s soft whimper was abruptly cut off, and the balcony fell dead silent again. A cold sweat broke out across my neck. The floating chat was telling the truth. Martina was claiming she was home alone and helpless. But if she was out here bleeding in the hallway, who were the people hiding inside her apartment? She was lying. The entire thing was a trap. “Nicholas, open the door!” The frantic pounding continued, but I only felt a profound sense of relief. Why would she bypass a house full of her own relatives to beg a single, male neighbor for help? The realization made my blood run cold. “I can’t help you,” I called out, raising my voice so it would carry through the heavy door. “I have severe hemophobia. I faint at the sight of blood. I’m calling 911 for you right now!” The moment the word 911 left my mouth, the hallway went dead silent. After a tense pause of several seconds, the doorknob began to rattle violently. Martina’s voice returned, laced with a sharp, panicky edge. “No need! I already called them!” “I just need you to get the hand for me! Please, just open the door!” As the handle shook under her desperate attempts, the floating text began to scream in capital letters. [NO! NICK, HOLD THE LINE!] [Don’t let her in! Just hold out until the paramedics arrive. Martina won’t be able to last long anyway!] Minute after agonizing minute ticked by. Martina’s face through my peephole looked monstrous, her features twisting in rage. She began throwing her body against the door, but I breathed a small sigh of relief. Martina is panicking. A severed limb needs to be iced and prepped for surgery within a golden window of thirty minutes. I remodeled my condo two years ago and put in a reinforced steel door. In her weakened state, she had no hope of breaking it down. Sure enough, the pounding stopped after a few minutes. But a second later, a familiar male voice echoed from the hallway. “What is going on out here?” My heart stopped. It was Cody Jenkins, the kid who rented the apartment on the other side of my unit. He was a recent college grad who had just started working in the city. He occasionally came over to borrow household tools, and I had always tried to be a good neighbor to him. Thinking of the blood and the severed hand outside, my eyes went wide. I scrambled to grab my phone, intending to text him to get back inside and lock his door. “What?!” Before I could even unlock my screen, Cody’s voice escalated into a dramatic, self-righteous shout. “We’re all neighbors here! How could Nicholas just lock his door and leave you to die?!” “This is sick!” My chest tightened as I listened to them murmuring outside. Suddenly, the floating chat erupted into a solid wall of exclamation marks. [IT’S OVER!] Outside, Cody’s eyes scanned the hallway before he bent down and slipped his hand under my welcome mat. “Don’t worry,” Cody said loudly. “I know where he keeps his spare key.” The sound of metal sliding into the lock sent a physical jolt of terror straight through my chest. 2. “Nicholas, you liar!” The door swung open, and Martina lunged into my entryway, her eyes gleaming with a strange, predatory light. She collapsed onto the hardwood floor, clutching her bleeding arm and rolling around in theatrical agony. “You left me out there! You delayed my medical treatment!” “If I lose my hand, you’re going to be held fully responsible!” Responsible? I looked down at her, my expression hardening as the warnings from the floating chat echoed in my mind. “Your injury has nothing to do with me,” I said, my voice deadpan. “Whether I choose to help you is my decision. And I decline.” Her agonizing wails cut off instantly. She stared up at me, her eyes wide with sheer disbelief. “You decline?!” Finding herself rejected so bluntly, Martina’s pale face tightened. She lowered her voice, a desperate, calculating look flashing in her eyes. “Nicholas, I didn’t just knock on your door for no reason!” She pointed a trembling, bloody finger at me. “You’re not afraid of blood. You were a licensed doctor for five years! How could you possibly have hemophobia?!” My survival instincts flared. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. I had never told a single soul in this building about my medical background before I transitioned into corporate consulting. How could she possibly know? But the answer presented itself immediately. “That’s right, Nick,” Cody chimed in, stepping into my entryway with a smug grin. “I saw your board certification plaque on your bookshelf when I borrowed your vacuum last week. Doctors take an oath to save lives. How could you lie to her?” “Good thing I remembered and told her!” Cody’s words felt like a physical blow. My head spun. He rolled his eyes at me, completely ignoring the betrayal of my privacy. “Come on, Nick, save her!” “Yes, please!” Martina pleaded, her eyes darting around my apartment, searching for any leverage. The floating chat was exploding now. [Holy crap, where did this Cody guy come from?!] [What a saint. If he’s so damn noble, why doesn’t he save her himself?] [First Martina, now Cody helping her corner him. Nicholas is completely trapped!] [He’s doing this on purpose. He wants the drama.] When I didn’t move, Martina’s expression shifted from desperation to outright hostility. Cody was even faster, covering his mouth in exaggerated horror. “Nick, are you seriously going to let her bleed out in front of you?” “How can you be so heartless? I’m going to put this online and expose you!” His chest heaving with simulated righteous fury, Cody pulled out his phone and pointed the camera directly at my face. “Look at all this blood! If she dies or ends up permanently disabled because of you, what then?!” Martina caught the cue. “Nicholas, please! How much money do you want? I’ll pay you! Just help me prep the hand so the doctors can sew it back on!” “Please!” With a wet thud, Martina dropped heavily to her knees on my floor. “I’m begging you!” The loud commotion had begun to draw other residents from the elevator. Seeing the smear of blood in the hallway and the towel-covered shape on the elevator floor, several people gasped. Cody rolled his eyes at me, his phone held high to capture the crowd’s reaction. “Nick, I thought you were a decent guy, but you’re a monster. Making a bleeding woman kneel and beg just to get a little help. Have you no shame?” “How did someone like you ever become a doctor?” His eyes were red, his voice shaking with a performance of pure moral outrage as he turned his camera back and forth between me and the kneeling woman. The gathering crowd began to whisper loudly. “What? He’s a trained professional and he’s just watching?” “Is he even human?” “So cold-hearted. If he won’t do it, we should!” As the murmurs grew louder, Martina subtly glanced toward her own apartment door. I caught the signal. [Watch out! Martina is calling in her reinforcements!] The floating chat flashed a warning. A second later, Martina’s apartment door flew open, and a small mob of people spilled into the hallway, pushing through the onlookers. “It’s him! He’s the one stalling! He’s trying to kill her!” “If anything happens to our Martina, you’re paying for it with your life!” The relatives, who had been waiting in ambush next door, swarmed my entryway. Martina’s older brother, Greg, led the pack, dragging a crying child with him and pushing the kid to the floor to add to the chaos. They screamed about my “cruelty” and “lack of humanity.” “He’s a cold-blooded animal! Why won’t he help?” “It’s just a simple favor! It wouldn’t kill him!” “Exactly!” Cody chimed in, crossing his arms and nodding along. The crowd’s glares grew heavier, pointing fingers and shouting insults. Martina remained on the floor, her face growing paler from the blood loss, saying nothing but letting her family do the dirty work. I took a deep, steadying breath. “I really can’t help her,” I said loudly, holding my hands up. “I don’t have the training for this.” I reached over to my entryway shelf, grabbed my old framed certificate, and turned it toward the crowd. As they squinted to read the bold, gold lettering, the shouting gradually died down. I looked at Martina, my voice incredibly calm. “I was a urologist.” The entryway fell into absolute, dead silence. 3. “I don’t care what kind of doctor you are!” Greg roared, his face turning red. “A doctor is a doctor, even if you’re a… a what? A urologist?!” I pointed directly to the specialized text on the board certification: Specializing in Male Reconstructive Urology and Sexual Medicine. Someone in the back of the crowd snorted, trying to muffle a laugh. “Alright, look,” a neighbor murmured from the hallway. “If we’re dealing with a retired dick doctor, why are we wasting time badgering him? We need to get her to the ER!” “Yeah, if they don’t get that hand to the hospital soon, they won’t be able to reattach it. Call an ambulance!” “If they leave now, they might still make it.” The crowd’s sentiment was shifting. Cody, seeing his viral stream losing its dramatic villain, quickly lowered his phone and stepped forward, panic in his eyes. “Wait! Even if the ambulance gets here, it takes time!” “The most important thing is preserving the severed hand right now. It’s eighty-five degrees outside today. Is Nicholas just going to let it rot on the elevator floor?!” The hand was still sitting under a blood-stained towel in the elevator. Martina shuddered, her eyes darting to Cody as she realized her window was closing. She scrambled off the floor and lunged at me like a feral animal. “You have to preserve my hand! You spent five years in medicine, you must know how to do that!” The floating chat flashed frantically in front of my face. [MOVE! Don’t let her touch you!] [She’s going to frame you the second she makes contact!] Without thinking, I took a massive step back, completely clearing her path. But Martina didn’t stop her forward momentum. In the split second before she hit the floor, I caught a brief, chilling smirk on her face. Oh, no. She shut her eyes and collapsed heavily onto my hardwood floor, completely limp. “She fainted from blood loss!” Cody shrieked, his camera instantly locked onto my face. Martina’s relatives erupted into fury, pointing and screaming. “If she dies in your apartment, we’re suing you for murder!” The chat was scrolling so fast it was almost a blur. [She is determined to pin this on you. If she has to die to do it, she’ll die in your living room.] [Martina is actually losing too much blood. The hand is reaching its expiration limit.] I didn’t have much time. Greg was sobbing theatrically, wiping fake tears while peeking at me through his fingers. The neighbors were staring at me with disgust. I took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll help.” The relatives instantly looked pleased. But before they could speak, I pulled out my phone, searched for a medical infographic, and sent it directly to Cody. “This is the standard medical procedure for preserving a severed limb. Since you’re so passionate about justice and saving lives… I’m sure you won’t mind doing it yourself.” Cody’s smug grin froze. Before the family could react, I turned my own phone camera on him. “I’m livestreaming your heroic act to my followers right now. Show them how it’s done.” The hallway went dead silent. Cody’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. [Holy crap, the plot twist!] [Nicholas just Uno-reversed Cody!] [Is Martina’s plan about to blow up in her face?] I felt a surge of relief, but then Cody swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Sure! I’ll do it!” My chest tightened. The floating chat flashed a single, ominous line. [It’s not going to be that easy.] [Nicholas, you just walked right into their trap!] Cody turned toward my kitchen, his voice dripping with false humility. “Everyone watching, you heard him. Dr. Campbell gave me the instructions, and he’s providing the materials. If anything goes wrong, it has nothing to do with me.” He grabbed a clean Tupperware container from my counter, ran out to the elevator, and picked up the severed hand. He looked back at me, his eyes gleaming with sheer malice. “I won’t take credit for your medical advice, Nick.” My stomach dropped. The neighbors began to cheer. “Just save her! With so many witnesses, nothing can go wrong!” “Even if it does, it’s not Cody’s fault!” Greg sneered at me, crossing his arms. “Exactly. My sister fainted in Nicholas’s apartment, and he’s the medical authority dictating the procedure. Cody’s just the hands. If anything goes wrong, we know who to blame.” They still wanted to pin it on me. “Wait, Nicholas!” Cody shouted from the kitchen. “Why isn’t there any ice in your freezer?!” “How are we supposed to keep the hand cold?!” The neighbors suggested asking other residents for ice, but Greg immediately shot it down. “No! We can only use what’s in Nicholas’s house, otherwise…” He bit his lip, realizing he had almost said too much. Cody’s eyes scanned my kitchen, landing on a shelf near the sink where I kept a few bottles of sterile saline solution for my contact lenses. “Wait!” Cody yelled, his face lighting up. “No ice, but we have sterile saline! Perfect!” The Hobbs family cheered. The chat wailed in despair. [Oh no… Nicholas still couldn’t escape it.] [You can’t save stupid.] [This is awful.] But when I heard the words sterile saline, my eyes went wide. “No! Stop!” 4. The color drained from my face. I raised my voice, shouting at him. “You have to follow the diagram I sent you! Do not change the protocol!” “Don’t touch those bottles!” Ignoring the blood, I lunged toward Cody to grab the container from his hands. He flinched, nearly dropping it as I tackled him. “Look at him! He’s panicking!” Cody screamed to the crowd, backing away with a look of pure disgust. “He doesn’t want her hand saved! He’s trying to sabotage the rescue!” He pointed at my phone screen. “The diagram he sent me was just a random Google image search! It has a watermark on it! He’s trying to kill her career!” “Get away from him!” Before I could reach Cody, Greg stepped in. SLAP! A heavy hand struck my left cheek, sending a blinding flash of pain through my jaw. My ears rang, and for a second, I couldn’t hear anything but a high-pitched whine. When I recovered, Martina’s relatives were standing in a defensive wall in front of Cody, glaring at me like wolves. “What are you trying to do, Nicholas? Stall until she’s crippled?!” “If Martina loses her hand because of your interference, we will sue you into bankruptcy!” “You want to stop us? Try it in court!” The neighbors in the hallway began to murmur in agreement. “Don’t let him ruin it!” “He sent a fake picture just to cover his own ass! He’s trying to sabotage her!” “He just wants to watch her suffer! Cody, put the hand in!” Cody shot me a triumphant smirk. Ignoring my warnings, he poured the sterile saline directly into the container, submerging Martina’s severed hand completely in the liquid. “Nice try, Nick,” Cody sneered. “Saline is sterile. It kills bacteria and keeps tissue clean. It’s the perfect preservation fluid. And you were trying to hide it from us!” “You’re sick!” Cody’s livestream was still running, and the viewers were eating up his heroic performance. The crowd’s anger boiled over. “Beat him! He’s a psychopath!” Greg yelled, throwing the first punch. The relatives swarmed me, fists and feet raining down on my head and torso. I curled into a tight ball on the floor, protecting my vitals, my scalp stinging as someone ripped at my hair. The chat continued to scroll frantically. [This is horrific. Nicholas is still getting ruined.] [Cody is going to go viral for ‘saving’ her, and Nicholas is going to be completely destroyed online.] [The Hobbs family is like a pack of parasites. Once they latch on, they’ll drain him dry.] [Nicholas is dead meat.] [+1] [+10086] Dead meat? I took a heavy blow to my temple, warm blood trickling down my face and blurring my vision. But as I watched Cody seal the Tupperware container, a quiet, cold calm washed over me. I looked down at the floor, a tiny, dark smile touching my lips. Not quite. Give it thirty minutes. They are going to regret every single second of this. “The ambulance is here!” someone shouted from the lobby. The wail of sirens echoed from the street below. The crowd shifted instantly. Greg and the relatives scrambled to lift Martina, while Cody held the container close to his chest, practically vibrating with excitement. “Yes! The ambulance!” Cody turned his phone camera to himself. “We saved the hand together, chat! I’m heading to the hospital with them now to keep you guys updated!” At the sound of the sirens, Martina—who had supposedly fainted from blood loss—miraculously opened her eyes. The chat flared up. [???] [She was faking the whole time! What a disgusting snake!] Martina leaned down close to my face, her breath hot and smelling of cheap liquor. “You lost, Nicholas,” she whispered, her voice dripping with venom. “Once they sew my hand back on, I’m coming back for everything you own.” She spat on my floor, and the group swept out of my apartment, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind them. Once they were gone, I slowly sat up, the pain in my ribs sharp but manageable. I wiped the blood from my forehead and let out a soft laugh. Martina’s hand was officially gone forever. I picked up my phone, cracked screen and all, and dialed the police. “Yes, I’d like to report a home invasion, assault, and extortion…” I leaned back against my sofa, staring at the ceiling. I hoped she would still be smiling when she reached the hospital. … Meanwhile, at the municipal hospital, Martina was rushed straight into the operating room. Cody sat in the waiting room, holding the plastic container and streaming to his growing audience, his face flushed with the thrill of internet fame. The surgery light turned red. The minutes ticked by. But less than thirty minutes later, the light flickered off. The double doors swung open, and the lead surgeon walked out, his expression incredibly grim. “Who is the family of Martina Hobbs?” Cody, still filming, grinned at the camera. “Wow, that was fast! Great efficiency from the surgical team!” But the surgeon shook his head, looking down at the chart. “The surgery has been canceled. The patient’s hand is completely necrotic.” Cody’s phone slipped through his fingers, clattering onto the linoleum floor. His face went entirely white. Martina’s hand was dead.

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The System found me again just as I was being wheeled into the emergency room, my stomach lining weeping blood. It scanned my progress bar, its mechanical voice buzzing with sudden, frantic static. [How is the progress bar dropping instead of rising?] I lay on the gurney, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping my lips. At the dinner tonight, Jackie had insisted I drink in place of his new assistant, Mandy. “She’s fresh out of college, June. She doesn’t know how to handle these corporate wolves. Drink this for her.” A double shot of pure, ninety-six percent rectified spirit—Everclear—had torn through my empty stomach like liquid fire. When I had doubled over, clutching my abdomen in agony, Jackie had only frowned, his brow pinching with mild annoyance. “Your tolerance is higher than that, June. Don’t make things difficult for the clients. Just finish the rest of Mandy’s rounds so they don’t press her.” The memory made me close my eyes against the harsh fluorescent lights of the corridor. “Maybe I’m just useless,” I whispered in the quiet of my mind. The System responded with absolute, cold-metal certainty. [The female lead I chose, useless? Impossible.] [This is a narrative anomaly. The male lead is corrupted.] [He’s glitched. Let me see if a few high-voltage shocks can reboot his system.] … I had just been wheeled back to the recovery ward, the heavy, numbing fog of the anesthesia still clinging to my limbs, when the heavy door was flung open. Jackie stood in the doorway, his forehead creased, his voice dripping with immediate, sharp irritation. “June, why did you slip out of the dinner without saying a word?” He strode toward the bed, not looking at me, but looking down at his phone. “Do you have any idea what happened after you left? The executives cornered Mandy. She couldn’t navigate her way out of it, had to take a drink, and now she’s in the urgent care wing next door on an IV drip.” I didn’t answer. In my head, the System was already screaming. [Oh my god, he really is broken! You’re literally lying in a hospital bed and he doesn’t even see it? No comfort, no concern, just an interrogation!] [Let’s see if a quick shock helps him focus.] Jackie suddenly let out a strangled gasp, his knees buckling slightly as he gripped the edge of the bedside table. His face paled, beads of sweat breaking out instantly along his hairline. When he finally managed to look up at me, his eyes seemed to adjust, as if the white hospital gown and the clear tube taped to the back of my hand had only just materialized. “June? You… you’re admitted?” I turned my head away, staring at the gray curtain, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my gaze. His eyes drifted to the chart hanging from the foot of my bed. His expression shifted rapidly as he read the words: “Acute Gastric Bleeding.” “Bleeding?” his voice cracked. “But your ulcer hasn’t flared up in years. How could one drink do this? What did the specialist say? Is it severe…?” “Jackie,” I cut him off, my voice barely above a whisper, “do you actually know what was in that glass you made me drink for Mandy?” He blinked, silent. “It was ninety-six percent neutral grain spirit. Straight Everclear.” His jaw tightened, a defensive shield immediately sliding over his features. “That’s impossible. Mandy brought that bottle herself. She said it was just standard party vodka.” “Standard party vodka?” I let out a dry, rattling laugh that made the raw tear in my stomach throb. “How many years have I spent drinking for you at these tables, Jackie? You think I can’t tell the difference between standard alcohol and industrial solvent?” He hesitated, his eyes darting toward the door, already searching for excuses to shield her. “She probably just bought the wrong bottle. She’s young, June. She doesn’t know the difference between proofs.” “An accident.” I closed my eyes, remembering the sharp, triumphantly cold look in Mandy’s eyes when she had handed me the glass. She had leaned in close, her expensive perfume choking my senses, and whispered, “Be careful, June. This one has a real kick.” Then, she had spun around toward Jackie, her voice instantly dissolving into a soft, trembling squeak. “Jackieary, I really can’t drink… I feel so terrible making June do this for me. I’m so sorry.” It hadn’t been an accident. But I didn’t bother explaining that to him. What would be the point? Jackie wouldn’t believe me anyway. He reached out, his hand sliding over mine, his grip softening in a way that used to make my chest ache with warmth. “I’m sorry, June. I didn’t realize. If I had known, I would have never let you touch it.” He squeezed my hand, his voice dropping into that solemn, promising register he used whenever he wanted to sweep his mistakes under the rug. “Our engagement party is next week. I’ll make sure it’s perfect. The grandest, most beautiful night. Just focus on resting. Don’t worry about anything else.” The moment the words left his mouth, his phone began to ring. A specific, delicate acoustic melody cut through the sterile quiet of the room. It was an indie love song by an artist I adored, a song about a first love that survived the winter. I had once believed that ringtone belonged solely to me. Until last month, when I sat in the passenger seat of his car and heard that exact same melody chime as Mandy’s name flashed across his dashboard. When I asked him about it, he had shrugged, not looking up from the wheel. “Mandy heard it and thought it was pretty, so she set it for her contact. I’ll set a different one for you.” Jackie looked at the screen now, his thumb already swiping to accept the call. “Mandy? What’s wrong?” I couldn’t hear her voice, but I watched the transition on his face—the sudden, intense gravity, the softening of his shoulders, the quiet, protective murmur. “Don’t panic. I’m coming right now.” He hung up, looking down at me, his eyes filled with a performative guilt. “Mandy’s alone on her IV. She’s frightened. She’s my old professor’s daughter, June. She doesn’t have anyone else in this city. I can’t just leave her stranded. You understand, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “You’ve dealt with your stomach issues before, so you know the drill. I’ve already messaged the housekeeper to bring over some bone broth later. Rest up. I’ll check on you tomorrow.” The door clicked shut behind him. The System remained quiet for a long moment, processing the data. [When did he rot like this?] It sounded genuinely bewildered, its digital voice spiked with frustration. [Childhood sweethearts, shared struggles, mutual devotion… on paper, this was a guaranteed happy-ending trajectory. What happened while I was away at the central server? How did it become this disgusting?] Yes, how did we become this? There was a time when I believed our love was written into the very fabric of the universe. Years ago, when my health had deteriorated to the point where the hospital issued three consecutive critical condition notices, Jackie—a man who lived by logic and numbers—had walked up the steep, jagged stone steps of a mountain monastery in the dead of winter. He had knelt and bowed his head to the frozen earth at every single step, his forehead bleeding into the snow, praying for a miracle. And perhaps the universe had listened. Shortly after that, my illness began to recede. That was when the System first appeared in my consciousness. [Hello, Host! I’m a rookie system. This setup—the fragile, devoted heroine and the loyal, protective childhood friend—has the highest success rate in the database. I took this contract specifically to guarantee you a happy ending! Once his affection bar is completely full, you’ll receive permanent health and a beautiful life together.] The System had watched our love bar hit ninety-nine percent, declared me its most successful project, and returned to the mainframe to petition for my permanent rewards. It was gone for three years. And those three years were the best of my life. My health stabilized, his company grew from a cramped, two-room startup into a multi-million-dollar enterprise, and we naturally moved toward a shared future. Everyone in our circle called us the golden couple. I thought the story had reached its natural, quiet happily-ever-after. Until his company faced a hostile takeover. I began joining him at dinners, drinking to the point of nausea to secure investments, staying up until dawn revising his pitch decks. He began forgetting my birthdays, his mind consumed by the pressure. I comforted myself—and him. “It’s fine. Once the company goes public, we can breathe.” But on the morning of the IPO, when the bell rang on the exchange floor, the woman standing beside him, her hand tucked possessively into his elbow, was Mandy. Later, he told me she was there on behalf of her father, whose late-stage funding had saved the firm. “June, I know how much you’ve sacrificed,” he had said, brushing a stray hair from my face. “But we don’t need to perform our love for the cameras. You know what we have.” But from that day on, the boundaries began to dissolve. He still couldn’t remember my birthday, but he memorized Mandy’s allergy list. He would go three days without replying to my texts, citing back-to-back board meetings, but he managed to take her to the botanical gardens because she had mentioned feeling stressed. He refused to post photos of us on his public profiles, claiming it was unprofessional, yet his feed was filled with snapshots of her, captioned under the guise of “showing his mentor that she was being cared for.” I had wept. I had screamed. I had lost my dignity in quiet, midnight arguments. At first, he had held me, promising it was just professional obligation. But soon, his patience ran dry. “June, stop being so paranoid. Your parents are still in that private care facility, and those monthly bills aren’t small. Are you really going to throw everything we have away over a little jealousy? Who is going to cover those costs if you leave? Where else are you going to find a life like this?” I had survived in that silent, suffocating trap, watching the man who once bled for me give every ounce of his warmth to someone else. And then came the glass of Everclear. I lay in the hospital bed, the silence of the room pressing down on my chest. “I want to opt-out,” I told the System. “Delete me, or let me fade. I don’t care anymore.” [The female lead I selected, fading? Not on my watch.] [This is a mechanical failure on the male lead’s part. He’s defective.] [Give me a little time. I’ll find a way to dismantle him that doesn’t involve just frying his brain.] The System fell silent, but its words left a small, cold coal of resolve burning in my chest. At least I wasn’t going to die. For the past year, as Jackie’s attention drifted further away, I had quietly started preparing. I had saved money from my consulting work, setting aside enough to cover my parents’ care facility for the next six months and secure a small apartment of my own. The next morning, I checked myself out of the hospital, took a cab back to the villa, and prepared to pack my things. But when I opened the front door, I froze on the threshold. In the span of four days, the house had been stripped of its soul. The warm, honey-toned walls I had carefully selected were painted a cold, clinical gray. The colorful knit throws, the collection of small ceramic mugs we’d bought on trips, the plush velvet cushions—all of it was gone, replaced by minimalist, dark-gray decor. It was no longer a home. It was a showroom. Mandy rose from the deep leather sofa, wearing my silk pajamas—the ivory set with the delicate lace trim I had bought last year, the ones Jackie had laughed at, calling them too childish for his taste. Jackie rose right behind her, wearing the matching navy set. The set he had refused to touch. “June? You’re home?” Mandy walked toward me, her posture relaxed, carrying herself with the soft authority of a lady of the house. “Why didn’t you let Jackie know? He would have picked you up.” I swallowed the sudden, sharp metallic taste in my mouth, ignored her entirely, and walked toward the master bedroom. Jackie’s hand shot out, catching my wrist. “June, what is this? Why did you discharge yourself without telling me? Are you even recovered?” His touch felt cold, almost greasy against my skin. I pulled my arm back with a sharp jerk. “I have plenty of experience taking care of myself, Jackie. I didn’t want to interrupt your busy schedule.” “June, don’t do this,” he sighed, his voice dropping into that familiar, exhausted whine. “Mandy’s apartment had a plumbing leak, and she was terrified of staying in a hotel alone while she was sick. I let her stay here for a couple of days. I didn’t want to stress you out while you were in the clinic, so I planned to have her move back before you got out. I was trying to protect you.” “You don’t need to explain anything to me,” I said, my voice dead and flat as I reached for the bedroom door. “June, please don’t be cross with Jackie,” Mandy said, stepping up and lightly taking his arm, her fingers resting against his sleeve. “He only kept it from you because he cares. I’m just occupying the space for a little bit. And… well, I noticed the old decor was looking a bit dated. Since my degree is in design, I thought I’d give the living space a little face-lift. It looks much cleaner now, doesn’t it? I hope you’re not upset.” “Dated.” Every single piece of furniture, every frame on the wall, every rug had been selected by Jackie and me during the years we had nothing but a dream. This house was the physical manifestation of our survival. And he had let her throw it into a dumpster in a weekend. I took a slow, deep breath, forcing the trembling in my hands to stop. “Live here as long as you want. Change whatever you want. I don’t care.” “June!” Jackie’s voice cracked with sharp reprimand. “Stop with the passive-aggressive attitude. She was only trying to help.” “Passive-aggressive?” I turned to face him, my eyes steady. “If my indifference sounds like an attitude to you, Jackie, maybe it’s because your own conscience is keeping you awake.” I turned the brass knob of the master bedroom and pushed the door open. A thick, cloying wall of fragrance hit me instantly. Lilies. I am severely allergic to lily pollen. The heavy, sweet scent instantly locked my throat, my lungs seizing as my airway began to restrict. I slammed the door shut, stumbled back against the wall, and began to cough violently, my ribs aching as I struggled to draw breath. Jackie looked at me, a brief flash of discomfort crossing his face before it was replaced by irritation. “The mattress in the guest room was too firm for Mandy’s back, so I let her use the master bedroom. She’s been having terrible nightmares, and she finds the scent of fresh lilies soothing. I was going to have them removed before you came home, but you just showed up without warning…” He was blaming me for my own allergy. I stopped coughing, leaning against the cool wall, looking at him. His eyes, his hair, his mouth—they were the exact same features of the boy who had wept on the stone steps of a temple, swearing to the heavens that he would protect me from the world. But that boy was dead. The man standing in front of me was a hollow, rotting imitation. The last thread of my devotion snapped in the scent of those white flowers. “Jackie,” I said, my voice quiet, “we’re—” Before the word “done” could leave my mouth, Jackie let out a sharp, guttural groan. He doubled over, his hands slamming against his temples as his face drained of all color. The veins in his neck bulged, turning a dark, bruised purple as he fell to his knees on the carpet, panting in agony. “Jackie!” Mandy screamed, reaching down to grab his shoulders, but the moment her fingers brushed his shirt, he violently recoiled, screaming in pain. In the center of my mind, the System’s voice chimed, bright and clear. [This imposter really thought he could play the lead.] [I signed up for pure romance, not this trash. If he won’t look at you, he doesn’t need to look at anything else.]

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On our wedding day, Zavier took a wrong turn. He didn’t just miss a street; he navigated the entire sixteen-car bridal procession directly to his childhood sweetheart’s driveway. He even posted a selfie on Instagram, rubbing his temples with a sheepish grin. “Can’t believe I actually managed to get lost on my own wedding day. Facepalm.” The comments section exploded. Nobody stood up for me. Instead, they teased, “Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something,” or “Looks like destiny is still pulling the strings.” My mother sat beside me in the bridal suite, her face pale under her makeup, desperately trying to keep her voice steady. “Georgie, sweetheart, it’s just a wrong turn. He’s on his way. He’ll be here soon.” But this wasn’t the first time. Once, when we ran out of olive oil while cooking dinner, he went to the grocery store and somehow ended up parked outside Cassie’s apartment building. On our third anniversary, he disappeared to her house, leaving me standing outside the restaurant in the freezing November wind for five hours, waiting. When I had a sudden, violent fever and fainted in our hallway, he woke up to my panicked texts—and drove straight to Cassie’s place instead of mine. Every single time, he offered the exact same, weary excuse: “I’m sorry, Georgia. It was just muscle memory. My hands just turn the wheel that way.” I was tired of apologies. I wanted to be chosen. When Zavier’s name lit up my phone again, I let it ring out. Then, I reached up and slowly untangled the delicate pearl tiara and veil from my hair. This wrong turn was going to be his last. … My mother gripped the “Mother of the Bride” corsage in her hands, her knuckles white. Her eyes welled with tears, and she shook her head. “Georgie, no. You can’t just… this wedding is…” She choked up, turning her head to wipe her tears with the back of her hand. “You fought so hard for this. You’ve suffered so much for him.” “Suffered.” The word echoed in the quiet room. Zavier and I grew up together, neighbors in a sleepy suburban town. But back then, my love for him was a one-sided, suffocating weight. He threw away my hand-written letters, ignored my invitations, and practically ran when he saw me coming. In my messy, desperate twenties, I believed that love was synonymous with pain. I once locked myself in the bathroom and did something stupid, cutting my wrist, thinking that if I couldn’t have him, I didn’t want the life I was living. He had rushed to my house, drenched in sweat, crying as he held my bandaged hand, swearing he loved me, begging me never to do it again. My mother saw that desperate, ugly moment and assumed that our wedding today was the hard-earned happily-ever-after. But childhood history is nothing compared to the sudden, blinding flash of a new obsession. I called off the wedding. I sat in the back of a yellow cab, the biting winter wind rushing through the half-open window, making my head throb. Zavier’s name lit up my phone screen. I declined. He called back. I declined again. After several rounds, the screen finally went dark. When I got back to our apartment, I immediately began packing. The front door clicked open, and Zavier walked in. He looked tired, but beneath the fatigue was a sharp edge of irritation. “Why didn’t you wait for me to pick you up? What kind of game is this, Georgia? It’s our wedding day. Don’t you realize how important today was?” The barrage of accusations made my chest tighten. I didn’t answer. I kept folding the laundry on the balcony, moving through the motions of a life I was already leaving behind. He didn’t notice the suitcase open on the bedroom floor. Frustrated by my silence, he marched over and gripped my shoulders, forcing me to face him. “Georgia! I am talking to you!” I looked into his eyes. He hadn’t changed. He still had that same youthful, confident charm he possessed seven years ago. But the boy I loved felt miles away, a stranger wearing his skin. “The ceremony window is closed,” I said quietly. Zavier let out a long, relieved sigh. “Georgia, those ‘lucky hour’ windows are just superstitious nonsense. There was a massive bottleneck on the interstate on my way back. That’s why I was late. But you shouldn’t have canceled the whole thing.” I knew he was lying. The interstate was clear today. There was no traffic. When a man wants to be there, he moves mountains. When he doesn’t, he builds them out of excuses. He was only angry because I had embarrassed him. Before I could speak, his phone buzzed. The caller ID showed Cassie. He answered, and because the room was so quiet, her voice drifted through the receiver. “Zavier? I just checked the transit chart for today. Mercury is stationing retrograde, and honestly, the stars were totally misaligned for a wedding today.” “Maybe the universe was protecting you by sending you to my street. It was a sign to stop the wedding.” A faint smile played at the corner of Zavier’s mouth. But it was a sad, wistful sort of smile. After he hung up, he stopped arguing with me about the cancellation. “Look,” he said, his voice softening. “Let’s just put today behind us. We’ll pick another date. A better one.” My hand froze on a hanger. A hot, bitter anger flared in my chest. He spoke as if I were the one who had ruined the day, and he was the benevolent saint offering forgiveness. I said the lucky hour was superstition. Cassie blamed the stars, and suddenly it was a sacred sign. I was so tired of his double standards. My stomach growled loudly, breaking the heavy silence. I realized I hadn’t eaten since 3:00 AM when the makeup artist arrived. Eight hours of waiting on an empty stomach, wanting to look beautiful for him, only to be left standing while he took a detour to his past. I walked toward the kitchen, but Zavier spoke up before I could reach the fridge. “Don’t worry about making dinner for me. I already ate.” He didn’t just take a wrong turn. He stayed at Cassie’s house and had lunch. I let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. The last few years of my life felt like a massive, cruel joke. Suddenly, a warm rush of blood between my thighs signaled the arrival of my period. Within seconds, a fierce, white-hot cramp bloomed in my lower abdomen, forcing me to double over. Zavier was sitting right there in the living room, but I didn’t ask him to help. Whenever I got my period, his response was always the same mechanical script: “Drink some tea, get some rest.” Nothing more. I dragged myself to the hallway and pulled open the medicine cabinet. The Advil bottle was empty. Zavier’s voice drifted from the living room. “Did your period start? You need to eat something nourishing, or you’re going to crash.” I froze. Turning around slowly, I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. He was on the phone. With Cassie. So he “did” know that a woman needed actual care and nourishment during her period. He just reserved that knowledge for Cassie, while I got the default “drink some tea.” Zavier didn’t even look at my pale face. He grabbed his leather jacket and walked toward the door. “Georgia, I have to run out for a bit. Stay here and rest, okay?” The pain was so intense I could barely breathe. “Can you… can you please buy me a box of painkillers from the drugstore downstairs? Please.” He blinked, looking slightly surprised, then nodded. “Sure. I’ll be right back.” Forty minutes passed. The drugstore was less than a hundred yards away. I dialed his number, my hand trembling. “Where are you?” There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a guilty silence. “I’m so sorry, Georgia. I… I ended up outside Cassie’s building again. Muscle memory.” “But don’t worry! I’m ordering a courier to drop off the medicine. It’ll be there in a minute!” My hand went limp, and the phone slipped onto the sofa as he hung up. The pain finally pulled me into a dark, fitful sleep. When I woke up, the apartment was pitch black, and the medicine still hadn’t arrived. I checked my phone. There was a text from the delivery driver: “So sorry, I’m unfamiliar with this neighborhood. Got lost. On my way.” Outside, a storm was brewing. Wind rattled the windowpanes, and the sky looked bruised and heavy. Half an hour later, the delivery guy finally knocked. Holding the cheap plastic bag of painkillers, my chest felt hollow. Right on cue, Zavier called. “Georgia? Did the courier get there?” “Yeah.” “Good. I don’t know what took him so long, but at least you have it. Take the pills.” I couldn’t help the dry, humorless laugh that escaped my throat. “If you hadn’t taken your usual ‘wrong turn,’ I wouldn’t have had to wait two hours in agony.” A heavy silence stretched over the line. When Zavier spoke, his tone was defensive, tinged with a lecturing sigh. “Georgia, you have to learn to let things go. Stop living in the past.” “You got the medicine, didn’t you? That’s what matters.” I hung up. He told me to look forward, while he remained perpetually anchored at another woman’s doorstep, unable—or unwilling—to leave. After the pills kicked in, I opened Instagram. Cassie had posted a new photo. “Cramps are kicking my butt today, but so grateful for my favorite person.” The photo showed a man standing at her stove, stirring a pot of soup. He had his sleeves rolled up, revealing his forearm. I would recognize that arm anywhere. Two years ago, someone had thrown a heavy glass planter from a high-rise balcony. Zavier had shoved me out of the way, and a shard of shattered glass had sliced open his right forearm. The thick, jagged scar was unmistakable. I tapped on her profile and scrolled through her recent posts. There was one from three weeks ago: “We’re so in sync. We ran out of vinegar, and he showed up at my door with a bottle without me even asking.” Another from last month: “The olive tree he bought me. May we grow as strong and steady as its branches.” I stopped scrolling. The comments on her posts were filled with envious sighs. “Your boyfriend is literally perfect.” “I need to send this to my husband to show him what a real partner looks like.” Cassie hadn’t corrected any of them. She just replied with a playful wink emoji. Her apartment was filled with little touches of Zavier’s presence. It looked like a home they had built together, while our expensive rental felt like a cold, temporary waiting room. I believed in clean breaks. I dialed his number. The background was noisy—I could hear Cassie’s soft laughter and the clink of silverware. “Zavier, we’re done. Let’s break up.” He clearly didn’t hear me over the noise. “What was that? I’ll be home soon, Georgia. Be good.” The line went dead. I actually laughed out loud. Even as I was cutting the cord, he was still entirely convinced I was just throwing a tantrum, waiting for him to come home. I went back to packing. But as I cleared out the safe, I realized the family heirloom was missing—the antique sapphire ring my mother had passed down to Zavier as an engagement gift. If we were over, that ring belonged back with my family. I searched every drawer and cabinet, but came up empty. Frustrated, I called him again. The background noise quieted down as he stepped away to answer. “I told you, I’m on my way home,” Zavier snapped, his patience entirely gone. “Do you have to constantly blow up my phone?” “I know you’re mad about the wrong turn today. But I’ve lived near Cassie for years. It’s an old habit, and I can’t just unlearn it overnight.” “I promise you, this is the last time I’ll go to her place. Okay?” “I said I would marry you, and I will. Just stop acting like this. Stop calling.” He didn’t say the rest, but I knew what he meant. “Stop ruining my night with her.” “Okay,” I said quietly, and hung up. It was strange how love could evaporate. I didn’t feel like crying. I just felt incredibly bored of him. Eventually, I found the ring. It was tucked in a small velvet box in his locked desk drawer, polished and pristine. Next to it was a small sticky note in his handwriting: “The promise of forever.” I ripped the note into tiny pieces, put the velvet box into my bag, and took one last look at the apartment. It was beautiful, expensive, and entirely devoid of warmth. That night, back in my childhood bedroom, I slept better than I had in years. I didn’t have to lie awake wondering when he would come home. I didn’t have to count the hours of his “wrong turns.” We were both finally free. The next afternoon, I woke up to a text from Zavier. It was an address for the Ritz-Carlton. It was a far grander venue than the one we had booked for yesterday. “I booked a new date. Tell your mom. You’ll get the wedding of your dreams, Georgia. I promise I’m making this right.” I looked at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I started to type a rejection, then paused and deleted it. He had stood me up so many times. It was time he felt what it was like. I closed the message and dialed a different number. I was betting on one thing: that Zavier’s “muscle memory” would strike again on his way to the altar. The next morning, the makeup artist gave me a look that was striking and flawless. At 9:00 AM, my phone rang. It was Zavier. His voice held that familiar, exhausting note of sheepish regret. “Georgia, I’m so sorry. I… I took the wrong exit again. But I’m turning around right now. Please wait for me.” I listened to his breathy panic. This time, it sounded different. Usually, his apologies were breezy, confident that I would always be there. Today, there was a genuine tremor of fear in his voice. But it didn’t matter. I looked up at the clock. The ceremony was scheduled to start in ten minutes. He would never make it. “Don’t worry about it,” I said softly. “The groom is already here.” “What do you mean?” Zavier’s voice cracked. “What do you mean the groom is already here?” I didn’t answer. I just hung up. And I wasn’t lying. The groom was waiting for me. Declan O’Connor. Like Zavier, Declan had been in my life since we were kids. But while I had spent a decade chasing after Zavier’s shadow, Declan had spent those same years quietly standing behind me, catching me whenever I stumbled. He had loved me for as long as I had loved Zavier. The moment I canceled the wedding yesterday, Declan had called me. His voice had been thick with emotion, practically pleading for a chance. “We don’t have to get legally married right away,” he had said. “Just let me give you the wedding you deserve. Let me stand by you. We can figure the rest out later. Give me a chance to win your heart.” He offered me respect, time, and absolute freedom. So, I said yes. We booked the grand ballroom right next to the one Zavier had reserved. Only a single, soundproofed wall separated us. As the music started, Declan stood at the altar, holding a bouquet of white peonies. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he watched me walk down the aisle. When I reached him, he leaned down and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to my forehead. Looking into his tear-filled, dark eyes, a quiet warmth bloomed in my chest. “This” was what it felt like to be looked at with absolute devotion. Declan choked up during his vows, his voice cracking with an emotion so raw it made the guests tear up. I stepped closer, wrapping my arms around him and gently patting his back until he could breathe again. The ceremony was beautiful. But as we walked down the aisle as husband and wife, the double doors at the back of the ballroom burst open. Zavier stood in the doorway, breathless, his tie askew, looking wild-eyed and desperate. He didn’t even notice Declan standing beside me. He just leaned over, resting his hands on his knees as he panted, a look of immense relief washing over his face. “Thank God,” he gasped. “I made it. I’m here.”

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It was day ninety of William’s “radio silence” from the anti-poaching front lines in Kenya. I found him on a wilderness survival livestream. There were no bullets flying, no life-or-death struggles like he’d claimed. Just a crystal-clear feed of William pinning a highly venomous black mamba with one hand, his broad shoulders shielding a young female photographer with his body. “How many times do I have to tell you to stick to me? The predators out here don’t care if you’re just a girl.” The chat section was practically vibrating with heart-eyes. “The rugged captain and his little princess,” they wrote. But nobody in that chat knew that the tactical vest protecting her from the snake’s fangs was something I’d custom-ordered from a specialty manufacturer in Germany. And nobody knew that the day before he vanished, I was curled on our bathroom floor, semi-conscious from a ruptured stomach ulcer. When I managed to dial his number, he didn’t offer comfort. He offered a reprimand. “I’m staring down the barrels of poachers’ rifles every damn day, Chelsea! Can you please grow up and stop using every minor ache to ruin my focus?” Now, I sat alone in our quiet living room, watching him tenderly wipe a streak of mud from another woman’s cheek. Five years. Every single time I had begged to fly to Kenya to see him, he’d shut me down, claiming the area was a war zone and too dangerous for me. But the savannah hadn’t been keeping out danger. It had only been keeping out me. I calmly closed the livestream and booked a one-way ticket to Namibia. If his savannah belonged to someone else, then I’d go find my own cheetahs. … By the time my flight was booked, the livestream was still running in a minimized window on my laptop. The snake crisis had passed. A dusty ranger vehicle had pulled up, and William was carefully lifting a visibly shaken Piper into the passenger seat. I stared at the screen and dialed the number I hadn’t been able to reach for three months. Two seconds later, a satellite ringtone chimed through the stream’s audio feed. William froze. He reached into his tactical pocket and pulled out his phone. The second he saw my name on the caller ID, his brow furrowed into a tight, impatient knot. “William, who is it?” Piper murmured, leaning against his shoulder. “Just a telemarketer.” He hit decline without a second thought and powered the phone down. Turning back to Piper, his voice softened into that familiar, protective rumble. “Don’t worry about it. Your ankle is swelling fast. We need to get you back to the States for proper treatment.” “Beep. Beep. Beep.” I listened to the dial tone, my thumb quietly pressing the power button to lock my screen. “Just a telemarketer.” Four simple words, throwing five years of my devotion onto the pavement to be trampled. I let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh and walked over to the corner of the living room where several large, unopened cardboard boxes sat. Inside were heavy-duty malaria medications, snake antivenom serums, two sets of high-end Arc’teryx shells, and a military-grade night-vision monocular—supplies I’d spent three months pulling favors to source. I had planned to ship them to Kenya tomorrow morning. Clearly, he didn’t need them. I pulled some heavy-duty contractor bags from the kitchen drawer and began stuffing the gear inside, treating thousands of dollars of equipment like household trash. Once the bags were zipped, I shoved them into the entryway closet and didn’t look at them again. Three days later. With only a couple of days left before my flight to Namibia, the sight of those heavy bags in the closet was grating on my nerves. I pulled out my phone and booked an on-demand gear consignment pickup. Just as I hit confirm, the front door’s smart lock beeped. The door swung open. William—who had been entirely missing from my life for ninety days—stepped inside, his arm wrapped around Piper’s waist. The very same photographer he had shielded from the snake. Piper’s right leg was encased in a fresh orthopedic boot, her entire weight slumped against him. Our eyes met. William hesitated slightly at the threshold. There wasn’t a trace of guilt on his face—no acknowledgment of the three months of silence that had kept my stomach in knots. “There was an incident at the reserve a while back,” he said casually, as if he’d just stepped out to grab milk and forgot his keys. “Lost my comms gear. Didn’t have a way to get in touch.” A flimsy, throwaway explanation. He didn’t even wait for me to respond before assuming the matter was settled. His attention immediately snapped back to the girl in his arms, carefully guiding her toward the couch. “Chelsea, don’t just stand there. Go grab the folding wheelchair from the hall closet.” He didn’t look up as he ordered me around, completely ignoring the ninety-day void and the fact that he had hung up on me while I was bleeding internally from a ruptured ulcer. I leaned against the doorframe, a cold smile forming on my lips. “Her leg is broken, William. Are your hands broken too?” William paused, his head snapping up as his forehead creased. “I just walked through the door. Can we not do this right now?” “Piper fractured her ankle trying to get close-ups of a lion pride,” he continued, defensive. “The medical care out there is primitive, so I cleared some emergency leave to bring her back for proper treatment.” I watched them in silence. Piper tugged gently at William’s sleeve, her voice a fragile whisper. “William, please don’t let me come between you and Chelsea.” “It’s my fault,” she sobbed softly, looking up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. “If my drone hadn’t gone into the river, you wouldn’t have lost your satellite phone trying to retrieve it from the crocodiles. You wouldn’t have been out of touch for three months…” A sharp laugh escaped my throat. “Lost your satellite phone?” “The cellular infrastructure on the African savannah must be incredible these days. You didn’t have a satellite phone, yet you managed to stream yourself wrestling a black mamba live on the internet.” “What, did the snake come with built-in Wi-Fi?” William’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. His voice rose defensively. “That was an official charity broadcast! The snake was an emergency. I couldn’t just stand by and watch her get bitten!” “We are risking our lives out there every single day, Chelsea. You sit here in the central air, and all you can do is be petty about a broadcast?” As he spoke, he reached over the back of the sofa, grabbing the heavy cashmere throw and draping it over Piper’s lap. “She has chronic joint inflammation. She can’t handle the draft in this place.” I strode over and snatched the throw off Piper’s lap. It was a three-thousand-dollar piece of hand-spun Norwegian cashmere I’d imported through a friend. I barely let myself use it. “Chelsea, what the hell is wrong with you?” William barked, slamming his hands on his knees as he stood up. Without saying a word, I walked into the kitchen and stuffed the blanket deep into the trash can. Right on top of some oily, day-old takeout curry. The yellow grease instantly soaked into the delicate wool. “Are you out of your mind?!” William yelled, cornering me in the kitchen. I turned on the faucet and slowly rinsed my hands. “Someone else touched it. I find it dirty.” “It’s a damn blanket!” William’s finger was practically in my face. “Piper is a guest! She was injured doing conservation work!” “You always pretend to be so understanding, but you’re acting incredibly small-minded right now.” “If I’m too small-minded for you, take your VIP guest to a Hilton.” I grabbed a kitchen towel and dried my fingers. “This is my home. I don’t run a shelter for stray dogs.” I walked past him into the master bedroom, locking the door behind me. No matter how much he pounded on the wood or yelled my name, I didn’t give him a single word back. Two hours later, I was in the middle of packing my bags when I heard a commotion in the living room. I opened the door to find a group of William’s colleagues from the conservation foundation standing in our entryway. Piper was sitting in the wheelchair, handing out fresh fruit from a bowl. “Is Chelsea doing okay? She seemed a bit quiet when we came in,” one of the younger guys asked, looking around uncomfortably. William scoffed from the couch. “Don’t worry about her. She’s just throwing one of her tantrums. I’ve spoiled her too much.” Piper immediately jumped in, her voice dripping with sweet accommodation. “I’m sure Chelsea just isn’t used to the smell of the bush. We’ve been out there so long we probably smell like wild animals.” “Don’t be mad at her, William. City girls are delicate about cleanliness. I’m just used to rolling around in the dirt.” A chorus of chuckles went around the room. The guys started praising Piper for being tough, talking about how she and William had a “bond forged in fire.” I ignored the noise, walked past them, and pulled the front door wide open. Standing in the hallway was the gear consignment courier, pushing a heavy flatbed dolly. I pointed to the four contractor bags piled in the entryway closet. “Everything is in there. Go ahead and inventory it.” The courier unzipped the bags. Inside lay thousands of dollars of pristine, top-tier outdoor gear. The laughter in the living room died instantly. William bolted upright. That was the exact list of supplies he’d texted me before going dark—the equipment he’d begged me to source for his next rotation. “Chelsea, what do you think you’re doing?” William marched over, placing a heavy hand on one of the bags. “Selling scrap,” I said, my voice deadpan. “This is my deployment gear for next month! There is a limit to how far you can push a tantrum!” William lowered his voice, his teeth clenched as he hissed, “You’re trying to humiliate me in front of my team?” “If you need it, buy it yourself.” I brushed his hand off the nylon bag and turned to the courier. “The retail value of this lot is fifteen thousand dollars. The original receipts are in the boxes.” “Everything is completely unused. What’s your cash offer?” The courier looked between me and the hostile crowd in the living room, sweating under the tension. Piper piped up from her wheelchair, her eyes wide with concern. “Chelsea, I know you’re angry with William for bringing me here.” “But that gear is meant to keep him alive out there. You can’t play games with his safety over a personal grudge—” “Shut up,” I snapped, cutting her off cleanly. “Not only did I pay for that fifteen-thousand-dollar pile of gear with my own credit card, but I’ve personally funded every single piece of logistics and equipment he’s used for the last five years.” “Now that I’m stopping, suddenly I’m the one playing games with his safety?” The colleagues exchanged glances, shifting their weight from foot to foot. Nobody dared to make eye contact. They had always assumed William’s expensive gear was funded by foundation grants or his own pocket. The reality was a hard pill to swallow. William’s face went from pale to a dark, humiliated purple. He spat out, “It’s fifteen grand! Fine! I’ll Venmo you right now! Leave the gear!” He pulled out his phone. “Sure.” I opened my Venmo QR code and held it directly in front of his face. “But let’s do some math first. Besides the fifteen thousand for the gear, there’s the custom tactical vest you’re wearing—two thousand five hundred. The custom boots on your feet—one thousand eight hundred. And the specialized recovery supplements I had imported when you broke your ribs last year—four thousand.” I listed the items calmly, like a cashier reading back a receipt. “I’ll give you a discount. Just wire me fifty thousand dollars.” “The second the transfer clears, the gear is yours.” William froze, his thumb hovering over his screen. For years, I believed his stories about donating his entire salary to the conservation reserve. Until I saw the fifteen-thousand-dollar camera Piper was holding in the livestream, the limited-edition mountaineering boots on her feet, and the first-class international tickets William had booked for her without blinking. He didn’t lack money. He just preferred spending it on someone else. I laughed at the sheer embarrassment written across his face and tucked my phone away. I turned back to the courier. “Have you calculated the offer?” “Uh, ma’am… this is highly specialized gear, which makes it hard to liquidate quickly. The absolute best I can do on short notice is four thousand cash.” “Four thousand is fine. Transfer it.” Under the silent, stunned gazes of his entire team, I accepted the four-thousand-dollar transfer. I watched the courier load the bags onto the flatbed and wheel them into the elevator. As the metal doors slid shut, the apartment fell into a suffocating silence. “Chelsea, what the hell do you want from me?” William’s voice cracked, his eyes bloodshot with rage. Sensing the impending explosion, his colleagues began backing toward the exit. “Hey, William, man… we actually have some reports to file back at the office. We’re gonna take off.” Within ten seconds, they had slipped out the door, leaving the three of us alone. William pointed a trembling finger at the door. “Are you happy now? You made sure every guy on my crew thinks I’m some kind of leach! When did you become this malicious, Chelsea?” “If you don’t like the label, send me the fifty thousand.” I leaned back against the wall, watching him coolly. “Pay your debts, and your precious pride will be restored.” Piper’s tears began to flow again. “Chelsea, please… this is all my fault. Don’t squeeze William like this.” “I have savings. I’ll pay you back on his behalf…” Sobbing, she struggled to stand up from the wheelchair. But with her foot in a heavy plaster boot, she couldn’t find her balance. “Ah!” With a sharp gasp, she lost her footing and tumbled forward, crashing hard against the glass coffee table. A crystal water pitcher shattered on impact, sending shards flying across the hardwood floor. One of the larger fragments sliced cleanly across her calf, and bright red blood began to pool on the floor. “Piper!” William roared, diving forward to pull her into his arms. He whipped his head around, his eyes wild and dangerous as he glared at me. “If she scars from this, I swear to God, Chelsea, you’ll pay for it!” “Did I push her?” “If you hadn’t put on this ridiculous show of paying me back, would she have tried to stand?” William, as always, found a way to lay the world’s weight on my shoulders. Piper whimpered in his arms. “William… my ankle… I think the bone shifted again. It hurts so bad…” Panicking, William reached into his pockets for his car keys, only to realize they were in his dirty laundry from the flight. He marched toward me, extending an open palm. “Give me the keys to your Range Rover! Now! I need to get her to the ER!” “That’s my car,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “No.” “An innocent girl is bleeding! Do you have a single shred of humanity left in you?!” William lunged toward the console table, grabbing my leather handbag and dumping its contents onto the floor. “William, get your hands off my things!” I stepped forward to pull the bag from his grip. In the scuffle, William threw his arm back to shake me off. His elbow—solid, heavy, and hardened by years of tactical combat training—slammed directly into the right side of my lower abdomen. Right where my fresh surgical scar from the ruptured ulcer was still healing. An agonizing, white-hot pain exploded in my stomach. The air left my lungs in a strangled gasp. My knees buckled, and I hit the floor, unable to draw enough breath to scream. William stood over me, my car keys gripped in his fist. He paused for a fraction of a second, a flicker of panic crossing his eyes before hardening into familiar disgust. “Are you seriously going to fake an injury right now, Chelsea?” “A laparoscopic stomach procedure is minor surgery. You were discharged days ago.” “Clutching your stomach to compete with a girl who has a shattered ankle? You are pathetic.” Without another glance, he turned, scooped Piper into his arms, and ran out the door. “I’m staying at the hospital tonight. Don’t wait up.” The heavy oak door slammed shut behind them. I lay on the cold floor for nearly fifteen minutes before the blinding spasms in my abdomen began to subside. I pulled up my shirt to inspect the area. No blood, but a dark, angry purple bruise was already forming over the incision site. Slowly, I crawled to my phone and booked a ride to the nearest hospital. My flight was tomorrow morning. I needed to know if my body could survive a fifteen-hour journey across the Atlantic. By 9:00 PM, I had completed an emergency ultrasound at the clinic. The doctor confirmed it was just a severe soft-tissue contusion. Nothing had ruptured internally, though she wrote me a prescription for strong painkillers to manage the ache. As I walked down to the first-floor pharmacy to collect the medication, my path took me past the orthopedic emergency wing. Through the glass partition of a private curtained cubicle, I saw William. The man who had slammed his elbow into my fresh surgical wound and called me pathetic. He was on one knee. He held Piper’s foot with infinite gentleness, softly blowing on the shallow cut on her calf. “Does it still hurt? The doctor said the bone is fine, just some minor ligament strain.” “I’m just… I’m really scared, William.” “Don’t be. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” His voice had a tender, soft quality I hadn’t heard in years. Piper clutched his shirt, her eyes watery. “William… do you think Chelsea hates me? When I get discharged, she’s going to kick me out, isn’t she?” “Let her try,” William sneered, his expression darkening. “I put down a chunk of the deposit on that house. If she wants to act like a lunatic, I’ll pack our things and we’ll move out together. We don’t have to take her abuse.” I stood ten feet away, watching them through the glass. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel the urge to storm in and slap them. I didn’t even care enough to take out my phone to record them. For five years, I had learned to cook his favorite meals, bought premium life insurance policies to cover him in the wild, and spent countless sleepless nights terrified he’d be shot by poachers. And yet, five years of quiet devotion couldn’t compete with Piper’s practiced fragility. I turned and walked out of the hospital. The cool evening air hit my face, and for the first time in a long time, the heavy weight in my chest began to lift. It was nearly 11:00 PM when I got back to the apartment. I walked into the master bedroom, packed the final items into my silver suitcase, and sat down at my desk. I took out a sheet of paper and drafted a formal property division and relationship termination agreement. The terms were simple: I would retain the property, hire a real estate attorney to sell it at market value, and wire him the exact cash equivalent of his original down-payment contribution. I signed my name at the bottom. Then, I unclasped the cheap, tarnished silver necklace from around my neck—the one I had worn for five years. I laid the necklace and my spare set of house keys directly on top of the paper. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked to the front door. Before stepping out, I took one last look at the space I had spent half a decade building. The throw pillows I’d selected, the potted ferns on the balcony, the framed photos on the console table. It all looked incredibly hollow. I smiled to myself, opened the door, and walked out without looking back. The next morning at 8:00 AM, I stood at the international departures security gate. Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, planes were taxiing under the morning sun. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from William: “Piper needs to stay off her feet today. Simmer some bone broth and bring it to room 302 at the clinic.” “If you show a decent attitude, I’ll overlook the fact that you sold my gear.” I stared at the screen, a dry chuckle escaping me. I blocked his number, removed my SIM card, and turned the phone off completely. Over the PA system, a clear voice announced the boarding call: “Passengers boarding Flight 274 to Windhoek, Namibia, please proceed to Gate 12.” I handed my boarding pass to the gate agent. Let him have his high-stakes savannah romance with his little princess. I was going to the red desert to see my own cheetahs. Goodbye, William. For good.

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The third time Adeline burst in to catch me in bed with another woman, I didn’t panic. I didn’t scramble to pull on my clothes or desperately try to explain myself like I did the first two times. Simon Franklin, the lead counsel for the Davis Group, stood at the front of the room. “Mr. Max, this is the third instance of marital infidelity.” “According to the prenuptial agreement, you will leave with nothing—no assets, and you forfeit all custody rights to your daughter.” Adeline had long since lost her patience. Her eyes were filled with pure, cold hatred as she looked at me. She threw the divorce papers onto the table in front of me. “The first time, you claimed you didn’t even know the woman.” “The second time, you said you had no idea how you ended up in that hotel room.” “Three strikes, Wayne. What’s your excuse this time?” She expected me to spin another clumsy lie. But I said nothing. I just quietly picked up the pen, signed my name on the dotted line, and prepared to vanish from her life forever. I just wonder… why is it that now, when I have finally given her exactly what she wanted—leaving with absolutely nothing, not even demanding to see our daughter—she is the one who goes completely mad? … Simon snatched the signed papers away immediately. As if terrified I would change my mind, he turned to Adeline and said, “It’s done, Mrs. Davis. He signed.” Adeline stared at me, her brow furrowed tight. She probably didn’t expect me to sign so easily. The last two times, I had torn the papers to shreds, falling to my knees until they bled, weeping and begging her: “For Hazel’s sake, please believe me just this once!” I capped the pen and set it down on the desk. “I’ll pack my things and clear out as soon as possible. As for visitation rights—” “You don’t deserve to be a father,” she interrupted, her voice heavy and dark. “You are never to see her again.” I didn’t look up. I just let out a soft, dry laugh. “I was actually about to say… I don’t want visitation rights either.” Adeline’s coldness didn’t waver, but her eyes lingered on me a fraction longer. She couldn’t fathom my sudden compliance. For the past four years, she and Hazel had been my entire world. I used to feel a pang of jealousy and sorrow whenever Hazel called Simon “Uncle Simon” instead of calling out for me. To give her up so easily now… it didn’t make sense. “Trash,” she sneered, finally finding a rationalization for my behavior. “Willing to abandon your own flesh and blood for whatever cheap thrill you’ve got waiting outside.” “What was the point of all your schemes to get into my bed back then? What was the point of forcing me to have that child?” I listened to her words, but the desire to defend myself had completely withered. The first time she caught me in a hotel room with another woman, I had been utterly disoriented. I had begged and pleaded, insisting I would never betray her. But she was always convinced I was obsessed with her wealth. And because the woman in question had fled, leaving only a blurry silhouette on the hotel’s security footage, Adeline chose to believe me—partially. Even so, she took Hazel away from me. I was allowed to see my daughter only once a month, and I had to schedule it a week in advance through Simon. During those visits, Simon hovered over us like a warden. If I held Hazel a moment too long, I had to watch his scowling face. I had to clear every toy and dress I bought for Hazel with Simon first, otherwise they would never reach her hands. My mental state deteriorated rapidly, and then came the second affair. I had taken a small part-time consulting job just to keep my mind busy. On a business trip, I woke up in a hotel room, completely drugged and confused, with a woman draped over me. I called the police myself. But the medical report came back showing no signs of assault, and the evidence was stacked against me. Adeline assumed I had simply been caught before I could finish the deed. After that, I was stripped of my right to attend Hazel’s preschool events. Whenever the school called, Adeline sent Simon. She told me to stay home and “stop embarrassing the family.” Even when Hazel pointed a finger at me and called me a “bad, cheating man,” Adeline just stood there, silent. Now, the third time… I was tired of this sick game. I was ready to let them have each other. And yet, she had the nerve to ask why I was giving up my own child? Simon stepped closer to her, lowering his voice. “Adeline, even though the prenup says he forfeits custody… in all my years of practice, I’ve never seen a father give up his kid this quickly.” “Wayne probably planned this long ago. Traveling light makes it easier to run around with his mistresses. Let him go. There’s no point in arguing.” He looked up at me, a brief, smug glint in his eyes. I let out a quiet chuckle. He seemed to have forgotten… Four years ago, he was the one who drafted that absurd prenuptial agreement, down to the exact clause about “three strikes of infidelity.” Adeline’s expression grew even colder. “You’d better mean what you say. Don’t come crawling back, begging on your knees.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked out. I watched her back, the corners of my mouth twitching into a bitter smile. I won’t, Adeline. Years ago, when I was trying to convince myself that marrying you was the right choice despite our differences, I visited every church and spiritual guide, and every sign pointed to ruin. Then I traveled to a remote chapel in the Swiss Alps, spending a day and a night on my knees, praying until I found a passage that gave me hope: “Love bears all things, believes all things.” I thought it was a divine blessing. It turned out to be a curse. This time, my knees will never bend for you again. Simon looked at me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Well, Wayne, they say a night of passion is worth gold. We won’t keep you from your companion.” The door clicked shut, and the room fell silent once more. I looked down at the woman still fast asleep on the bed. A wave of deep disgust rose in my chest. I had woken up before her. I could have slipped away before they arrived to catch us. But I was just so tired of being the mouse in their cat-and-mouse game. I threw on my coat and walked out without looking back. The next evening, I went back to the estate to pack my things. When I opened the master bedroom, I found all my clothes and personal belongings completely gone. The housekeeper hovered in the doorway, unable to look me in the eye. “Mr. Max, your things… they were moved to the backyard storage shed. Mr. Franklin said… he said the master bedroom needs to be cleared out immediately for its new master.” I smiled faintly. Four years of marriage, and I wasn’t even allowed a decent departure. I walked out to the drafty storage shed in the backyard. Inside, cardboard boxes and plastic bags were piled high, haphazardly thrown together. I knelt on the dusty floor, digging through them one by one. The clothes didn’t matter. But I had to find my mother’s silver locket. It was a piece my grandmother had passed down to my mother, and my mother had given to me… The only thing in this entire place that actually belonged to me. Finally, I found it at the very bottom of a crushed box. I clutched it in my palm, letting out a long, shuddering breath. As I began pulling a few sweaters into a duffel bag, a small, shrill voice spoke from the doorway. “What are you doing?” I turned. Hazel stood there, her small frame blocking the exit. She looked so much like Adeline, but she had assumed the exact same haughty, arms-crossed posture as Simon. “Getting my things,” I said softly, returning to my packing. Usually, when I saw her, I would swallow my pride and shower her with hugs and kisses, even if she squirmed away in disgust. But this time, I felt nothing but a quiet, hollow stillness. “Those aren’t your things.” Seeing that I wasn’t pleading with her, she marched inside. She stomped her muddy shoe right onto one of my shirts scattered on the floor. “Uncle Simon said everything in this house belongs to Mommy. You’re not allowed to take anything.” My hands paused. “These are my personal belongings, Hazel.” “You bought them with Mommy’s money,” she said, putting her hands behind her back. “Mommy’s money belongs to the Davis family. Outsiders don’t get to take anything.” “Outsider.” I looked up at her. My four-year-old daughter was standing over me, looking at me as if I were a common thief. The coldness in her eyes was even sharper than her mother’s. “I’m only taking this,” I said, tightening my grip on the silver locket as I stood up. “The rest can stay.” “No!” She blocked the door, spreading her small arms wide. “You can’t steal from us!” “Hazel, step aside.” “I won’t!” she yelled. “You’re a thief! A dirty thief! Uncle Simon said once you leave, you’re never allowed back. Coming back makes you a robber!” A sharp throbbing started in my temples. “I’m telling you one last time, step aside.” “No! Give it to me!” She lunged forward, grabbing the velvet pouch containing the locket. I instinctively pulled back, but the cheap fabric tore. The silver locket slipped from my fingers, hitting the concrete floor with a sharp crack. I froze, staring at the shattered pieces of silver and glass. I remembered the day my mother had put it around my neck. She had said, “Wayne, this has been in our family for six generations. One day, you’ll pass it down to your own child…” It was the only piece of my history I had left. Six generations of love, shattered on a dirty concrete floor by my own daughter. Hazel stood back, muttering under her breath, “It’s your fault for not letting go…” My eyes burned as I stared at her. “Do you have any idea why your grandmother is in that care facility?” Hazel blinked, taking a step back. “I don’t have a grandmother. I only know about the money-wasting old lady…” The blood rushed to my ears, hot and deafening. “Uncle Simon said she lives in that fancy clinic using up Mommy’s money when she’s never going to get better anyway. She’s just a black hole for cash—” “Say that again.” My voice had dropped to a whisper. It sounded so hollow, so detached, I barely recognized it myself. Frightened by my expression, Hazel bit her lip but forced herself to sneer, “She’s just a money-wasting old lady, so what—ah!” I pushed her. Her foot caught on a box, and she fell backward, landing hard on her bottom. She sat there in shock for a second before letting out a piercing wail. “Mommy! Mommy!” I stood frozen, my hands trembling. Looking down at my screaming daughter, her words echoed in my head. “Money-wasting old lady.” That “money-wasting old lady” was my mother. Her grandmother. The woman who, despite barely recovering from major surgery, had spent weeks hand-knitting a baby blanket for Hazel’s first month. The woman who, every single year on Hazel’s birthday, would call from the rehabilitation center, asking the nurse to help her whisper, “Happy birthday, my sweet Hazel.” And my daughter called her a black hole for cash. A sharp piece of the broken silver sliced into my palm. The physical pain cleared my head. Adeline burst into the shed, seeing her daughter crying on the floor. She knelt down and gathered her into her arms. “Hazel, sweetie, what happened?” Hazel buried her face in Adeline’s neck, sobbing hysterically. “Mommy, he pushed me! Make him leave! I want Uncle Simon…” Adeline held her tight, looking up at me. Her eyes were filled with icy disgust. “Wayne, have you lost your mind? Putting your hands on a child!” “I didn’t hit her,” I said, my voice barely audible. “I only pushed her.” “Is there a difference?” I looked down at the broken locket in my bleeding hand. “Yes,” I said. “Hitting her would be a father trying to discipline his child. Pushing her was simply what she deserved.” Adeline stared at me, stunned. She looked down at Hazel. Hazel whimpered, her crying dying down to a sullen mutter. “But I was just telling the truth… Uncle Simon said that old lady is just wasting Mommy’s money…” Adeline rubbed her temples. “She’s a child, Wayne. Why are you picking a fight with a four-year-old?” She glanced at me coldly. “Simon manages our family accounts now. He was speaking from a purely financial perspective, and Hazel overheard him. Don’t blow this out of proportion.” “You have no idea how much stress he takes off my shoulders running this estate.” She looked at the broken silver locket in my hand. Perhaps sensing my genuine despair, her tone softened slightly. “I brought Hazel here today so we could talk. But… we shouldn’t mention the divorce to her yet. It’s not good for her development.” I didn’t say a word. Talk? About what? In four years of marriage, the total time she and Hazel spent speaking to me didn’t even equal half of the time she spent whispering with Simon. Back in college, she was the one who pursued me. She was the one who made me fall for her, step by step. She made me believe we had a future, even when everyone else said our worlds were too far apart. I had prayed, hoped, and fought so hard just to believe we stood a chance. Even without the unexpected pregnancy that forced our hands, I had been building up the courage to propose, to bridge the gap between her wealthy family and my modest one. Now, I was glad I never got the chance to say those words. My mother was still in the care facility, waiting for me to visit. Thinking of her, I grabbed my duffel bag and walked out of the shed. In the living room, Simon was kneeling in front of Hazel, softly comforting her. I walked past them without looking. Behind me, Hazel suddenly let out another loud sob. “Why is that bad man ignoring me!” She stomped her foot, furious and confused. She was so used to me running to her with tears in my eyes whenever she threw a tantrum, begging, “I’m sorry, sweetie, Daddy was wrong.” To be met with absolute indifference made her feel slighted. Adeline said nothing, but I could feel the heat of her glare on my back. I didn’t stop. Just as I reached for the front door, her voice exploded through the foyer. “Stop right there!” I paused. “Get over here and apologize to Hazel,” she commanded. “You pushed her, and you terrified her.” I stood still for a moment. Realizing this would likely be the last time I would ever have to deal with them, I decided to end the arguments. I walked back and knelt down in front of Hazel. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking into her eyes one last time. “Daddy shouldn’t have pushed you.” Hazel sniffled, and then, without warning, she spat directly at my face. The warm, wet saliva trickled down my cheek. “Dirty man,” she whispered in her sweet, high-pitched voice. “You deserve it.” Adeline watched, her expression completely detached. “You’ve been running around with other women. Even your own daughter can’t stand the sight of you.” I slowly raised my hand, wiping my cheek. I laughed. “Running around?” These setup affairs were so incredibly clumsy. Did she honestly not see the gaping holes in the stories? Or did she see them and simply choose to ignore them? If she wanted to believe it, let her. “For four years, Adeline, you and Simon have acted like a married couple in front of everyone.” “You practically let him raise my daughter. Tell me, who is the one crossing lines here?” “We’re getting divorced. Can we at least stop lying to ourselves?” Simon’s face went completely pale. His eyes welled with tears instantly. “Wayne, how can you accuse me of such a thing? Adeline, I…” “Wayne, it’s been four years! Have you not thrown enough tantrums?” Adeline’s gaze locked onto me, burning with rage. “Fine. Since you’re so convinced we’re dirty—” She marched over, grabbing my arm, and dragged me toward the bedroom. The moment the door slammed shut, she grabbed a silk scarf from the dresser, bound my wrists tightly, and shoved me to the floor. Then she turned, pulling Simon into her arms, holding him close. “Do you want me, Simon?” Simon gasped, but quickly wrapped his arms around her waist, whispering, “Adeline, I’ve waited so long for this…” They fell onto the bed, shedding their clothes in a frantic, desperate rush. I thrashed against the binding, my voice cracking as I forced the words out of my throat: “Adeline, we are getting a divorce! You can do whatever you want tomorrow! Why do you have to humiliate me like this right now?” She paused, her fingers wrapping tightly around my chin, forcing me to look at her. “Humiliate you? Wayne, do you honestly think you still have any dignity left to lose in my eyes?” “Adeline, don’t let him ruin the moment…” Simon wrapped himself around her from behind, breathing softly against her neck. She let go of my jaw, turning back into his embrace. I closed my eyes, silent tears slipping down my temples. Suddenly, my phone—which had fallen out of my pocket onto the carpet—began to vibrate violently. It was my mother’s number. I struggled against the silk binding, barely reaching the screen with my fingers to swipe answer. But it wasn’t my mother. It was a panicked nurse on the other end: “Mr. Max! You need to get to the clinic immediately! Your mother somehow found out about the divorce. She thinks she’s a burden to you… she’s climbed up to the roof—” “What?” “She said… “static”—” Before she could finish, the call cut out with a sharp screech of static. My heart stopped. “Adeline!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “My mother is in danger! Let me go, please, I’m begging you, let me go!” She glanced back at me, a cruel, mocking smile on her lips. “What’s the matter, Wayne? Didn’t you want to watch? Now you’re making up cheap stories to escape?” “I’m not making it up! The clinic just called! My mother knows we’re divorcing, she’s going to jump—” “Enough,” she said, sitting up. “We just signed the papers. How could she possibly know?” “And even if she did, you’re the one who told her, knowing she couldn’t take the stress. Who else is to blame?” She turned back to Simon. I thrashed against the silk scarf, screaming, “Adeline! I swear I didn’t tell her! Just let me go, there’s still time!” “She was hit by that truck saving you and Hazel! Please, don’t play with her life…” “Wayne!!!” Adeline’s voice was dripping with exhaustion and disgust. “Is your mother your permanent hostage? Every time you get caught cheating, you either use Hazel to beg for pity, or you throw your mother’s sacrifice in my face!” “I’m not lying—” Tears blinded my vision. “Please, this is real, I beg you…” Simon wrapped his arms around her waist. “Adeline, everyone knows his mother only jumped in front of that truck because she wanted to save her granddaughter. If it had just been you, she wouldn’t have lifted a finger. You’ve already paid for her medical bills all these years. You owe them nothing.” “Come on, don’t let him ruin this…” The last shred of hesitation in Adeline’s eyes vanished. Realizing she would never believe me, I scrambled toward the door, throwing my weight against it. My forehead slammed hard into the solid wood, splitting the skin. She marched over, grabbing me by my collar, and threw me back onto the carpet. “Wayne!” “You wanted to accuse us? Then you’re going to sit here and watch every single second of it.” She grabbed a roll of packing tape from the desk and sealed it over my mouth. Then she dragged me across the floor, shoving me into the dark walk-in closet. “Listen closely. Since you wanted to know what ‘dirty’ really sounds like!” The closet door slammed shut, and the lock clicked. The final sliver of light disappeared. In the suffocating darkness, I was forced to listen to the sounds of their betrayal. Over and over again The next afternoon, Adeline returned home from a business dinner. Standing in the quiet living room, she rubbed her temples, calling out out of habit: “Wayne, I have a headache. Make me some tea.” No one answered. She frowned, turning to the housekeeper. “Where is Wayne?” The housekeeper looked confused. “Ma’am, I was actually going to ask you the same thing.” “Hazel came down with a fever this morning, screaming for her father. It reached 102 degrees. And… the hospital called. They said Mr. Max’s mother jumped from the roof last night. Her body is at the morgue, but… nobody has come to claim her.” Adeline froze. “What did you say?” A sudden, cold dread gripped her throat. “Did… did you not let him out?” The housekeeper stared back blankly. “Let… let him out of where?” Adeline bolted up the stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs. She threw open the walk-in closet door—

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “533873”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I have always had a quiet, terrible gift: I can see the exact countdown of when someone is going to leave my life. Whenever I looked at the digital numbers floating above my wife’s head, I used to feel a profound, aching sense of relief. I believed I was one of the lucky ones—a man who had married the love of his life, safe in the knowledge that we had forever. Until last month, when she drove over to pick me up from work. I looked up as she pulled to the curb, and a stark, crimson font slashed through the evening gloom: [702 days, 14 hours, 22 minutes]. Less than two years. My heart contracted like a fist squeezing dry. In the weeks that followed, I became a man possessed, desperately searching for the leak in our lives, trying to understand what was draining our time. Then came the afternoon of the torrential storm. We were standing in the lobby of her office building when we ran into her new intern. He was soaked to the bone, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, but he was grinning like a boy without a care in the world. Camille handed him a packet of tissues. Her face was a mask of professional detachment; not a single muscle twitched. But in that exact millisecond, the red numbers above her head violently spun: [327 days, 4 hours, 47 minutes]. Over three hundred days vanished in the space of a single breath. And just like that, I knew. I had found my leak. … “You gave him the entire umbrella today,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the steady, rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers. Camille steered the SUV into our underground parking garage and shifted smoothly into Park. “Chase went all the way out to the suburban warehouse to reconcile the inventory for me today,” she said, pulling the key from the ignition without offering me so much as a glance. “You can’t get an Uber out there. He had to run over a mile in the pouring rain.” I unbuckled my seatbelt. The sharp metallic click felt incredibly loud in the cramped, silent cabin. “So you felt sorry for him.” Camille’s hand paused halfway to the door handle. She turned to face me, her brow furrowing with a familiar, low-simmering irritation. “Elliott, don’t twist my words. He’s my assistant. Since when is looking after my staff a crime?” Her tone was perfectly level, dismissive in its calm. I looked up at the space just above her head. There they were, the glowing red letters suspended in the dim air, invisible to everyone but me. [327 days, 4 hours, 30 minutes.] The steady, mocking pulse of the clock felt like a quiet insult to my silence. The only sound in the car was the soft, low hum of the air conditioning. “It isn’t,” I said softly, pushing my door open. The damp, frigid air rushed in to meet me. When we got upstairs, Camille kicked off her heels and went straight into the kitchen. She pulled a knob of ginger from the fridge, slicing it into thin, precise matchsticks, and set a pot of water to boil with dark brown sugar. Her movements were swift, practiced. Within minutes, the sweet, spicy aroma of ginger tea filled the apartment. I sat on the living room sofa, watching her silhouette against the warm kitchen light. My mind drifted back five years. In our second year of marriage, I had stood outside in a freezing downpour for three hours to secure a crucial distributor for her startup. That night, I came home shaking, my skin burning with a sudden, vicious fever. She had stood in that exact same kitchen, still wearing her damp work clothes, frantically brewing ginger tea. When she brought the mug to the bed, her eyes were bloodshot, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Elliott, please don’t ever do that to yourself again,” she had whispered, her voice cracking. “It hurts me too much to see you like this.” Now, she was in the same kitchen, but she wasn’t looking at me. She carefully funneled the steaming tea into a sleek insulated thermos, twisting the cap shut with a tight, satisfying click. Then she pulled out her phone and opened a courier app. Ten minutes later, the buzzer rang. A delivery driver stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his yellow slicker. Camille handed over the thermos, her voice laced with quiet urgency. “The address is in the app. Please hurry. It needs to get there while it’s still hot.” The driver nodded and disappeared back into the wet night. Camille closed the door and turned around, freezing when she caught me watching her. It was as if she had only just remembered I was in the room—and that I had been caught in the rain, too. “You were out in the storm,” I said, my throat feeling dry and coated in dust. “Don’t you want a cup?” “I barely got wet. Chase is the one who took the brunt of it.” She walked over to the island and poured herself a glass of filtered water. “He lives alone in some cramped studio. If he gets sick, there’s no one to take care of him, and he still has to turn in the quarterly projections tomorrow.” “You’re incredibly attentive to his needs.” Camille set her glass down, her expression instantly hardening. “Elliott, what is with the attitude tonight?” “He’s twenty-two,” she continued, her voice taking on that defensive, lecturing edge. “He just graduated. He has no family here, no safety net. It’s hard.” “When I was twenty-two and fresh out of school, I was pulling twelve-hour shifts on construction sites, eating cold takeout on upturned crates,” I said quietly. “Did you think my life was hard back then?” Camille frowned, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing her face. “That’s entirely different. We were young, we didn’t have anything, and everyone was struggling. Now that I’m in a position to help, why shouldn’t I extend a hand to a young kid who reminds me of where we started?” Above her head, the numbers violently flickered. [326 days, 12 hours, 10 minutes.] A single moment of friction, a minor disagreement, and the clock had stolen a few more hours of our future. I leaned back into the sofa cushions, feeling an exhaustion that reached straight into my bones. “Go ahead then,” I said. “Help him.” At eleven that night, the rain outside turned violent, thrashing against the bedroom windows. Camille emerged from the bathroom, her damp hair smelling of jasmine, wearing her silk slip. She sat at her vanity, turning on the blow dryer. A second later, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up. It was a text from Chase. “Chase: The tea was amazing, Camille. Thank you. But the ceiling in my living room just started pouring water. My landlord isn’t picking up and I honestly don’t know what to do.” Camille switched off the blow dryer immediately. She grabbed the phone, her thumbs flying across the screen. “Camille: How bad is it? Send me a video.” A moment later, a video clip popped up. Camille tapped it. Through the speaker, I heard the loud, rhythmic splat of leaking water and Chase’s pathetic, congested voice: “”My bed is already half-soaked. I don’t think I can sleep here tonight.”” Camille stood up, walking straight toward the closet. “Where are you going?” I asked. The words felt like sandpaper in my throat. “Chase’s ceiling is collapsing. I need to go check on him.” “It’s eleven-thirty at night,” I said, pointing to the digital thermometer on the bedside table. “It’s a torrential storm outside. And I have a fever of nearly a hundred and two.” Camille pulled on a beige trench coat, her movements fluid and entirely uninterrupted by my words. “I know, Elliott. But he’s a kid. He doesn’t know how to handle an emergency. If the water gets into the electrical wiring, it’s incredibly dangerous.” “You could call an emergency plumber for him. Or book him a hotel room.” “An emergency plumber isn’t going to show up at midnight in a flash flood, and he’s an entry-level intern—he doesn’t have the money for a last-minute hotel in the city.” She walked to the foyer, slipping into her loafers and grabbing her car keys. “Go to sleep, Elliott. I’ll be back as soon as this is sorted.” The heavy front door clicked shut behind her. And in that split second, the red numbers above her head took a massive, agonizing leap. [290 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes.] Thirty days gone. Just like that. I sat alone in the dim bedroom, listening to the thunder rattle the glass. I reached over to the nightstand, picked up the glass of water she had left there hours ago, and took a sip. It was ice-cold. “Okay,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’ll go to sleep.” By morning, my fever had spiked to 101.8. I dragged myself to the medicine cabinet, swallowing two Advil with a splash of tap water. The bedroom door pushed open, and Camille walked in, looking immaculate in a tailored cream suit. “You look pale,” she noted, setting her designer handbag down. “Fever,” I croaked. She walked over, brushed the back of her hand against my forehead, and pulled it away almost instantly. “You’re definitely burning up. Have you taken anything?” “Yeah.” “Good. I have to head into the office. We have an urgent executive meeting this morning.” She checked her watch, her mind already miles away. “I thought today was your day off,” I said, watching her back. “Something came up.” She didn’t elaborate. She just grabbed her bag and left. I stayed in bed until noon, my head throbbing with every heartbeat. When I finally opened my phone to order some food, I saw a red notification on Instagram. I tapped it. It was a post from Chase, uploaded five minutes prior. “Blessing in disguise. Officially moved into my new place! Endless thanks to the best boss in the world.” The photo showed a sun-drenched, chic living room. On the marble coffee table sat two cups of espresso and a box of pastel macarons. But it was the furniture that made my stomach turn. I knew that custom leather sofa. It was the mid-century piece Camille had bought for her private studio on Grand Street before we married—a place we had kept as our quiet getaway. I stared at the screen until the pixels blurred, a bitter taste rising in my throat. I dialed Camille’s number. It rang five times before she picked up. “Elliott? Are you okay? Still feeling sick?” In the background, I could hear the murmur of a slide presentation. “Did you let Chase move into the Grand Street condo?” The line went dead silent for two long seconds. “His apartment was completely ruined, Elliott. All his things were soaked. The Grand Street place was just sitting empty anyway. I let him crash there temporarily.” “Sitting empty,” I repeated, my voice dangerously quiet. “That condo holds every single oil painting and sketchbook my mother left behind when she died.” “I know that,” Camille said, her voice rising with a familiar, defensive impatience. “I told him specifically not to touch anything in the study. Elliott, please don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. He’s just staying there for a few days until he finds a new place.” “He posted about it on Instagram,” I said. “He’s twenty-two. He’s excited. Why shouldn’t he post? Look, I’m in the middle of a meeting. We’ll talk about this tonight.” She hung up. I got out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans and a coat, and ordered a cab to Grand Street. I rang the bell. The door opened to reveal Chase wearing a loose white tee, his hair damp from a shower. When he saw me, his smile didn’t falter; it simply morphed into something patronizingly sweet. “Hey, Elliott. What brings you by?” “I came to get some things,” I said, brushing past him. The living room was a disaster. His damp towels and socks were strewn across our custom leather sofa. Empty takeout boxes and energy drink cans littered the coffee table next to a PlayStation controller. I walked straight to the study and pushed the door open. My mother’s antique drafting table—which I had kept meticulously clean—was covered in grease-stained paper bags and half-empty boba cups. My mother’s final, unfinished landscape—the one she was working on when the cancer took her—was shoved carelessly under the desk. One corner of the linen canvas was smeared with a dark, oily smudge that smelled like cheap takeout. I knelt down, my fingers trembling as I pulled the frame out. The oil stain was dry and hard. “Oh, man, sorry about that,” Chase said, leaning casually against the doorframe with a glass of water in his hand. There was no real apology in his eyes. “I had to move a bunch of stuff in a hurry last night. Camille told me all of this was just old junk anyway, and that I could use the desk for my PC setup.” I stood up, holding the canvas tightly. “Did she really say that?” “She said it was just storage. No one using it. Said I should make myself comfortable.” He smiled, a subtle, venomous glint of triumph in his eyes. “Seriously, don’t be mad at Camille. It’s my fault. I’m just clumsy.” I pulled out my phone, snapped a photo of the stained canvas, and sent it to Camille. “Elliott: ‘Don’t touch anything in the study.’” She didn’t reply. I wrapped the painting carefully in a throw blanket and tucked it under my arm. As I reached the front door, Chase spoke up again. “Elliott? Camille is really amazing to me. I honestly don’t know how I’ll ever repay her.” I paused, my back to him. “You don’t have to,” I said. “Just enjoy the time you have left.” By the time I got back to our apartment, my fever had returned with a vengeance. I spent the evening at an urgent care clinic hooked to an IV, returning home past one in the morning. Camille was still awake, reviewing files at the kitchen island, a mug of warm milk sitting untouched beside her. When she heard the door lock turn, she looked up. “Where have you been?” “The clinic.” I tossed my discharge papers onto the entryway table and started kicking off my shoes. She walked over, glancing down at the paperwork. “Your fever hit 103? Why didn’t you call me?” “You were in meetings,” I said, walking toward the bedroom. “Elliott,” she called out, stopping me in my tracks. “Chase called me today. He said you went to the condo.” I turned around. “And?” “He was terrified. He said you looked furious, and that you took one of the paintings without saying a single word to him.” “He was terrified?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Good.” “It’s an old painting, Elliott. It has a tiny smudge. You can easily get it cleaned. Was it really necessary to go over there and bully a kid?” Her eyebrows knitted together in deep disapproval. “You’re usually so reasonable. Why are you suddenly being so incredibly petty over an intern?” I looked up at her. In the dim light of the hallway, the glowing red numbers above her head burned like a warning flare. [150 days, 6 hours, 20 minutes.] Another hundred days gone. Because I had upset her precious intern. “That wasn’t just an old painting,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “That was the last thing my mother ever painted. On our first anniversary, when you helped me hang it in that study, you told me we would protect her memory together.” Camille flinched. For a fraction of a second, her gaze flicked away, unable to meet mine. “I… I forgot,” she muttered. “Things have been so chaotic at work lately, I just wasn’t thinking.” She took a step toward me, reaching out to touch my arm. “I’m sorry. I’ll hire a professional restorer tomorrow to fix it. Just stop being mad at me, okay?” I took a step back, letting her hand fall through empty air. “Don’t worry about it.” We barely spoke for the next week. Friday was our seventh wedding anniversary. Six months ago, I had booked a table at “Le Rivage”, the high-end French restaurant overlooking the river. It was the place she had dreamed of going back when we were broke college students eating instant ramen. At five in the afternoon, as I was buttoning my suit jacket, my phone rang. “Elliott, I don’t think I can make it tonight,” Camille said, her voice frantic, drowned out by the background noise of a chaotic office. “Why?” “Chase made a massive error on one of our biggest accounts. The client is downstairs right now threatening to pull their entire portfolio. I have to stay and manage this.” “I put down a five-hundred-dollar non-refundable deposit for this table,” I said. “I know. I’ll Venmo you the money. Go ahead without me, or take a friend.” “Take a friend? To our wedding anniversary?” Silence stretched over the line. “Elliott, please. Try to understand the pressure I’m under. If Chase doesn’t survive this, his career is over before it even starts. He’ll be blacklisted from every agency in the city.” “Right,” I said. “I understand.” I hung up, took off my jacket, and hung it carefully back in the closet. At eight, I sat alone at our dining table, eating a bowl of plain pasta that had gone cold and sticky. A notification popped up on my phone. A charge of $3,800 on my supplementary credit card. The card was in Camille’s possession, but she rarely used it unless she was making a major personal purchase. I opened Instagram and searched Chase’s profile. A new post had been uploaded minutes ago. It was a shot of him from behind, slinging a brand-new designer leather briefcase over his shoulder. In the background was the floor-to-ceiling window of Camille’s corner office, overlooking the glowing city skyline. The caption read: “New armor, new beginnings. Endless gratitude to my mentor for helping me stand tall.” I tapped the heart icon to like the photo. Then I texted Camille: “Did you resolve the crisis?” A few minutes later, she replied: “Yes. Just managed to pacify the client.” “Elliott: Nice bag.” The bubble showing “Camille is typing…” appeared and disappeared for several long minutes. Finally, a text came through. “Camille: You saw that? Look, Chase’s old bag was completely falling apart. The client looked down on him the second he walked in, which is why they were so hostile in the first place. As his boss, I needed to make sure he looked the part. I’ll write it off as a department expense and transfer the money back to your account next month.” “Elliott: You used my personal credit card to pay for a department expense?” “Camille: The reimbursement process through corporate takes weeks. I’ll pay you back, I promise.” I stared at the glowing screen. Our seventh anniversary, and there was no “Happy Anniversary,” no “I love you.” Only an explanation of how she would reimburse me for a luxury gift she bought another man. I looked up at the dark ceiling. “Don’t bother,” I said to the quiet room. By the time November arrived, the city was locked in a bitter frost. In our small courtyard garden, my mother’s potted orchid was finally preparing to bloom. It was a rare, delicate breed she had cultivated, and I had spent seven years keeping it alive through every harsh winter. Camille knew what that plant meant to me. In past years, she had been the one to remind me to wrap the pot in insulating burlap before the first freeze. On Saturday, I was in the study finishing some emails when I heard the front door open. Two sets of footsteps entered the living room. “Just set that box on the coffee table. Is it too heavy?” Camille’s voice was soft, laced with a gentle concern I hadn’t heard directed at me in months. “Nah, I got it. I’m stronger than I look, boss,” Chase replied, chuckling. I opened the study door. Chase was standing in our living room, holding a heavy moving box. He offered me a bright, easy grin. “Hey, Elliott. Hope we’re not interrupting.” Camille stepped beside him. “We just came back to grab some project binders. We have a client pitch this afternoon.” “Fine,” I said, turning toward the kitchen to get a glass of water. “Oh, shoot—!” A sudden, sharp cry was followed by the loud, wet crash of shattering stoneware. I spun around. Chase was sprawled on the floor near the sliding glass door to the courtyard. My mother’s orchid lay in a ruined heap. The blue-and-white porcelain pot was shattered into dozens of jagged shards. Soil was scattered across the hardwood, and the delicate, pale green buds were crushed beneath the heavy fragments. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. I walked over, my knees trembling. “What did you do?” my voice shook, barely a whisper. Chase was clutching the back of his hand, where a small bead of blood was forming. “Elliott, I am so, so sorry. I just wanted to step out onto the balcony for some fresh air, and I didn’t see the pot in the doorway.” His eyes welled with tears, his voice cracking with performative terror. “I swear it was an accident.” Camille rushed past me, dropping to her knees and grabbing his hand. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding.” She tore several tissues from the box on the table, pressing them firmly against the tiny scratch, her face pale with panic. “It’s a deep cut. Come on, let’s get it washed out.” She guided Chase toward the bathroom, her heels grinding the loose soil into our rug, leaving a trail of dark, ruined footprints. Not once did she look down at the shattered orchid. I stood frozen before the pile of dirt. Seven years of care—the last living thing my mother had touched—reduced to waste on the floor. Camille emerged from the bathroom, holding a box of Band-Aids. “Honestly, Elliott, why would you leave a massive pot right in the middle of a high-traffic walkway?” she complained, unwrapping an adhesive strip for Chase. “He took a terrible fall. What if he had broken his wrist?” I slowly turned to look at her. Above her head, the red numbers were flashing violently, a blinding, blood-red blur. [10 days, 5 hours, 12 minutes.] For a tiny scratch on her intern’s hand, she had decided that our marriage had exactly ten days left. “That was my mother’s orchid,” I said quietly. Camille’s hands paused for a fraction of a second, her expression shifting into something uneasy. “I know. But the pot is already broken, Elliott, and a human being was actually hurt. That’s what matters right now. I’ll go to the nursery this weekend and buy you the exact same one.” “The exact same one.” I stared at her pretty, defensive face and felt a strange, cold urge to laugh. It was fascinating how easily people thought things could be replaced. A plant, a memory, a husband. “Elliott, please don’t be mad at Camille,” Chase said from behind her, looking at me with wide, innocent eyes. “It’s entirely my fault. Just tell me how much it cost and I’ll pay you back.” I didn’t answer him. I walked to the coat rack, pulled on my jacket, and grabbed my keys. “No need,” I said. I opened the door and walked out into the freezing wind. I spent the afternoon at a family law firm downtown, drafting a divorce petition. I asked for an even split of our liquid assets. She could keep the apartment. I wanted nothing else. I just wanted out. By eight that evening, I returned to the apartment. The place was quiet, the dirt swept away, leaving only a dark, damp stain on the hardwood floor where the wet soil had sat. I walked into the bedroom, pulled my suitcase from the closet, and packed a few changes of clothes and my laptop. I walked over to the vanity and slipped the divorce papers under her bottle of French perfume, leaving a black ink pen resting on top. I wheeled my suitcase to the front door, taking one last look at the home we had built over seven years. I pulled the door shut, heard the lock click into place, and walked away. An hour later, Camille returned home. She walked to the vanity to take off her makeup, her eyes catching the white document. When she read the words “Divorce Agreement”, she froze. Above her head, the countdown—which had dwindled to mere days—suddenly stopped dead. Then, the numbers began to spin backward at a dizzying, blinding speed, climbing higher and higher until they vanished entirely into the air.

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At our high school graduation after-party, we played a round of “Never Have I Ever.” The rules were simple: the winner could make anyone in the room do whatever they wanted. I smiled, taking the initiative to strike first. “I’ve watched the stars with Chris at three in the morning.” “He’s written me a hundred love letters.” “He skipped his AP Calculus exam to sit with me in the ER when my appendix flared up.” “He has a secret contact name for me on his phone.” One by one, everyone in the circle folded their fingers. Except for Ivy, the biological daughter who had been brought back to the Devon family just a month ago. Her fingers remained perfectly straight. 1. She looked around the room, her voice soft and deliberate. “Chris texts me goodnight, every single night.” I folded one finger. “He never tutors anyone, but he spent the last three months helping me prep for the SATs.” Another finger down. “I’m his only pinned contact on Messages.” “His lock screen is my birthday.” She smiled, throwing the final blow. “And he’s the one who suggested this game tonight, because he knew I’d win.” I looked at Chris. He was sitting in the center of the plush leather booth, watching her with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration. In three years, he had never looked at me like that. Not once. I lost. Completely and utterly. But the strangest part was, it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. The booth fell dead silent. A dozen pairs of eyes shifted to me, heavy with pity and awkward amusement. Everyone in our graduating class knew I’d spent three years trailing behind Chris like a loyal shadow. To them, I was just the desperate, unrequited tagalong who couldn’t take a hint. Chris and I were childhood sweethearts. I had loved him for as long as I could remember. During our freshman year, we finally crossed the line. He kissed my forehead in the empty equipment shed behind the track field, smelling of cut grass and ozone. He told me, “I don’t want a relationship distracting us from our goals. At school, we should just be normal classmates.” I agreed. So, for three years, we became ghosts in each other’s public lives. I willingly played the role of the devoted, silent partner, convinced that if I was just patient enough, quiet enough, his brilliant, guarded heart would eventually belong to me entirely. It wasn’t until tonight that I realized it had all been a solitary delusion. Ivy won the game, her eyes sparkling as she turned to Chris. “Chris, will you drive me home tonight? I’m afraid of the dark.” Chris sat back, his long fingers casually spinning his lighter on the table. He didn’t even look in my direction as he grabbed his jacket. “Sure. Let’s go.” He agreed without a second thought. Someone in the corner, sensing the suffocating awkwardness, tried to clear the air. “Hey, Chris, what about Grace? She lives with you guys. Can’t she ride shotgun?” Chris paused, his hand on the door. He turned, his gaze finally landing on me. Those dark, deep eyes were entirely indifferent. “The car’s full. Just grab an Uber, Grace. You’ve always been the tough one anyway.” His tone was flat, like he was delegating a minor chore. Then, he opened the door for Ivy, guiding her out with a protective hand on her lower back. I sat there, staring at the closed door. This act of retreating, of being left behind, was something I had experienced dozens of times over the past month. Chris’s favoritism was loud and clear. I had confronted him about it once, my voice trembling with hurt. He had only frowned, looking down at me from his height. “You occupied her room, her life, for eighteen years, Grace. I’m just giving her what she missed out on. Why are you being so selfish?” With a single sentence, he had nailed me to a cross of guilt. I picked up my purse and slipped out of the venue. The humid summer breeze did nothing to cool my skin, but it cleared my head. The Uber pulled up to the gates of the Devon estate. I pushed open the front door to find the foyer dark. The kitchen island was cluttered with the greasy remains of a late-night takeout order—boxes from the high-end bistro downtown that Mr. and Mrs. Devon had shared with Ivy. No one had left a light on for me. No one had texted to ask if I’d made it home safely. I bypassed the mess and walked up to my small bedroom. Just as I shut the door, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Chris. “Ivy is asleep. Did you get back?” “The game was just to make her feel welcome. Don’t be petty.” “Make sure you lock in your Columbia enrollment tomorrow.” Looking at the glowing text on the screen, my heart didn’t even stutter. It was entirely still. I typed out a single word. “Okay.” I switched my phone to silent and flipped it face down on the desk. Lying in the dark, watching the shadows of the tree branches dance across the ceiling, tears finally slid hot and silent down my temples. “Chris, the promise of going to the same college… I can’t keep it anymore.” 2. The next morning, I sat at my desk and logged into the university admissions portal. My eyes fell on the first-choice box, where “Columbia University” was written in bold. Columbia. It was Chris’s dream, and for three years, it had been my cage. Chris was brilliant, always ranking first in our grade. To ensure I could stand beside him, I had nearly killed myself studying. I had stayed up until three in the morning memorizing formulas, anxious to the point of nosebleeds before every major exam. Whenever I felt like collapsing, Chris would just flip a page of his textbook and say indifferently, “I don’t do long-distance, Grace. You have to get in.” He never offered actual encouragement. He simply demanded that I keep up with his pace, and I, pathetically, took it as proof of his love. My phone buzzed on the wood desk. “I don’t have time to review your enrollment details today,” Chris’s text read. “Ivy wanted to go to the pier, so I’m taking her. Just commit to Columbia like we planned. Don’t mess it up.” His tone was so natural, as if he were a manager issuing directives to an assistant. I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened Instagram. At the top of my feed was Ivy’s post from five minutes ago. “Thank you to my favorite person for the perfect day at the pier!” The photo was a selfie on the Ferris wheel. In the corner of the frame, a masculine hand was holding out a waffle cone of ice cream. On that wrist was the designer watch I had saved up for a year to buy Chris for his birthday. At the time, he had barely glanced at it, offering a lukewarm, “It’s fine.” I scrolled past the photo without feeling a thing, leaving a polite like on the post. Then, I put down my phone and gripped the mouse. The cursor hovered over “Columbia University.” Without a shred of hesitation, I clicked “Decline.” As the screen cleared, a rush of memories flooded my mind—all the quiet humiliations of the last three years. I had stopped eating spicy food because he disliked it. I had ignored him in the school hallways to keep our secret. I took a deep breath and typed a different name into the search bar: “University of Miami.” It was two thousand miles away. Warm, coastal, and entirely devoid of both the Devons and Chris. The portal prompted: “Are you sure you want to commit to this university? Once submitted, this action cannot be undone.” I hit enter. “Enrollment Confirmed.” The green banner flashed on the screen, locking the page. I let out a long, shuddering breath. The heavy, suffocating weight that had pressed on my chest for three years seemed to dissolve into the morning air. Almost instantly, my screen lit up with another message from Chris. “Did you lock in Columbia? Send me the screenshot.” I looked at the message, a faint, mocking smile touching my lips. As it turned out, cutting ties wasn’t nearly as hard as I had feared. 3. At dusk, the rumble of an engine echoed from the driveway. Before long, the quiet house was filled with laughter. Mr. and Mrs. Devon had returned with Ivy, their arms laden with glossy shopping bags from Saks and Chanel. I stepped out of my room just as they were piling the haul onto the coffee table. When Mrs. Devon saw me, her laughter caught in her throat. For a second, she looked as if she had forgotten I lived there. She reached into her designer bag, looking slightly uncomfortable, and pulled out a credit card, holding it out to me. “Grace, we had such a long day shopping for Ivy’s college wardrobe that we didn’t get a chance to pick out anything for you. Take this and buy yourself some nice things. You’re starting college soon; you need a new look.” Ivy sat on the sofa, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear to intentionally reveal a glittering diamond necklace. She gave me a sweet, syrupy smile. “Grace, look at this. Chris stood in line for hours today to get it for me. Isn’t it gorgeous?” I stared at the necklace. It was the exact piece Chris had promised me as a graduation gift. He had told me, with his usual casual detachment, that we would go pick it out together after finals. He hadn’t forgotten. He had just decided it belonged to someone else. I pulled my gaze away and took the card from Mrs. Devon. “Thank you, Mom.” Mrs. Devon blinked, clearly surprised by my easy compliance. A flicker of guilt passed through her eyes, but I didn’t give her the chance to speak. I turned and walked back to my room. Once the door was shut, I pulled my old duffel bag from under the bed. I opened the closet and began sorting through the expensive clothes, designer bags, and jewelry the Devons had bought me over the years. I folded them neatly and placed them in the deepest corners of the shelves. I didn’t belong in this house, and I wasn’t taking their charity with me. My duffel bag was filled only with a few worn-out shirts, my favorite paperbacks, and a small silver locket my biological mother had left me. Halfway through packing, my phone lit up. “We’re getting sushi tomorrow at noon,” Chris texted. “Wear that white sundress I got you.” It was the same demanding, controlling tone he always used. I tapped out a quick response. “I can’t make it. You guys go ahead.” A few minutes passed before he replied. “Grace, don’t start. I took Ivy out today because she was feeling overwhelmed. If you’re upset, I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” Faced with his transactional affection, I couldn’t even summon the energy to explain. “I’m not mad. I just don’t want to go.” I put the phone on silent and ignored the subsequent buzzes. I pulled out a notebook and began itemizing every cent of allowance and tuition the Devons had spent on me over the last eight years. Then, I transferred all the money I had saved from my part-time jobs onto the credit card Mrs. Devon had handed me. Soon, I would be entirely free. 4. For the next two weeks, I worked double shifts at a local cafe, determined to leave nothing owed. When the day of our class graduation send-off party arrived, Mrs. Devon practically forced me out the door. The family had rented a grand ballroom at a five-star hotel downtown to celebrate the graduates. When I pushed open the double doors of the ballroom, the room was buzzing with music and laughter. Chris was standing near the center table, looking striking in a tailored white shirt, his posture cool and aristocratic. Ivy sat beside him in a magnificent emerald silk dress, looking every bit the cherished daughter. They looked perfect together. Hearing the door open, Chris looked up. When his eyes fell on my faded vintage tee and worn jeans, his brow furrowed in immediate irritation. But he kept his composure, picking up a glass of champagne and walking toward me with slow, confident strides. The surrounding classmates offered knowing looks, stepping aside to clear a path for him. Chris stopped in front of me, his eyes carrying that familiar, smug certainty that I would always crawl back. To him, my two-week silence was just another tantrum. “You’ve had your fun for two weeks,” he said, his voice low. “It’s time to stop.” I looked at his handsome, indifferent face and felt a sudden urge to laugh. “Stop what?” Chris stiffened, caught off guard. His frown deepened, his voice dropping an octave. “Grace, I’m giving you an easy way out here. Don’t push your luck.” Ivy appeared at his side, wrapping her arm tightly around his. She looked at me with mock sympathy. “Grace, Chris is just looking out for your future. Columbia is incredibly competitive. You’ll really struggle there without his help.” I didn’t even look at her. I walked straight past them toward Mrs. Devon, placing the credit card on the white tablecloth before her. “Mom, everything you’ve spent on me over the last eight years—tuition, clothing, living expenses, with interest—is on this card. The PIN is six zeros.” Mrs. Devon froze. Chris, who had followed me, went completely rigid. Before he could demand an explanation, the school principal tapped the microphone on the stage, the feedback echoing through the speakers. “Parents, teachers, and graduates, may I have your attention, please!” The room fell quiet. “Tonight, along with celebrating Ivy Devon’s bright future, I have the immense honor of announcing two major achievements from our graduating class!” The principal pointed proudly to the large projector screen behind him. “First, our very own Chris, who graduated in the top percentile of the state, has officially committed to Columbia University!” The room erupted into applause. Chris offered a polite, practiced nod, maintaining his effortless golden-boy persona. The principal raised his hands to quiet the crowd, his smile widening. “And second, let’s congratulate Grace Devon, who has officially committed to the University of Miami!” The projector screen flashed, displaying the official confirmation letter from the admissions portal. The words “University of Miami” glowed in bright, coastal orange and green. The applause died instantly. The ballroom fell into a suffocating, dead silence. Every head in the room turned back and forth between me and Chris. The smug composure on Chris’s face shattered. He stared at the screen, his eyes wide with utter shock and disbelief.

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