Category: English

After my daughter was brutalized by her classmates, I posted a statement online: “I do not intend to press charges, nor will I seek compensation. My child needs to go to school, and life needs to go on.” The entire internet turned on me. What kind of man, what kind of father, was so spineless? So weak? I didn’t deserve to be a dad, they said. But while they were busy insulting me, I had already resigned from my job, sold our house, and divorced my wife, leaving her with everything. Then, I started waking up at 5 a.m. to run. To lift. To practice at the shooting range. The word father isn’t something you say. It’s something you do. 1 I stood outside the emergency room, unable to accept that the person on that gurney—unconscious, covered in wounds—was my daughter. Her skin was a canvas of angry red welts and deep bruises. The doctor told me the lacerations would leave scars she would carry for the rest of her life. Looking at her, a knife twisted in my gut. It had happened because she hadn’t said hello to the right girl in the hallway. For that, she was dragged into a bathroom and beaten by a pack of them. Now, my daughter, Lily, was lying in an ER, her condition uncertain. And the girls who did this to her were down the hall, giggling with each other. They peeked out from behind their parents, sticking their tongues out at us. “Mister, you can’t blame us,” one of them chirped, the ringleader. “Your daughter should have said hi to me. Don’t worry, I won’t touch her at school anymore. But after school… no promises.” Their expressions were light, casual. Not a flicker of remorse. Even the police officer standing nearby couldn’t take it. “Ma’am, sir, could you please control your children? Don’t provoke the victim’s family.” I watched as those parents wrapped their arms around their daughters, their faces etched with protective concern. Their daughters were precious. Was mine just born to be broken? Seeing the rage building in my eyes, the school principal stepped in, his brow furrowed. “Please, calm down. We didn’t want this to happen any more than you did. But the girls know they were wrong, and their parents have agreed to cover all the medical expenses. Isn’t that enough? Let’s not blow this out of proportion.” I stared at him in disbelief. Were those words actually coming out of a grown man’s mouth? An educator? My daughter is brutalized, and when I demand justice, I’m the one blowing things out of proportion. “Why are you looking at me like that? Am I wrong?” he pressed. “They’ve apologized. What more do you want? Do you need to ruin their lives to be happy? Can’t you think about the bigger picture here?” The bigger picture? It was the sickest joke I’d heard in my entire life. Then, a man dripping in gold jewelry—a thick chain, a gaudy watch—spoke to me with a dismissive smirk. “Look, buddy, I get it. You’re just trying to squeeze a little extra cash out of this, right? Cut the act. How much do you want to make this go away?” He was the father of the ringleader. “I have plenty of money,” he continued, “but if you want it, you have to make a public statement. You have to say your daughter’s injuries were from a fall. That my kid had nothing to do with it.” When I didn’t answer, his face hardened. “Hey. Don’t push your luck. I’m giving you an easy way out. You should take it. Because I have a thousand ways to make sure you can never make a living in this town again.” There’s an old saying: the kindest people are the ones who get taken advantage of the most. What he didn’t know was that the last person who spoke to me like that has been dead for a very long time. 2 When Lily woke up, she curled into a ball under the hospital blanket and refused to come out. Seeing her small body trembling made my heart ache. It was only when she heard my voice that she finally responded, slowly peeking her head out. Her small face was a mask of terror. She scrambled out of the sheets and threw herself into my arms. “Daddy, Mommy, I’m so scared,” she sobbed. “They all hurt me. I don’t want to go back to school. I’m so, so scared.” I raised my hand to stroke her hair, but my eyes caught the angry red lines on her back, and the pain in my chest sharpened. This was my little girl, who would cry in my arms over a paper cut. I couldn’t imagine the desperation she must have felt during that hour of torture. “Daddy,” she whispered into my shirt, “you always say you only get punished when you do something wrong. What did I do wrong? I just… I wasn’t wearing my glasses, so I didn’t see her.” I held her tighter, stroking her head. “You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. Nothing. They are the ones who are wrong.” I pulled back to look her in the eyes. “And I promise you, Daddy will make sure that the people who did wrong will pay for it.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Really, Daddy?” I nodded, my voice firm. “Really.” My wife, Sarah, sat beside us, wrapping her arms around Lily, her expression a mixture of heartbreak and helpless rage. After we finally managed to get Lily to fall asleep, I drove to the police station. The officer’s words sent my heart plummeting back into that dark pit. It turned out the ringleader, Madison, had a long history of this. Her parents were both high-powered attorneys. They had used their connections to get their daughter a falsified psychiatric diagnosis—some kind of intermittent explosive disorder—which had helped her escape legal consequences more than once. “What kind of bullshit is that?” I demanded. “She gets a free pass to be a monster just because she’s a minor? A fake diagnosis makes her untouchable?” The officer let out a heavy sigh, his gaze full of sympathy. “I’m sorry, man. Our hands are tied. The best we can do is push for a bigger settlement. If they bother your daughter again, call us immediately.” So that was it. Who knew how many other kids would have to suffer at her hands? Just then, my phone buzzed. A new message. I opened it and my blood ran cold. It was a video of Lily being beaten. 3 In the video, Lily was gasping for air as several girls held her down. Her face was already swelling, turning purple and blue as she cried helplessly. “You guys are hitting her too hard,” a voice said off-camera, laughing. “You knocked her tooth out! How’s she gonna look pretty now?” Madison then pointed the camera directly at Lily’s face for a close-up before pulling out a large pair of scissors and hacking at her hair. The video ended with the girls turning the camera on themselves. They each had a foot planted on Lily’s back, and they were all smiling, flipping off the camera with their middle fingers. Beside me, Sarah choked back a sob, her tears falling onto my hand. Her own hands were trembling, unable to watch another second. “Those animals,” she whispered, her voice shaking with rage. “I’ll kill them. I’ll burn my life to the ground to get justice for Lily.” She was completely falling apart. But my heart… my heart had become unnervingly calm. When we got home, I walked straight to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and dumped every single pill I owned into the toilet. A fake psychiatric diagnosis lets you do whatever you want without consequences? Is that how it works? Fine. Let’s see what happens when a real one stops taking his medicine. Because when the madness comes, even I can’t control myself. 4 This was my secret. No one knew except for Sarah. As a kid, I was a victim of bullying, too. It was relentless, and it broke something inside me. It gave me a gift: a severe bipolar disorder with psychotic features. The first time I snapped, I stabbed every one of my tormentors with a pencil. The second time, I cut a rabid dog that bit me into pieces. The third time, I killed a neighbor who tried to assault me. After that, I was sent away. I spent ten years in a state psychiatric hospital before I was deemed stable enough for release. The condition of that release was a lifetime of medication. Even I, a man with a genuine, violent mental illness, understood the necessity of medicine. I knew I had a responsibility to control myself, to keep society safe from what I was capable of. But Madison, with her sham diagnosis, was using the shield of mental illness as a weapon to terrorize the weak. If the sane world and its rules couldn’t give my daughter justice, then it was time for me to return to the world of the insane. 5 I gathered all our important documents and drove Sarah to the courthouse. She was silent the entire way, her hand just holding mine tightly. I signed everything away. The house, the savings, all of it. Full custody of Lily went to her. The clerk handling the uncontested divorce had never seen anything like it. She kept looking from me to Sarah with suspicion, trying to talk us out of it, but finally, she just stamped the papers. As we left, Sarah stopped me. “Whatever you’re going to do, I support you. Just one thing. Don’t hurt yourself. Lily and I still need you.” Fifteen years we’d been together. She was, and always would be, my rock. Back at our half-empty house, Lily limped over to me with a glass of water. The scabs on her face were still healing. I pulled her into a hug, my heart aching. “Lily-bug,” I said softly. “I’ve already arranged for you to take a break from school. How about you and Mommy go visit Grandma and Grandpa for a while?” She looked down, ashamed. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I caused so much trouble. It’s okay, I can go back to class. I’ll just… I’ll hide from them.” She said it was okay, but I could see the profound terror in her eyes. After I promised her again and again that everything would be all right, she finally, cautiously, nodded. At the train station, just before they boarded, Lily, wearing a hat and a mask to hide her face, turned back one last time. “Daddy, you’ll come get us soon, right? Me and Mommy are going to miss you so much.” Watching their train pull away, I took a deep breath. Don’t worry, Lily. The bad people will get what they deserve. Daddy promises. 6 That day, I posted a picture of my signed divorce papers and the agreement giving Sarah all our assets on my Facebook page. The caption was simple: Starting today, I’m back to being me. The news hit my circle of friends and family like a bomb. Messages flooded in. Why? Why the divorce? I had a sweet daughter, a loving wife. I was the one all my friends envied. Amid the dozens of messages of concern, one notification stood out: a series of celebratory fireworks emojis sent by Madison’s parents. Then, a new private message from Madison herself. Hey Mister. Heard you got kicked out. Did your wife finally dump you? How’s life on the streets? Hope you find a new wife and have a healthy daughter soon. Oh, and by the way, make sure I never see your daughter again. My… condition… might flare up. I can’t control myself, you know. Attached was a photo. A small, white rabbit, its fur shaved off, its body covered in cuts and bruises. Lily’s favorite animal was a rabbit. I suppressed the surge of rage and posted a second image: a copy of my official diagnosis for severe bipolar disorder, stamped with the red seal of a well-known psychiatric hospital. My first day off my meds, I wrote. Suddenly feeling the urge to kill someone. And one last detail. Forgot to mention, the hospital that issued this is the same one that diagnosed Madison King. Same doctor, too. As expected, Madison’s father appeared in the comments. Falsifying a medical document is a felony, you know. Are you trying to threaten us by pretending to be crazy? I ignored him. I stuck to my new routine. A six-mile run every morning. Weight training. Marksmanship drills. Fighting practice. I stopped talking about the bullying incident entirely. It was as if it had never happened. The other parents were ecstatic. They thought they had won. Life was back to normal for them. I was at the range, emptying my last magazine, when the police called. They wanted me to come in and sign the settlement agreement. I refused. I didn’t want their money. And I damn sure didn’t want a settlement. The officer pleaded with me for a long time, but finally gave up and started calling the other parents to inform them. The moment they heard I’d rejected the deal, they exploded. “We already agreed to pay! What more does he want?” “He’s just trying to extort more money! Fine, now he gets nothing! Let’s see how long he can hold out!” Lily’s homeroom teacher called to blame me for making things difficult. “If you continue this unreasonable behavior, we’ll have no choice but to expel your daughter. We can’t have our school’s reputation damaged by this.” “You can’t be so selfish. No wonder your daughter has problems. She has no sense of community spirit. How will she ever fit in?” “Do you have any idea how long the principal yelled at me today? If you want to blackmail these families for more money, fine, but don’t drag me into it! My performance review is this year! If this messes it up, I’m holding you responsible!” “And besides,” he added, his voice dripping with disdain, “it was just a little fight. Does she have to be so dramatic?” I hung up, unwilling to listen to another word. After hearing I wouldn’t settle, Madison’s father began calling me nonstop. “I’m a lawyer! I have connections you can’t even imagine! You think I can’t find out every dirty little secret about you with one phone call? I’ll have you crucified online!” I knew he probably could. But what did it matter anymore? I blocked his number. In their sprawling mansion, Madison’s parents sat on a velvet sofa, staring at the red exclamation point on their screen. Furious, Madison’s father picked up his phone and dialed a number. “I want everything you can find on Lily’s parents. Everything.” A short while later, his phone rang. “Mr. King, we found it.” “Ethan’s parents filed for divorce seven days ago. The father, Ethan, voluntarily gave up all marital assets. He also quit his job the next day. For the past week, his routine has been the same: morning runs with a weighted vest, and afternoons at a shooting range.” The voice on the other end hesitated. “There’s more, sir. This man… Ethan… he previously killed three people. He spent ten years in a state psychiatric hospital.” “Divorce? Quit his job? Shooting range? Psychiatric…?” Mr. King’s hand went limp. The glass of water he was holding slipped and shattered on the marble floor. “He… he’s really mentally ill?”

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Six years later, I reunited with my ex, Alex. It happened outside a Dairy Queen. I was squatting by the door, trying to beat the heat, when I saw him rushing by. I grabbed his arm. “Buy one get one free Blizzard. Wanna split?” He lowered his phone, his gaze sweeping over the “Couple’s Special” banner. “Oh,” I said, realizing. “So, back together?” Alex narrowed his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. “Sure. But let’s keep it low-key.” “I’m keeping a canary in a gilded cage recently. She gets jealous easily.” I froze. He turned around. “By the way, pack the ice cream to go. She loves it.” 1 Before I could react, the cashier had already packed two Blizzards with a beaming smile. “You two look great together! Wishing you a lifetime of happiness!” Alex showed no emotion. He took his share and walked away. His Rolls-Royce was parked by the curb. It was scorching hot. I squatted by the entrance of a fruit shop to steal some AC, licking my melting ice cream. Before he left, he looked at me with a half-smile. “Girlfriend, need a ride?” I glanced at his passenger seat. Pink cushions, cute plushies. Marked territory. Every inch of it screaming ownership. “No thanks,” I said slowly. “My place is close…” Before I could finish, he sped off, leaving me in a cloud of dust. “Hey, don’t block the door!” “Ah, sorry.” My legs were numb from squatting. I stood up too fast, and the Blizzard slipped from my hand, splattering onto the pavement. Damn. What a waste. I traded a boyfriend for this? I smacked my lips in disappointment and turned to walk home. My rental apartment was simple and clean. I quietly took down an old photo from the wall. High school sweethearts. The boy in the photo had eyes curved in laughter, a brilliant smile, holding the girl’s hand like it was a treasure. In contrast, the girl was expressionless, cold. I stared at it for a moment, then threw it in the trash. Tsk. I looked so miserable back then. No wonder he dumped me. “Meow.” The stray calico I picked up rubbed against my leg. I opened a can of wet food for it. Buy one get three free at the supermarket yesterday. Being poor makes you stingy. Missing a deal feels like physical pain. I kinda regretted not asking for a breakup fee back then. Just then, a strange number called. I picked up. It was Alex. His voice was still cold. “We’re back together, aren’t we? Add me back on WeChat.” “Don’t you know calling is a hassle?” I mumbled an “Oh.” Before I could say anything else, a girl’s spoiled voice came through the line. “Mr. Shen, I’m hungry…” He hung up immediately. Beep. Beep. Beep. Actually, the “back together” thing was a joke… I wanted to tell him to forget it. But remembering the voice on the other end, I couldn’t bring myself to call back. I searched for his WeChat ID. Account deleted. Phone number, disconnected. I lay on my bed, clutching my phone. Alex forgot. He was the one who deleted me six years ago. 2 I remembered his old number and added him. He accepted quickly but didn’t say a word for a long time. I quietly scrolled through the six years he was gone. His feed was silent, monotonous. Until last year. A girl in a red dress appeared, full of life, reminding me of him from before. From that day on, Alex posted more. His smiles weren’t as radiant as before, but they were filled with a quiet happiness. I was dazed. Halfway through scrolling, the screen went blank. He must have remembered. He blocked me. I slowly finished my instant noodles. Thrown the phone aside, wrapped myself in the quilt. Sleepless all night. For the next few days, we both acted like nothing happened. I prepped lessons, went to school, fed the cat. A two-point line. He was busy with his company, international negotiations. Occasionally, I saw him on TV. Alex Shen, the new tech tycoon, rising alone, swallowing company after company. My friend, Linda, sometimes brought groceries to visit. We’d sit on the sofa, eating watermelon and watching the news. His success made many socialites restless, throwing olive branches his way. “Mr. Shen, you’ve rejected all marriage proposals. May I ask why?” a bold reporter asked. Alex narrowed his eyes, composed and distant. Yet, a flicker of tenderness passed through his eyes. “I have a girlfriend.” Everyone guessed it was the girl in the mansion. Only Linda poked me, asking hesitantly. “You just said you got back together. Is he going to marry you?” “After all, his pursuit of you back then was legendary. The whole school knew.” I stared at the polite, cold man on the screen. I shook my head. I knocked on her head. “Idiot. Who gets a girlfriend over an ice cream?” Alex didn’t care about me at all. “I know, but he’s the Alex who loved you the most in the world!” She counted on her fingers. “Skipping class together, claw machines, first kiss.” “Every time you gave him a look, the icy school god would come wagging his tail.” The memories felt distant. “By the way, tell me the truth. Did you really cheat on him?” I hummed, shaking my head honestly. Linda fell silent, changing the subject. “It’s okay. Don’t be sad. We don’t need men.” I looked up, speaking slowly. “I was fine to begin with.” She choked, put on an apron, and went to cook. “Tsk. Knew you were heartless. Come help.” I thought things would continue as usual. Until one night, he texted me first. [Dinner tomorrow night?] [I’ll wait downstairs.] I saw the message after my shower. Right. Since the breakup six years ago. Maybe I got old and lazy. I stayed in this small apartment where we once lived together. I stared for a while before remembering to refuse. [No, I’m busy tomorrow.] His reply was brief. [I’ll wait three minutes.] Indifferent, distant, impatient. I remembered. He wasn’t the Alex who followed my every whim anymore. But I really didn’t want to eat this meal. I thought for a moment, typing. [Ah, sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just rare for ice cream to be on sale, and it was so hot…] [I only knew you on the street. Dragging a stranger to split the bill is weird. At least we used to date…] [Let’s just break up. Good for you, good for me, good for everyone.] The more I typed, the messier it got. I deleted everything. Sent one sentence. [That day I said getting back together was a joke. Sorry.] I waited with my phone for a while. He didn’t reply. I sighed. Those lingering feelings from six years ago… let’s just let them go. 3 I didn’t take it seriously. He probably couldn’t be bothered and blacklisted me again. But when I came back from class in the afternoon. I ran into Alex right at the gate. He leaned lazily against his car, attracting a crowd of girls. “It’s Alex Shen! He’s so handsome!” “Yeah, the top scorer from eight years ago!” Alex stared blankly at the sycamore trees on campus. I quietly tried to walk around him, but he called out. “Xu Mo.” “Long time no see. So you’ve been teaching at River City High all this time.” River City High was our alma mater. Teasing flashed in his eyes. “What? Nostalgic? Can’t let go?” I gave a dumb “Ah.” “Yeah, I can’t let go. They offered double the salary.” Alex’s face darkened. “Heh. You love money as much as ever.” He couldn’t read my expression. He opened the car door and got in. “Get in.” I said slowly. “I really don’t want to go…” Alex rolled down the window coolly. “Seafood boil is 50% off today.” I whispered without confidence. “Can we get takeout?” He looked like he was going to laugh from anger. “Whatever.” I hopped into the back seat. He changed cars today. A Porsche Cayenne. Looked rarely driven. No pink decorations in the passenger seat. Alex drove quietly. I leaned against the window, both of us silent. Honestly, I didn’t understand why he came. I said it was a joke. He didn’t seem like the type to pester. He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. Then he irritably pulled out a cigarette. My eyes flickered. I opened my mouth. He held the cigarette pack and accidentally hit a button. A cutesy, spoiled female voice rang out. “Dear Mr. Shen, are you in a bad mood again?” “Don’t smoke, okay? I’ll sing you a song.” “Two tigers, two tigers, run fast…” I froze. He froze too. He put the cigarette back instinctively. A smile rippled in his eyes, terrifyingly warm. Leaving me truly restless. We arrived quickly. A seafood stall by the sea. Alex went to order. I leaned on the railing, enjoying the breeze. A drunk fat guy walked up and put his hand on my shoulder. “Yo, beauty. Where’s your boyfriend?” I quietly pushed his hand away and moved further. He persisted. In the struggle, I met Alex’s gaze not far away. He watched quietly. Until some college guys stepped in to stop it. Alex slowly walked over. Maybe they knew him. The drunk sobered up instantly. “Mr. Shen, is she your woman? I just…” He smiled and patted the fat guy’s shoulder. “You bullying her has nothing to do with me.” I stared at him. He shrugged, eyes full of coldness. “What? I said we’re back together. I didn’t say I’d be good to you.” With that. Alex took the seafood and beer and walked away. 4 He leaned back in the wicker chair. I stood, refusing to sit. “Eat something first. The takeout bag won’t fit it all.” I finally felt something was weird and asked quietly. “Mr. Shen, did you see the message?” He looked at me calmly, speaking casually. “What message? I don’t have the leisure to stare at your chat box all day.” I still didn’t move. He got impatient. “Are you eating or not?” I looked down. These were my favorites. I was hungry. I reached out and tasted a skewer. The spice made tears flow instantly. “Cough, cough.” “Not good?” He scrutinized me brazenly. “Oh, I forgot. This is my preferred taste.” “I used to always accommodate your preference for mild broth. How about you compromise this time?” I stayed silent, rinsing it in my water cup. Still spicy. But besides that, fresh, tender meat. He squinted at me for a while, then raised his hand for the waiter. “Another round of everything on the table. Non-spicy.” He paused. “And a strawberry mousse.” I took out a wet wipe and said slowly. “No need. I want to go home.” Alex raised an eyebrow. “What? Feeling wronged already?” Actually, it was okay. Just the spice burning my stomach slowly reached my heart. Uncomfortable. Wanted to go home immediately. Too lazy to even pack leftovers. He stood up too, pushing the plates away. Lazily said, “Let’s go then. I’ll drive you.” I opened my mouth. Guessing my refusal, he added. “It’s ten miles to the city.” “You have no sense of direction. Want to walk until dawn?” Alex naturally took my hand. I struggled uncomfortably. As always, he gripped tighter. I couldn’t break free, so I gave up. Before leaving. I took out my phone to take a picture, wanting to share the hidden gem with Linda. Alex, who was spacing out, suddenly reached out. Slapped my phone away. “Don’t take pictures!” His voice was loud, attracting attention. Everyone looked over. He said coldly, “If she sees the photo, I have ways to ruin you.” I froze. It took a moment to react. The phone hit the ground. Screen shattered. I bent down to pick it up, wiping off the dust. Pity. It was a new phone. I said slowly. “I didn’t want to take a photo with you. Or post it online.” “I just thought the food was good and wanted to come back with a friend.” Alex’s eyes flashed with guilt, then turned cold again. He pursed his lips. “I’ll buy you a new one.” “Yours was old anyway. Last year’s model.” I shook my head silently. “No. There’s no reason for you to buy me things.” “I’ll call a friend to pick me up. Mr. Shen, help yourself.” Alex narrowed his eyes, sneering as he grabbed my wrist. “No reason? Didn’t you beg me to get back together?” I realized belatedly and let out an “Ah.” I held up my phone. “Didn’t you read the message I sent? I was really just joking.” “What are you talking about?” He frowned, opening his phone. My messages were set to “Do Not Disturb.” Who did it was obvious. I apologized. “Sorry. I just wanted to split the bill. If I caused a misunderstanding, I’m really sorry…” “Xu Mo!” He interrupted me with a dark face. Almost gritting his teeth. “So, it was just for an ice cream?” I blinked blankly. “Yeah.” “…Fine. Xu Mo. Good job.” He laughed coldly. Kicked the tree next to him hard. Sycamore leaves fell like rain. Covering me. “Do you know? Every time I see that indifferent look on your face, I want to strangle you.” He seemed to finally lose his temper. “Who else would want a patient with emotional detachment disorder like you, except me?” “Don’t regret it.” Alex left coldly. I stood there. Passersby looked at me strangely, whispering. “So she’s emotionally detached. Can’t love.” “Poor boyfriend. Putting up with a selfish, cold partner. No wonder he’s mad.” “Please, can these people not date and ruin others’ lives? Go to a mental hospital…” I lowered my head. Alex was angry again. The breakup six years ago was still vivid. He was angry and pleading then too. “Xu Mo, why do you never say you love me!” “Say it! Why am I always the proactive one? Why do you always seem not to care about me!” “Did you want to break up long ago?” He smashed his fist on the table. Loud and hoarse. People everywhere. Glass cut his hand, staining it red. His eyes were red too. I was truly scared stupid. I didn’t know how to respond. Seeing him like that, I was terrified. Childhood memories flooded back. I covered my ears and screamed. “Then let’s break up.” With that sentence, everything finally returned to calm. But later, even though I took a lot of medicine, it didn’t work. When I went to find him again, he had a new lover. Someone who knew how to love him. It started drizzling. I lied. No one was coming to pick me up. I quietly knocked on the clinic next door. “Doctor, can emotional detachment be cured?” A man in a white coat was leaning against the door. He glanced at me and drawled. “Find me and it’s guaranteed. Just learn three sentences from me.” I widened my eyes. He coughed. “First sentence: I love you.” Me: “???” I looked closely at the man. Pale skin, tall and slender, hands in his coat pockets. Cold features, but eyes bright as stars. Shiny and gentle. I was dazed. Too beautiful. I was afraid I walked into a host club…

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They dragged me into their nightmare, the fake princess and her court, and left me to be savaged by the wolves. They thought I was just another victim. What they didn’t know is that in this kingdom of monsters, I am the true heir. And when the monsters saw I had returned, my real family went wild. The Scarlet Matron, her nurse’s uniform crisp and white: “My sweet girl, who did this to you? Tell Auntie. Auntie will make it right.” The hulking Butcher, wiping his cleaver on his apron: “Point them out. Uncle will make you a present of their limbs.” The little Ghost Child, her eyes wide and black: “People are so scary, big sister. Should I turn them into dolls for you?” And then, the final boss, my father: “Anyone who harmed my daughter… not a single one leaves.” What can I say? It’s good to be the favorite. It feels… exhilarating. 1 The floor was a slick paste of rotted meat. The air, thick and metallic with the stench of blood. Down the long, dark corridor, the only light came from the sickly green glow of the emergency lamps on the wall. It was all so familiar. I looked away from the scene and focused on the woman standing before me. The player chat flickering in the corner of my vision filled me in. It was Serena, the family’s golden girl, the one who’d taken my place, who had dragged me into this hell. She stood with her arms crossed, looking down at me as if from a great height. “Did you hear me, my dear sister?” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “If you want to live, you do exactly as I say from now on.” A few of her cronies chimed in. “This isn’t a game, newbie. You screw up, you die.” “Just listen to Serena. She’s your sister, after all. We’ll even try to look out for you.” “Hey! She’s talking to you! What are you, deaf or just stupid? Answer her!” A hard shove sent me stumbling. I fell to the floor, my hand instinctively going to my ankle. I forced my body to tremble. Their laughter echoed in the corridor. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Scared already? You haven’t seen anything yet.” “How is this weakling supposed to do us any good?” “Serena, maybe we should test her. If she’s useless, we ditch her now. Better than having her drag us down later.” Serena’s chin was high, her expression imperious. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger toward a heavy, locked door at the end of the hall. “They have a point. This is for your own good, Alice. You have to prove you’re worth keeping around. Now go. Open that door.” The chat feed exploded. 【Newbie’s screwed. The Scarlet Matron’s ward on the first run? Talk about bad luck.】 【Blame Serena. That’s a bitch move, sending a level-one player in first.】 【The Matron hates having her routine disturbed. That new girl is too pretty to die like this. Don’t do it! The second you open that door, she’ll split you in two!】 【Go for it! I love watching the Matron work. A true artist.】 【Look at the newbie, she’s shaking so hard she can barely stand.】 … Serena kicked my leg. “Alice, get moving!” “Still think you’re Daddy’s little princess? In here, you’re nothing!” “The clue we need is in that room. Now open the goddamn door!” With all eyes on me, I slowly, deliberately, pushed myself to my feet. I kept my head down, letting the tremors run through me. It wasn’t fear. It was a thrill, a tremor of homecoming. I walked toward the door, which pulsed with a strange, crimson mist. I raised my hand. And I knocked. “Auntie Rose? It’s me. I’m home.” 2 The corridor fell deathly silent. Serena and her crew tensed, weapons ready. The chat feed went haywire. 【LMAO! Did she just KNOCK? Is this newbie insane?!】 【Shame. Such a pretty face, about to be split in half.】 【She must have snapped from the fear. Poor thing.】 Then, the red mist swirled and dissipated. The office door creaked open just a crack. Two long, unnaturally pale hands shot out, yanking me inside with impossible speed. The Scarlet Matron’s mouth, painted a gruesome, bloody red, stretched into a horrifyingly wide grin. A shriek tore through the air, a sound of pure, loving rage. “My sweet girl! What in the nine hells are you doing here?!” “We sent you away! We got you out!” “Dammit all! After all our work to get you to safety, who brought you back?!” She cradled my face in her cold hands. “You just tell Auntie who it was. I’ll carve them into eight perfect little pieces for you. A little welcome home snack.” The chat was a waterfall of question marks. 【?】 【??】 【Wait, what is happening?!】 3 It seemed even the all-knowing player base was in the dark. I wasn’t just a player. I was a product of this place. My father is the final boss of this entire twisted reality. It took him thousands of years to find a loophole in the game’s code, a glitch that allowed for my creation. Serena thought she had pulled the real Alice Walker into the game. But the real Alice was long dead. She had taken her own life months ago. I was the entity that found her empty body, a perfect vessel. Once I had settled in, my father and all my aunts and uncles—the monsters of this realm—pooled their power to push me out, to give me a life in the world beyond the screen. I’d only had a few weeks of sun and quiet. I never expected Serena, stewing in her hatred for the sister she’d tormented, would use a high-level summoning card to drag “me” back. All that effort, wasted. Getting me out of here had been a massive undertaking, the collective hope of every creature in this dimension. No wonder Auntie Rose was so furious. Looking at her screaming face, I reached up and gently pushed her gaping mouth closed. “I can see your tonsils, Auntie Rose. It’s hardly elegant.” Her lips snapped shut into a serene, if terrifying, smile. Through clenched teeth, she hissed, “Explain. Now.” The chat was listening in. 【What is going on?! Auntie Rose, you’ve changed! You weren’t like this on my playthrough!】 【Where’s your scythe? Why haven’t you killed her?!】 【My brain is broken. I have never, ever seen anything like this.】 【Is she using some kind of item? A ‘Monster Affinity’ charm?】 I wondered if any of the other players had an item that let them read private conversations. Best to be careful. I just shook my head, keeping it vague. “See that girl out there with the short hair? She did it.” It was a nonsense sentence to the players, but Auntie Rose understood perfectly. “Her? Did she hurt you?” Her cold gaze flickered down to my ankle. “Your foot is injured.” A roll of bandages and a vial of painkiller appeared in her hand. The bandages looked like they’d been soaked in old blood, but I knew it for what it was: a gesture of pure affection. A noise came from the hallway. Serena’s voice, faint but clear. “You go first. I’ll cover you from behind.” “Hurry up!” Auntie Rose gave me a look. A promise. “Don’t you worry, sweet girl. Auntie’s got your back.” I gave her my sweetest smile. “Thanks, Auntie Rose.” 4 With that, Auntie Rose picked up her massive crimson scythe and glided gracefully toward the door. She smoothed the front of her pristine white dress. The moment the door was pushed open and the first person stepped through, she swung the scythe in a high, elegant arc. In a flash, the player was cleaved in two. Blood atomized, hanging in the air like a red fog before splattering the walls. The two halves of the body slumped to the ground without a sound. I recognized her. It was the girl who’d called me deaf. 【Now that’s the Scarlet Matron I know and love!】 【That’s the stuff. One clean slice. So satisfying.】 【Damn, this newbie has nerves of steel. She didn’t even flinch.】 【Oh, they broke the rules. The hunt is on!】 A system notification popped up for all to see. Game Rule: The office contains a clue to proceed. However, the Scarlet Matron despises uninvited guests. Forcing her door open will result in… consequences. The rule had been broken. Serena’s team scattered, screaming. Auntie Rose smiled back at me. “Time for work, sweet girl. You make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back to check on you when I’m done.” “Okay!” I expertly wrapped my ankle. Glancing at the jars on her desk filled with severed fingers and other grisly specimens, I flopped down on her surprisingly fragrant bed and opened a simple puzzle game on my phone. The chat was just question marks again. 【???】 【This can’t be right.】 From the frantic messages, I gathered that Serena and a few others had used a rare escape item to vanish just in the nick of time. When Auntie Rose returned, the hem of her dress was soaked in fresh blood. Even her pale, powdered cheeks were dotted with crimson specks. “I took care of them for you, my sweet girl. Though I’m sorry to say the short-haired one got away…” I cut her off. “It’s okay, Auntie Rose. It just means we get to play with her a little longer.” A slow smile spread across my face. “I do so love playing the helpless little lamb.” After so much time trying to be a law-abiding citizen in the outside world, I could feel the dormant cruelty inside me starting to stir. The chat feed froze for a few seconds. Then, it completely lost its mind. 【HOLY SHIT, PEOPLE! WE’VE GOT AN INSIDE JOB!】

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The runaway ghost of his past came back to New York three years after she’d vanished, and her son, the autistic boy I had raised, was now old enough to know she was a stranger. The moment she saw me, Melanie decided I was the gold-digging nanny who’d stolen her child. “A ‘Child Development Specialist’,” she sneered, her voice dripping with condescension. “That’s a fancy title for a glorified babysitter. I bet you took this job for the proximity to the man of the house, right? An easy way to climb the ladder?” I took a slow, deep breath, keeping my expression serene. Maintaining my composure in front of the child was the bedrock of my professionalism. “You’ve misunderstood, ma’am. I am simply the specialist your husband hired to care for your son. Nothing more.” A cold laugh escaped her lips. Her scarlet nails, sharpened to points, jabbed the air near my face. “Nothing more? You think you’re worth fifteen thousand a month? I could hire ten nannies for that price, and they wouldn’t be half as smug!” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “I know your type. You play the perfect teacher by day, and then you teach the man of the house a few things in his bed at night.” “Aren’t you going to deny it? Cat got your tongue? Answer me!” I was about to speak when my phone buzzed on the counter. A voice that any power player in New York would recognize came through the speaker, laced with an almost pleading urgency. “Ms. Raines, Hannah, my assistant said your contract was ending. I know it’s a long shot, but my son… we’d be so grateful if you’d consider…” “I’ll pay twenty thousand a month… no, twenty-five!” 1 The offer, clear and crisp, hung in the air of the silent penthouse. Melanie’s eyes, full of contempt, raked over me. “Well, Hannah. I didn’t realize you were so enterprising. Isn’t my husband enough for you? Or do you need to service a few clients at once?” Before I could react, she lunged, snatching the phone from my hand. She pressed it to her lips, her voice a saccharine poison. “My, my, what a generous offer. Twenty-five thousand a month? I’m just dying to know what special skills she has that make you men so desperate for her.” “Oh, stop the charade! I know exactly what this is. You use this ‘specialist’ title as a cover for your dirty little arrangements. It’s just high-class prostitution, isn’t it?” “What is it? Does playing ‘teacher’ in front of the kid make it more exciting for you perverts?” The insults had gone from professional to personal, a vile attack on my character. My face hardened. All thoughts of client courtesy vanished as I wrenched the phone back. “I apologize, that was—” The line was dead. A triumphant smirk spread across Melanie’s face. She crossed her arms. “Hit a little too close to home, didn’t I? Do yourself a favor, Hannah, and get out of this family. Or else…” “I don’t want Hannah to leave!” Finn, drawn by the commotion, came running, his small hand grabbing desperately for my sleeve. “Hannah, don’t go…” I let out a sigh so quiet it was almost a thought, and knelt to his level, my voice softening to soothe him. “I’m not going anywhere, Finn. Mr. Blackwood hasn’t said a word. No one can make me leave.” After all, the iron-clad contract was with Damian. To Melanie, however, my words were a declaration of war. She grabbed Finn, trying to pull him into an embrace he clearly didn’t want. “Sweetheart, I’m your mother. Don’t let this awful woman fool you!” “She’s slept with so many men, she’s probably riddled with diseases. Come here, baby. Stay away from her.” Finn struggled against her, his face streaked with tears. “No! You’re not my mommy!” When I had first taken this position, Finn couldn’t even say “Mama” or “Dada.” Later, as I pointed to the figures in a picture book, teaching him the words for a family, he had bowed his little head. Quietly, he had started calling the woman in the picture “Hannah.” A father always at work, a mother who had vanished, and a boy born into a world he couldn’t connect with. That moment of heartbreak had compelled me to do something I’d never done before. My contracts were always for a single year, no exceptions. But for Finn, I had renewed with the Blackwoods twice. For three years, I had waited with him, helping him build a world where his real mother could one day come home. But the woman standing before us now shattered that fragile hope to pieces. The jealousy in Melanie’s eyes was a raging fire. “I’m not your mother? Then is this bitch?! Get over here!” Her grip tightened, her sharp nails digging into the soft flesh of his arm. Finn cried out in pain. “Ma’am! You’re hurting him!” My heart clenched. I moved to intervene, but she spun around and slapped me, the sound echoing through the room. “Have you made enough of a scene?!” 2 Damian Blackwood, summoned by a frantic text from the housekeeper, returned home to that exact moment of chaos. Melanie, instantly playing the victim, rounded on him. “Damian, I’ve been gone for three years, and you’ve already replaced me? When did the nanny get promoted to mistress of the house?” He knelt, his face etched with pain as he gathered his crying son into his arms. He shot me a look of profound apology before turning to Melanie, his voice tight with impatience. “What are you talking about, mistress? Don’t be ridiculous.” “Ridiculous? This witch has worked some kind of magic on him. He won’t even call me ‘Mommy’!” Seeing her husband wasn’t taking her side, Melanie switched tactics, her voice breaking into a sob story. “I caught her on the phone with another man, Damian! All they talked about was money, about her next ‘client’! Who knows how many men she’s stringing along? And when I confronted her, she just stood there, playing the innocent saint!” Her voice rose to a shriek, each word a poisoned dart. “She’s going to corrupt our son! A filthy, conniving whore like that has no place in this house!” Damian’s face was a thundercloud. “That’s enough! Hannah is Finn’s specialist, that’s all. There is no mistress, and there is nothing inappropriate between us. This conversation is over.” Melanie looked mutinous, but she fell silent under the steel of his gaze. Later, after I had settled Finn down for his nap, Damian knocked on my door. He quietly offered me a credit card, his expression unreadable, his voice low. “Hannah, I am truly sorry for what you were put through today.” I met his eyes, waiting for the rest. He hesitated. “Melanie… she used to be a housekeeper here. My parents were… difficult. They made her life hell. She left in anger right after Finn was born. This isn’t about you. It’s about her own issues with that part of her past.” “But Finn is innocent in all of this. I hope that… you can find it in you to be the bigger person. For the sake of a mother who missed the first three years of her son’s life.” I nodded. “I understand. Mrs. Blackwood is Finn’s mother. Of course I will respect that.” It wasn’t the first time I’d dealt with a parent’s prejudice. As a specialist, you teach the child, but you manage the adults. Earning their trust is part of the job. But that only works if the other person is capable of reason. Melanie, it was clear, was not. Days later, I was handing Damian my daily progress notes on Finn when Melanie stormed in, pointing a trembling finger at our hands, which were still a good six inches apart. “Hannah, where do you think you’re putting your hands? You’re touching him right in front of me! What’s next, climbing into his bed to touch his abs when I’m not looking?!” At the dinner table, an accidental glance between Damian and me sent her into a rage. She flipped the entire table over. “You looked at him three times! You sent eight secret signals! Even your feet were pointed at him! You slut, you’re always trying to seduce him!” Even my simple, professional attire—long-sleeved blouses and trousers—became a reason for her to “accidentally” spill a glass of milk all over me. “Dressing so casually. You’re really making yourself at home, aren’t you?” I could ignore all of that. But then she turned her attention to Finn. The world of an autistic child is chaos. Building order is like building a tower on sand. I had spent three years painstakingly constructing a small fortress of routine and predictability for Finn, a place where he could feel safe. Melanie, furious that the child’s trust was with me and not her, decided to tear it all down. 3 While I was correcting Finn’s grip on his specially designed spoon, she snatched it from his hand and crushed it under her heel. “What are these ridiculous rules? My son can eat however he wants to eat! Stop terrorizing him!” She threw Barnaby, his beloved comfort bear, out the window of the penthouse, then sneered at Finn as he dissolved into a storm of screams. “What are you crying for? A big boy cuddling a stupid old bear. It’s pathetic!” She whirled on me. “Look what you’ve done to him! You’ve turned him into a weakling! This whole autism thing… I bet you made it up just so you could keep cashing those checks!” I pulled Finn behind me, covering his ears, and stared directly at Melanie. “Mrs. Blackwood,” I said, my voice low and even. “I am a professional specialist, hired personally by your husband. When I started, Finn was nonverbal and unresponsive. Today, he can feed himself and answer to his name. Every single step of that progress over the last three years has been documented by myself and Mr. Blackwood.” “If you continue to use this child as an outlet for your anger, if you cause him to regress… who do you think Mr. Blackwood will hold responsible?” I paused, watching the color drain from her face. “You know the answer to that.” For a few days, there was a rare and blessed silence from Melanie. The assessment for Finn’s admission to the Atherton School was approaching, and Damian had cleared his schedule to be more present. “Thank you for everything you’re doing for the assessment,” he said, handing me a file. His voice was gentle. “Once Finn is accepted, your bonus will be included with your final payment.” I reached for the file, but the study door was thrown open. Melanie stood there, her face a mask of fury, her eyes burning. “Kissing, right in front of your son! Are you still going to deny it, Hannah?” “Ma’am, you’ve misunderstood. It was just the angle…” With a scream, she grabbed a set of bilingual learning cards from the desk and began ripping them to shreds. “He’s three years old! Why does he need to learn this garbage? In Europe, it’s all about play-based learning! What’s the point of forcing this on an autistic child? He can’t understand it!” I kept my voice firm. “Ma’am, Finn is autistic, not unintelligent. Your son deserves the chance at a better future.” Melanie turned to her husband. “Damian, tell her! Are we so poor that we can’t support one child? We have enough money for him to live comfortably for the rest of his life!” Damian’s face was grim. “That’s enough! The Atherton assessment is next month. They have a program specifically for special needs children. Everything he’s learning now is to ensure he passes that assessment and gets the best education possible!” His expression softened slightly, but a flicker of contempt crossed his eyes. “You come from a different background, Melanie. You don’t understand these educational philosophies, and I don’t blame you for that. But do not let your ignorance interfere with Hannah’s work.” Melanie froze, the blood draining from her face. The commotion had drawn the staff, who now lingered in the hallway. No one whispered, but their silent, pitying stares were like daggers. “Different background,” “housekeeper,” “social climber”—these were the ghosts that haunted her. She had thought that by outlasting Damian’s parents, she could return and claim her throne as the true lady of the house. But now… Melanie’s nails dug into her palms. She forced a twisted, chilling smile. “Yes… you’re right, darling. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” She turned to Finn, her voice now terrifyingly sweet. “Don’t you worry. I’ll make sure Finn gets into that school… one way or another.” 4 Getting into Atherton was notoriously difficult. A seven-figure income was just the price of admission. After the initial screening, final placements were determined by a vote from the admissions committee and current parents. When we arrived, the auditorium was already filled with the city’s elite. The first part was a self-introduction. When it was Finn’s turn, I squeezed his small hand. “You’ve got this, Finn,” I whispered. “Just like we practiced.” His cheeks flushed, but under the expectant gazes of the crowd, he completed his introduction perfectly in both English and French. A few parents who knew me murmured in appreciation. “Hannah Raines is a miracle worker. To bring a non-verbal child this far…” Even Damian had a rare look of genuine pride in his eyes. I shook my head slightly. “This was all Finn’s hard work.” Next, I walked to the podium to play the short documentary I had spent two months filming and editing—a chronicle of Finn’s journey. But at that moment, Melanie stormed onto the stage and snatched the microphone from the presenter. “I am this child’s mother,” she announced. “It is my duty, and my privilege, to share his story.” Every curious eye in the room turned to Damian. “Damian, I don’t believe we’ve met…” someone murmured. He pressed his lips into a thin line, a barely audible sigh escaping. “Yes. This is my wife, Melanie. Finn’s mother. She just returned to the States.” He glanced at me. I understood. I handed her the remote. No matter what, she was Mrs. Blackwood. The moment she had the device, she formatted the drive. Fifty-eight gigabytes of my work, of Finn’s journey, vanished in an instant. She shot me a triumphant smirk and then launched a garish, poorly made slideshow. “My baby is just the most perfect boy. Look, isn’t he adorable here? Drooling in his sleep.” “And this one! He got food all over his face. Such a silly, sweet boy.” The slides were a random collection of snapshots, many of them unflattering and clearly taken without context. They had nothing to do with the assessment criteria and showed a complete lack of understanding. A wave of confused murmurs rippled through the audience. Melanie’s smile turned into a sneer. “Oh, you don’t find these pictures exciting enough? Fine. Let’s watch something more exciting.” On the massive screen, a video began to play. A woman with my face, completely naked, was on her knees, servicing several older men. The auditorium fell into a shocked, stunned silence. Finn, seeing the images, began to tremble, his face turning sheet-white. Melanie glared at me, her voice ringing with false righteousness. “A woman like this has no right to be near children! Damian, for our son’s sake, you have to fire her! Right now!” The veins in Damian’s hands bulged as he fought for control. I covered Finn’s eyes with my hands, my body a shield, and waited for his decision. After a long, suffocating silence, his voice came out, cold as ice. “Hannah, go and collect your severance. You are not fit to be near my son.” Of course. As awful as Melanie was, she was still his wife, Mrs. Blackwood. At home, he could argue with her for Finn’s sake. But in public, their images were intertwined. Humiliating her was humiliating himself. I was the acceptable sacrifice. But he was forgetting one thing. Without me, his son never would have gotten through the door for this assessment in the first place. And our contract, as it happened, expired today. “There’s no need,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “Keep the money. Perhaps you can use it to enroll your wife in a class. This lack of decorum is really not sustainable.” My phone vibrated with a transfer notification for twenty-five thousand dollars. I smiled faintly and played the new voice message from my next client. “Hannah, we’ve already prepaid the first six months. The apartment and car are ready for you. You can start tomorrow. Let the others wait their turn!”

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Three months into my marriage with Julian, I slit my wrists. As my soul drifted in the air. I expected to see him weeping, searching the world for me, or at the very least, kneeling at my grave, repenting, clutching my corpse day and night. Just like in those trashy romance novels—the CEO, at the top of the world, groveling for his dead wife, his hair turning white overnight, his company bankrupt, with nothing left but to follow her in death. But none of that happened. Julian just looked at my body and said, “What a hassle.” He didn’t regret it. There was no groveling. Instead, my death just opened up a spot for his little orphan, Chloe, who slipped right into the role of Mrs. Julian. I looked down at the knife in my hand. Time rewound to the day of the suicide. Why should I be the one to die? I was never the one who deserved it. I dropped the knife. I walked out of the room. Before Julian could move Chloe into our marital home, I signed my name on the divorce papers. 1 The sting of pain made me realize I was back. The memories of my death flashed through my mind. I had tried to kill myself because of a text Chloe sent me thirty minutes earlier. A photo. Her on top, Julian on the bottom. An intimate, suggestive pose in the cramped, quiet space of a car. I was furious. I called Julian, over and over. He didn’t pick up. Then he just started declining my calls. Everyone in the city knew I loved Julian to death. That I couldn’t live without him. They even nicknamed me “Maya, the beautiful psycho.” At that moment, the thought of Julian with another woman made me lose my mind. I quickly made a new group chat, added all our mutual friends, and announced I was going to kill myself. Everyone in the group told me to calm down. Only Julian replied with two cold words: “Go ahead.” Those two words shattered my nerves. I was so desperate for just one tiny scrap of love from him that I actually live-streamed my suicide attempt. In the video chat, all my friends were horrified. Julian finally reacted. He muttered “psycho” under his breath and sped back. He was finally coming back to me, leaving that other woman. It was wonderful. He could only be mine. But I’d cut too deep. I actually died. As my soul drifted, I was desperate to see him realize his love for me, to see him hold my body and suffer. But he did nothing. He just had me cremated. A month later, he married Chloe, letting her usurp my position. This suicide attempt taught me one thing: loving yourself is better than loving any man. Julian, I’m done loving you. Chloe’s text was still on my phone. I wasn’t polite in my reply. “Julian likes to be the one on top. He’s not into your aggressive-looking ‘moves.’” She didn’t reply. I walked out of the bathroom and threw all my suicide tools into the trash. Ten years of trailing after him, begging for scraps of affection, only to trap myself. It wasn’t worth it. I sent Julian a text. “The divorce papers just need your signature.” 2 Julian got home fast. His first words: “Not dead yet? Trying a new tactic? Divorce?” His sarcastic digs were, technically, true. In my last life, the only reason I’d managed to marry him was because of our families’ business partnership. The Miller family company was on the verge of bankruptcy. Me marrying him meant my family, the Shaws, were basically giving them a blood transfusion to fill their bottomless pit. So, every time I threatened divorce, Julian would cave. Back then, I thought his compromise was love. The only love he had for me. Now I knew it wasn’t love. It was leverage. He was caving to protect the Miller family’s bottom line. I got my emotions in check, just in time to see Chloe standing behind him. Chloe. Two years younger than me. The girl the Millers had adopted from an orphanage. She and Julian had grown up together. Childhood sweethearts. How could I have ever been stupid enough to think, like in a novel, that the “new girl” could ever beat the “childhood sweetheart”? Besides, I was never the “new girl.” In Julian’s eyes, I was just “Maya, the beautiful psycho.” I handed him the divorce papers. “Sign it.” Julian laughed, tore the document in half, and tossed it aside. “Chloe’s moving in. She’ll be taking the master bedroom. You got a problem with that?” A problem? How could I dare? In my last life, it happened just like this. Chloe insisted on having our master bedroom. I refused, so she had to sleep in the guest room. She ended up “falling” out the window. She claimed the guest bed was too close to the sliding glass door and she “just… slipped.” Sure. “Slipped.” What normal person sleeps with their balcony door wide open? Julian blamed me for it. He said, “to teach me a lesson,” he locked me in the guest-closet. No food, no water. By the time he remembered I was in there, I was barely breathing. My best friend was furious. “Divorce him, Maya. If you keep this up, that bastard is going to kill you.” But my brain was broken. I actually argued with her. “If he’s a bastard, why is he only a bastard to me?” “Why does he only want to kill me?” “It’s because he loves me. He loves me to death.” After hearing that, my friends started to drift away. Thinking about it now… God, I was a moron. Since Chloe loved to play “cuckoo in the nest” so much, I decided to just give her the nest. “Fine.” I agreed, my voice calm. 3 Chloe’s eyes flashed with surprise. All the drama she’d prepared was suddenly useless. She looked me up and down, then tugged on Julian’s arm. “Julian… that other thing…” she said, trailing off. Julian pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. The gesture was so academic, so elegant. I used to be obsessed with that “sexy intellectual” look. Now I realize I was so sick, I’d have found a golden retriever in glasses attractive. Julian spoke. “Chloe’s health isn’t great, and we’re trying for a baby. You’ll take care of her for the next two weeks. You studied nursing, didn’t you?” I did. For him. Back when his family’s company was imploding, he was drinking himself sick at client dinners. He ended up in the hospital for two weeks with a torn stomach lining. They couldn’t afford a private nurse, so I taught myself. I stayed by his bed, never sleeping. If he so much as shifted, I was there with water. If he turned, I was massaging his back. I was more attentive than a hospice nurse. I thought he’d remember my kindness. He just remembered I was a free caregiver. I agreed again, but this time, with a condition. “Julian, give me back the three Shaw family corporate seals I gave you. Then I’ll do it.” Those three seals were what had resurrected his company. I’d married him and moved across the country. My parents, in Chicago, had been dead-set against it. They gave me the seals as a last resort. They said, “With these, every one of our partners in this city will give the Millers a meeting.” They also told me, “The day you ask for these back, we’ll be on the next flight to get you.” When I gave them to Julian, I made him promise to carry them. They were his key to the city. In my last life, I’d asked for them back once. He’d pointed a finger in my face and screamed. “Maya, who the hell do you Shaws think you are? You think these ‘seals’ are magic? We don’t need your family. The Millers can rise again on their own!” That’s when I learned: you can’t domesticate a wolf. You can’t warm a heart of stone. He didn’t want them? Fine. Julian sneered and pulled one from his breast pocket, tossing it on the table. “Here’s one. You’ll get the other two, one per week.” I knew what that meant. I had to take perfect care of Chloe for fourteen days. Once I had them, I’d be gone. My parents would handle the divorce. I let go of all the love I’d ever had for him. I couldn’t wait to see if Chloe would still love him, her one and only, when he was just a man drowning in debt. 4 So, for the next few days, Chloe lived with us. The “trying for a baby” thing… last time, that news had put me in the hospital. It triggered a psychotic break. Because, of course, the baby they were “trying” for was Julian’s. Chloe had spun this story about being a devout… something-or-other… and how she owed the Millers a life-debt. Since Julian was married to me, and I was barren after three years, she couldn’t bear to see the Miller line end. She would “sacrifice” herself. She would be their surrogate. It was all a lie. It was just old-fashioned adultery. She sent me photos and videos. Every. Single. Day. I was stimulated to the point of vomiting blood. I’d shown up at his office, a wreck. Disheveled, skeletal, my hair falling out. He was in an international board meeting. I burst in, screaming, ruining the deal, and clung to his leg, begging him to love me, begging him to give me a baby. I’d actually said, “I promise, my baby will be smarter and better than hers!” That stunt ruined his reputation. He’d had me locked up. When I wouldn’t stop screaming, he had me committed. He only let me out when I’d been “re-educated” by the staff at the mental hospital. It still hurts to even think about it. Why did I debase myself like that? The irony was, Chloe didn’t know the real reason we didn’t have kids. My parents had done their research. The Miller family had a nasty genetic disorder. The children were often born with severe disabilities or brain damage. So, to get my seals back, I became the most dedicated nurse in the world. 8:00 AM. I’d have the kitchen prepare bird’s-nest soup and bring it to her. Chloe would take one sip, then dump it on my arm. “This is trash. I’m telling Julian.” I endured. Noon. I hired a specialist to come and apply moisturizing oils, to help her “glow.” Chloe demanded I do it. “Maya, are you sure your delicate, rich-girl hands can handle this?” I endured. 10:00 PM. Julian would come home, and he and Chloe would go into the bedroom. Julian would look at me, his face a mask of “regret.” “Maya… it’s all for the family. You love me. You understand, right?” I’d stand outside the door, listening to their “efforts,” while I took a call from my parents. “Maya, we got the second seal.” “Are you… are you ready to come home?” One more to go. One more seal, and every single contract the Miller company had signed in three years would be void. All of them were stamped with my family’s authority. Our partners only recognized the Shaws. I stood at the door, peeking through the crack at the two of them. I smiled. “Mom, Dad. Come get me in one week.”

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I was hiding in the car, clutching a bottle of champagne, ready to surprise my girlfriend on her birthday. She was getting closer. Then I heard two voices, not one. A man’s, low and unfamiliar. A wave of confusion washed over me. I watched, frozen, as he pressed her against the tinted window of my own Ford Explorer, her gasps fogging the glass from the outside. There’s a song lyric about being under the car instead of in it. Right then, I understood. I saw exactly how wild things could get. The worst part? I was about to propose. And to make sure everyone could share the moment, I had set up a private livestream. Right now, both our families, all our friends, were watching this. Online. 1 Chloe’s eyes met mine through the dark tint, but she couldn’t see me. “Let’s get in the car,” she whispered, her voice breathy. A spike of pure panic shot through me. The livestream was running through the dashcam. If they got in, the camera would catch everything, and whatever shred of dignity I had left would be incinerated. My fingers fumbled as I dialed her number. Her phone lit up in her hand. She saw it was me, answered, and immediately rushed out, “Hey, I’m in a meeting, can’t talk.” Before I could say a word, she hung up. I watched her power the phone off completely. A moment later, the passenger door opened. They fell inside, a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths. He pushed her back against the seat, their kisses wet and desperate. It was over. The camera was recording it all. I was curled up in the trunk space of my own SUV, paralyzed. Today was her birthday. The plan was simple, something you see go viral online. She’d walk up to the car, I’d pop the trunk from the inside, and she’d find it filled with roses and gifts. I’d be there on one knee, nestled among the flowers, holding out a diamond ring. It was supposed to be romantic. The camera was angled perfectly to capture the joyous surprise on her face. Our friends and family were all waiting at my apartment. The plan was that as soon as I proposed, I’d walk in the door with my new fiancée, and they’d set off confetti cannons. Now, it was just awkward. Excruciatingly awkward. The livestream was broadcasting the sight of her clothes being peeled away, piece by piece, by this stranger. The man, this affair, chuckled. “Why didn’t you take your boyfriend’s call? Scared he’ll find out?” Chloe kissed him, her voice thick with excitement. “Not at all. If you want to play that game, I can call him right now.” He laughed, a smug, ugly sound, and pushed her down onto the backseat. “You’re a wild one, aren’t you?” “If we’re going to chase a thrill,” she murmured, “we might as well go all the way.” They were fully on the backseats now, oblivious to me in the trunk. I shakily pulled out my own phone, my hands trembling. The screen showed me a mirror of the livestream: the two of them, tangled together in my car, broadcast to a private room with a password. The viewer count was over a hundred. I don’t have that many friends. I knew, with a sickening certainty, that our guests had started sharing the password. The gossip was spreading like a wildfire. Over a hundred people, and not a single comment. The silence was deafening. I could picture them all, sitting in my living room, surrounded by cake and confetti cannons, just staring in horrified, awkward silence at their phones. Then, the worst thing yet. I saw one account spamming the stream with digital gifts. It was Chloe’s mother. My future mother-in-law. She kept sending them, one after another, because each time a gift was sent, a gaudy animation would flash across the screen, momentarily obscuring the awful view. She was old-school with technology; she didn’t know there was a button to hide all the effects. The poor woman was burning through her retirement savings, trying to shield her daughter’s shame, and all for nothing. I couldn’t stop it. The streaming software was running on the car’s infotainment system. I’d have to get into the front seat to shut it off. Just then, the man finally noticed something was off. “Wait a second,” he said, pausing. “Why is the car on?” Chloe laughed it off. “My boyfriend’s car has a remote start for the AC. I turned it on for you before I came down. Didn’t want you to get too hot.” He sounded impressed. “My Porsche doesn’t even have that, and it cost over a hundred grand. This thing is what, thirty?” She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his face close for another deep kiss. “Exactly. And here you are, in his thirty-thousand-dollar Ford, sleeping with his girlfriend.” Her words seemed to ignite him. He started pulling at her shirt again, whispering against her ear, “God, you’re something else. He lets you drive his car while he takes the subway to work every day, and you talk to me like that.” “That’s right,” she purred. “I’m a bad girl. Say it again, it just turns me on more. He’s my simp, but I’m yours.” Then, something truly bizarre happened. As he kissed her collarbone, he started to sing. It was an old, cheesy rock ballad. “I’m forever yours… faithfully.” Chloe giggled, kissing him back. “That’s right, baby. That’s us.” I couldn’t understand it. Who sings during something like this? Maybe it was their own private joke. Or maybe guys who drive Porsches just have that effect on women. But it was profoundly, deeply cringey, especially knowing it was being broadcast live. I knew I had to do something. It was my account. If this went any further, if something truly explicit was shown, I could be the one facing legal trouble. I cleared my throat. A small, pathetic cough. In an instant, the two of them shot upright, their romantic bubble popped. When Chloe saw me, her face went white. “You’re supposed to be at work,” she stammered. “It’s your birthday,” I said, my voice flat. “I took the day off. I wanted to surprise you.” How pathetic. I’d taken time off, planned everything, just for this. The strangest part was, I didn’t feel rage. Not a single spark of anger. A cynical thought had always lived in the back of my mind: until you’re married, you’re just sleeping with someone else’s future wife. Well, the proposal was off. In my eyes, she was already his. I glanced at my phone again. The viewer count was now over a thousand. In a password-protected room. What did that mean? It meant the link had been shared with our entire university alumni group, our respective company Slack channels, and every distant cousin and great-aunt on both sides of the family. A total, multi-platform social collapse. As if on cue, a group of people emerged from the elevator into the parking garage. I recognized them. Chloe’s coworkers. They weren’t heading to their cars. They were clustered together, phones in hand, staring right at us. They had come down for a front-row seat. Chloe, now in a full-blown panic, saw them too. She hissed at me, “Don’t you dare start a fight with me now. My colleagues are right there. Don’t you embarrass me.” I stared at her, dumbfounded. “You’re worried about being embarrassed?” “Look, you caught me. There’s no point in pretending,” she said, her tone shifting from panic to ice. “Let’s just break up. I think I deserve better.” “What did I ever do to you?” I asked, the words feeling hollow. She ignored me, climbing into the driver’s seat and starting the car. As she pulled out, her voice was cold. “You were good to me, I won’t deny that. But I deserve better. A woman who’s ridden in a Porsche doesn’t go back to a Ford.” The man, Ryan, was awkwardly pulling his clothes back on. It was only then that I noticed something crucial. A wedding ring on his left hand. I pointed at it. “Is that what you call ‘better’?” Chloe’s voice was like steel. “Would you still be saying that if you knew he gives me two thousand dollars a month? In cash?” I sucked in a breath. Online, two grand a month might not sound like a fortune. But in our world, it was huge. My entire monthly take-home pay was barely over four thousand. Even my thirty-grand SUV was financed. Ryan finished dressing and shot me a look. “Look, man, I get it. Name your price. I’ll pay you to keep this quiet and make this a clean break.” I just stared at him. “You want to buy my silence?” “It’s not about buying it,” he said, his voice hardening. “It’s about you being required to give it.” Chloe pulled up next to a Porsche parked in a reserved spot near the building’s entrance. A sign on the space read: VP Parking Only. Of course. She turned to me. “I’m warning you, Leo. Don’t even think about getting revenge by telling everyone. He’s a Vice President from corporate. You can’t afford to mess with people like him.” I was stunned. Not because I was scared of some VP. I was stunned because Chloe’s own coworkers were witnesses. With the livestream viewership exploding, there was no way this story wasn’t already scorching its way through their entire company, from the local branch to corporate headquarters. This guy wasn’t just going to lose his promotion; he was going to lose his job. And I’d bet anything his wife was already in that chat room. There’s no way, with that many employees watching, that someone didn’t have her number. Right on cue, Ryan’s phone rang. I saw the screen. The caller ID said: Wife. He instantly declined the call and sent a canned text: In a meeting. Will call you back. The phone immediately rang again. This time, the caller ID read: Chairman. Ryan clearly didn’t dare decline that call. He hesitated, his face a mask of indecision. Chloe said nervously, “It’s the chairman. You should probably answer. It could be important.” Ryan’s eyes darted to me, then back to the phone. Finally, he snarled, “I can’t risk it. I can’t risk what this idiot might say.” He declined the chairman’s call and sent the same text message. They were both in the livestream. His wife and his boss. Ryan powered his phone off. “I’ll call them back later. I’ll just say my battery died.” “Good idea,” Chloe nodded. I sighed. He shouldn’t have turned it off. If he’d left it on, someone might have sent him a text, a warning. But watching Chloe care so much about protecting him, a strange numbness settled over me. She got out of my car and walked to the back. When I popped the trunk, my meticulously arranged surprise of balloons and flowers was revealed. How pathetic. The camera was supposed to capture her ecstatic face. Now, her expression was just cold. Fitting, I suppose. We were past all that now. “Look, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice flat. “Take the flowers and the gifts back. Let’s just be clear. Name a price. How much for your silence?” “Is that really what you think of me?” I asked, my voice cracking. “You think I’d blackmail you over this?” “I just need to be sure. He signed a prenup. I can’t be the reason he loses everything.” I glanced at Ryan. His wife was probably already on her way to a lawyer’s office. “I took care of you for years,” I said. “When you’re bending over backward to protect him, have you thought about me at all?” “You caught me cheating,” she snapped, her patience gone. “Do I really need to consider your feelings now? Get real, Leo.” I took a deep breath. She was right. There was no need to consider each other’s feelings anymore. I wasn’t going to take their money. The moment they sent it, it would be extortion, and I’d be the one in jail. I’ve lived a clean life, and I wasn’t about to start breaking the law now. Besides, what good would my silence do? Everyone already knew. “I don’t want your money,” I said. “And I won’t say anything. Let’s just break up. I’ll return the ring.” She looked surprised. “I didn’t think you’d be this cooperative. I thought you’d make a scene. Since we’re breaking up, let’s make it a clean break. Let’s go back to the apartment so I can pack my things. I’ll be out tonight.” I shook my head immediately. “I’ll pack your things for you. Don’t come up.” Honestly, I was trying to protect her. Our friends and family were in that apartment. Some were embarrassed, some were furious. If she walked in there with this guy, it would turn into a brawl. She could get seriously hurt. Despite everything, the thought of what might happen to her in that apartment terrified me. But she didn’t see it that way. “No. I have to go back. The cash he gave me… I hid it. I’m not leaving without it.” “Tell me where it is,” I pleaded. “I’ll get it for you.” Suddenly, Ryan sneered. “You think we’re that stupid?” Chloe looked at him, confused. “What’s wrong with him getting it?” “You think he doesn’t want the money because he has dignity?” Ryan said, his eyes locking onto mine. “He’s just afraid of a bank transfer. A record that we could use to report him for extortion.” Chloe’s eyes widened in dawning realization. “I get it. The money you gave me is all cash. If he takes it, I can’t prove how much was there. If I call the cops, it would just lead back to you.” Ryan nodded, a smug look of satisfaction on his face. “See? You’re smart.” Chloe’s face twisted in fury as she turned back to me. “So that’s why you were being so ‘nice.’ You really are the worst kind of snake. The poorer the man, the more schemes he has. I almost fell for it.” She looked at Ryan with a mixture of gratitude and adoration. “Thank god you were here. The guys who make it to VP really are on another level.” I finally understood. My honesty was my biggest flaw. I was being completely sincere, and they had spun it into some Machiavelian plot in their own minds. And the worst part? Their paranoid theory was so logical, so well-constructed, that even I almost believed it. I was about to tell them about the livestream, but Ryan jabbed a finger in my face. “You listen to me. You’re the one who refused the money. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, do you have any idea what I’ll do?” “What will you do?” I asked. “I’ll lose everything in the divorce,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “But believe me, before that happens, I’ll set aside a hundred grand. I’ll find someone to break your arms and your legs. Twenty grand an arm. You’d be surprised how many people are willing to do that kind of work.” I couldn’t believe it. He was threatening me with violence, admitting to planning a violent crime. And it was all being recorded by the dashcam, witnessed by over a thousand people. This guy wasn’t just going to lose his money in the divorce. He was going to prison. As I stood there, reeling, Chloe, as if she thought I didn’t believe him, added with a cold smile, “You should listen to him. Last month, a janitor at the office saw us. She tried to shake us down for a lot of money. A few days later, she was in a car accident. Do you really think that was a coincidence?” In that moment, the world stopped. Over a thousand people were watching this livestream. And she had just said that. Out loud. If that story was true, Ryan wasn’t just going to jail. He was going away for a very long time. He gave me one last, cold look. “That ‘coincidence’ could happen to you, too.”

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My daughter was eight months old when I finally took some vacation time to visit my parents. My brother, Mike, picked me up from the airport. Back at home, Mom had made my favorite dinner, and Dad was busy hauling my suitcases upstairs. I was basking in the warm glow of a family reunion, the kind of happiness you can only find at home. Then Mike sidled up to me, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Hey, sis,” he started. “That round trip to the airport and back is over a hundred miles. An Uber would’ve cost you at least two hundred bucks.” He paused, then forged ahead. “But since you’re family, just Venmo me for gas and tolls. Let’s call it an even eighty.” 1 I couldn’t believe my ears. Was my own brother really charging me for a ride home? I stared at him, my mouth hanging open. “Mike, what are you talking about?” He shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable but doubling down on his logic. “Look, picking you up ate up my whole afternoon. I’m not making money, sure, but I can’t be losing money either, right? Business is business, even with family. Especially since you’re married now.” I hadn’t been back home since my daughter, Lily, was born. It wasn’t just the distance; traveling with a baby is a logistical nightmare of diapers, formula, and a million other things. But Mom had been crying on the phone. “I’ll have Mike come get you. Please, just come home for a few days. I miss you so much I can’t sleep.” I’d tried to get her to visit me instead, but she always had an excuse about the house needing her. So, I took the time off. Formula, diapers, a bottle warmer, a portable sterilizer… I packed three massive suitcases with Lily’s gear. On the drive home, I sat in the back with Lily, while Mike chattered on about old childhood memories. The long drive flew by, filled with laughter. When we pulled up, Mom and Dad were already waiting on the porch. Mom took Lily from my arms, but her eyes were fixed on me. “You’re so thin! Having a baby has worn you down to nothing.” Her own eyes welled up with tears. Dad, seeing us get emotional, turned away and started silently unloading the car. Mom wiped her eyes and pulled me towards the kitchen. “Look what I made! I got a fresh organic chicken from the farmer’s market just for you. The soup’s been simmering since noon. I’ll whip up a few more of your favorites, and we’ll have a real welcome-home dinner.” My own eyes grew misty. My heart felt warm and full. There’s no place like home. My childhood home would always be my home. No matter how old I got, I could always walk through that door and find people who loved and cherished me. 2 I was lost in this sweet, nostalgic daydream when Mike’s cold demand for gas money shattered it completely. What did being “married now” have to do with anything? Was I no longer my parents’ daughter, his sister? Was I not family anymore? My brow furrowed. “I’m married, Mike, not disowned. Do you charge Mom and Dad for rides?” He scoffed. “That’s different. They’re my immediate family. You’re married off, you belong to someone else’s family now. If you use our family’s resources, you’ve got to pay up.” I was shaking with anger. Before Lily was born, I used to drive myself home all the time. Every single visit, my car was loaded with gifts: wine for Dad, new kitchen gadgets for Mom, the latest video game for Mike. I never once asked him to chip in for the things I brought for him. And now, for one ride, he was demanding a price that was probably more than the actual cost. On what planet was that fair? “I’m not paying,” I said, my voice firm. Mike has a stubborn streak and a short fuse. My refusal instantly made his face darken. “Oh, you are paying. Today. You used my car, you pay the fee.” I let out a cold laugh. “Fine. First, you can pay me back the three thousand dollars I gave you. Then we’ll talk about your eighty-dollar fee.” The car he was driving? I’d paid for a third of it. The first year after I graduated and got a job, Dad had mentioned they were thinking of buying a car. It wasn’t convenient living in the suburbs without one. Just a trip to the grocery store was a twenty-minute walk each way. I remembered Mom coming home, her fingers red and indented from the heavy grocery bags. Without a second thought, I gave them all of my savings at the time. The car cost nine thousand dollars. I paid three, my parents paid three, and Mike paid three. Except Mike didn’t have the money, so he “borrowed” it from our parents. The car was supposed to be in Dad’s name, but somehow, the title ended up in Mike’s. I have no idea if he ever paid Mom and Dad back. “You have some nerve,” Mike sneered, “asking for that three grand back after all the money this family spent raising you.” He lifted the lid of the soup pot, pointing at the chicken. “This chicken cost twenty-five bucks. It was for you. You can pay for that, too.” I was about to explode. We were both their children. Why did Mike automatically assume that everything in this house belonged to him? I was about to let him have it when Mom pushed him out of the kitchen. “What is wrong with you? Asking your own sister for money? Get out!” She tore a big, juicy chicken leg from the bird and pressed it into my hand. “Sweetheart, don’t mind your brother. His freelance work has been slow, and he’s stressed. You just eat. I raised this chicken myself, he doesn’t get a say.” I lifted the chicken leg to my lips. Just then, Dad’s voice boomed from the other room. “What is all this? Why is every one of these suitcases filled with baby stuff?” 3 I put the chicken down and walked out of the kitchen. In the guest room, Dad had opened all three of my suitcases. Their contents were strewn across the floor. “Dad,” I asked, stunned, “what are you looking for?” He kicked at a can of formula with his foot, his face a mask of annoyance. “Three huge bags, and not a single thing for us! You’re a college-educated woman, for God’s sake. Don’t you know basic etiquette? Who shows up to their parents’ house empty-handed?” I stared at him in shock. I had never heard of bringing hostess gifts to your own home. The reason I used to show up with a car full of presents was because I loved them. I wanted to spoil them, to make them happy. I never knew they saw it as an obligation. So it wasn’t just Mike. My own father saw me as a visitor now. An outsider. I stood there, frozen, watching my mom kneel on the floor, frantically trying to tidy the mess. Dad grumbled something under his breath and stormed out of the house. When Mike heard I hadn’t brought gifts, he took the entire pot of chicken soup and carried it next door to our grandma’s house. “You show up with nothing and expect a free meal?” he called over his shoulder. “Have you no shame?” A hot rush of anger surged through me. I started stuffing all of Lily’s things back into the suitcases. I’d grab my daughter and leave. I had money; there were hotels in town. If this house didn’t want us, somewhere else would. Mom grabbed my arm, her voice choked with tears. “It’s getting dark, honey. How will you manage with the baby and three suitcases? Please, I’m begging you, just stay the night. Your father is a stubborn old man and your brother is being a jerk, just ignore them. I’ve waited so long to see you. Just stay with me, please?” My resolve softened. She was right. This was my home, too. Why should I let them chase me out? Not only was I going to stay, but I was going to demand the same treatment as my brother. I turned to her. “Mom, are there any more chickens? Because I’m still hungry.” “Yes, yes, of course.” 4 I marched out to the chicken coop in the backyard and caught the biggest rooster. With one swift, decisive motion, I did what I had to do. A few minutes of plucking and cleaning, and that big, plump bird was in the pressure cooker. When Dad and Mike came back, Mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table, happily chewing on chicken wings, our fingers slick with grease. “What… what did you do? You killed another chicken?” Mike stammered. I sucked the meat off a chicken foot. “What, you guys get to eat and we don’t?” Mike, furious, turned on Mom. “Mom, we only have a few chickens left! You killed two in one day! What am I supposed to eat later?” “What about me?” Mom looked straight at him, her voice quiet but firm. “When you took the soup I spent all afternoon making over to Grandma’s, did you think about me?” Mike was speechless. He mumbled for a moment before finally spitting out, “I was just so angry, I wasn’t thinking straight.” He wasn’t thinking straight, but he always forgot Mom. It was a pattern. The sad, funny thing was, Mom did more for this family than anyone, yet she was always the one who was overlooked. I remembered a business trip I took to New Orleans a few years ago. I shipped a box of beignets home. By the time Mom finished her chores, all that was left was a plate of powdered sugar. Dad and Mike were content and full, completely oblivious. Another time, Mike got his first paycheck from an internship. He bought himself new sneakers, a new electric razor for Dad, and a blood pressure monitor for Grandma. Mom watched as the shopping bag grew emptier, the hope in her eyes slowly fading to disappointment. His excuse then was the same. “Oh, man, I was just so excited, I totally forgot.” Mom’s love was like the air in our house. They breathed it in every day without a second thought, but they never felt the need to acknowledge its existence. I’m sure she was thinking about all that now. She didn’t say anything, just kept her head down and quietly chewed her chicken. Dad tried to needle us. “You’re lucky you live in modern times. Back in my day, a wife who ate like that would’ve been kicked out of the house.” Mom and I ignored him. He and Mike eventually gave up and left the kitchen. Mom put a chicken wing in my bowl. “Eat up, sweetheart. Tomorrow, I’ll make you my barbecue ribs.” 5 I absolutely loved my mom’s barbecue ribs. The next morning, while Lily and I were still asleep, Mom was already up and heading to the local market for fresh pork ribs. She came back with a huge rack, more than enough for all of us.

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I was the least favorite princess. Before my father, the King, kicked the bucket, my eight older siblings were at each other’s throats for the throne. Historians would later call this period “The Nine Dragons’ Brawl for the Harley-Davidson.” And me? I was the wildcard in this royal rumble, operating on the principle of “It’s not the winning, it’s the messing-with-people that counts.” By making a bunch of empty promises to various powerful figures, I somehow got crowdfunded onto the throne. Now, as I gaze at the three women I verbally promised to make my queens, a single drop of cold sweat trickles down my temple. This whole “absolute power” thing is turning out to be a bit of a handful. 1 My father, King Harley, was on his last legs. It was pretty clear he wasn’t going to make it through the winter. And so, my eight beloved siblings kicked off the glorious Nine Dragons’ Brawl for the Harley-Davidson. Oh yeah, my dad’s name is actually Harley Davidson. Seriously. I’m the ninth and least favorite of his kids, basically just here to round out the numbers. But participation is key, and I was enthusiastically participating in the chaos. The most critical piece on the chessboard of this succession crisis was the Queen. King Harley and Queen Beatrice were childhood sweethearts, deeply in love. He consulted her on almost everything. Luckily for the rest of us, she was barren. Otherwise, this whole war would’ve been over before we were even embryos. My siblings weren’t idiots. They swarmed the Queen’s chambers like bees to a honeypot. I rushed over, but I was too late. The place was already packed with my fawning relatives. My eldest brother, Prince Albert, was on his knees, declaring, “If you support me, Mother, I will formally adopt you as my own. I will build you a grand cathedral and serve you day and night!” My second sister, Princess Diana, shoved him aside. “Albert, your own mother is still alive! What right do you have to be adopted by the Queen?” Then she turned to Beatrice, her face a mask of sincerity. “Mother, my own mother has passed. My devotion to you will surely surpass my brother’s. Please, think of me as your own daughter!” I discreetly shuffled to the side, hoping the Queen wouldn’t have a sudden maternal meltdown and start adopting people on the spot. My own mother was also gone, and she’d had a hard enough time birthing and raising me. I had zero interest in calling some other woman “Mom.” The other princes and princesses were just as shameless. Some promised to make the Queen’s nephew a Duke, others offered to marry her nieces. One even offered to marry her entire… extended family of unmarried women. Thank God. For a second, I thought her eighty-year-old great-aunt was about to have a very eventful year. My siblings prattled on, but the Queen just maintained a serene smile, giving nothing away. Suddenly, her gaze fell on me in the corner. “Ellie,” she called out. “Do you have anything you’d like to say?” “Huh?” Every head in the room swiveled in my direction. My first instinct was to just parrot some generic flattery like everyone else. But faced with their hostile glares, my rebellious streak kicked in. It’s not like I was going to win anyway. I might as well go nuts while we were all still candidates. They couldn’t do anything to me yet. So, with an air of supreme confidence, I announced, “If I become Queen, I’ll set you up with ten gorgeous boy toys to keep you entertained.” 2 The room went dead silent. Then, chaos. Prince Albert shot to his feet, pointing an accusing finger at me. “Eleanor, have you lost your mind? How can you say such a thing to the Queen? It’s an insult!” The others chimed in. “What do you take her for? She’s not some scandalous historical figure who needs a harem of young men!” “Exactly, Ellie! The Queen is devoted to the King! If he heard you say that, you could kiss any chance of the throne goodbye!” A few of my sisters seemed a little less convincing in their outrage. I rolled my eyes. The old man wasn’t exactly a looker to begin with, and now he was a sickly, wrinkling mess. How was he supposed to hold a woman like Beatrice’s attention? Besides, I wasn’t suggesting she start now. But once King Harley was six feet under, she’d be all alone. Wouldn’t ten handsome companions be a comfort? I was sure the old man’s spirit would appreciate the gesture. The Queen covered her face with her sleeve, trying to hide a laugh. When she’d composed herself, she said, “Now, now. Ellie means well. Don’t be so hard on your sister.” She then turned to me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ellie, no more jokes, now.” “Of course, Mother,” I said with a grin. No one took me seriously, but I had successfully derailed my siblings’ plans. They left in a huff, each one muttering threats as they passed me. “Ellie, you don’t even have a shot. Why are you acting so crazy?” “Just wait until I’m on the throne. You’ll be sorry!” “You? On the throne? Father would give it to Ellie before he gave it to you!” “What did you just say to me?!” Within seconds, they were at each other’s throats again. Mission accomplished. 3 The next morning, the battle resumed in the royal classroom. Our tutor was the brilliant and handsome Julian Croft, a rising star in the court whom the King had appointed to educate his children. He was smooth, never showing favoritism, which made him a key ally to win over. My siblings tried their best. The brainy ones impressed him with eloquent essays and poetry. The less-than-brainy ones tried to bribe him with expensive art and rare books. I was broke and not particularly bright, so I decided my best strategy was to just annoy him to death. If I could make him quit, all their efforts would be for naught. Heh. After class, I was the only one held back. The jealous glares from my siblings could have drilled holes in me. They couldn’t fathom how I’d managed to get such exclusive time with our tutor. Of course they couldn’t. It involved getting my head whacked repeatedly. Julian held a thick bamboo scroll and used it to rhythmically tap my skull. “Ow, ow, ow!” I yelped. He paused, looking thoughtfully at the scroll. “First time I’ve ever heard a scroll cry out.” “I’m sorry, Tutor,” I said, rubbing my head. “I promise, when I’m Queen, I’ll pay attention in class.” Heh, sucker. The first thing I’ll do when I’m Queen is have you executed. Julian sighed. “You becoming Queen would be the greatest insult to my teaching career.” “Tutor, please listen. I’m just so worried about my father’s health, I can’t concentrate.” “If you were truly worried about your father, you wouldn’t have produced a translation like this.” I looked down at my work. The text was a classic proverb: While your parents are alive, do not wander far. If you must, have a clear destination. My translation: Your parents are my hostages. You won’t get far. And even if you do, I have ways of dragging you back. What was wrong with that? The look on his face told me I wasn’t getting his endorsement. My frustration boiled over. I gave him a cold, threatening smile. “Tutor, I suggest you be nicer to me. Otherwise, when I’m Queen, the very first thing I’ll do is make you my personal plaything. And when I’m bored with you, I’ll have you thrown in the dungeon.” Julian’s long eyelashes fluttered. He leaned in close, his voice a whisper by my ear. “And what if I am nicer to you? How will Your Majesty reward me?” He smelled amazing, a scent completely different from the other stuffy courtiers. My mind went a little fuzzy. “I’ll make you my King Consort!” I blurted out. Thwack. Another hit to the head. I whimpered, looking at him pitifully. Yeah, definitely executing him. Julian just smiled his gentle, infuriating smile. “Go copy the Royal Code of Conduct. Ten times.” 4 That afternoon, I left the palace, books in tow. My escort was Captain Marcus Thorne, the head of the Royal Guard. The King, worried about his children assassinating one another, had ordered that a guard escort was mandatory for any royal leaving the palace grounds. This made Marcus, with his control of the military, a very important person. For me, however, who made daily trips to the city’s finest purveyor of trashy romance novels, it was just awkward. It had taken me a month to go from embarrassed to shamelessly proud of my literary tastes. It took Marcus only three days to go from respectful to disgusted. The first day, it was “Your Highness.” By the third, it was “Alright, smut-peddler, had enough yet?” Today, he greeted me with a deadpan expression. “Smut-peddler. I did some recon yesterday. The book you want, Reborn: I Was a Monk in the Royal Palace, is on the first shelf, third row, tenth from the left. Grab it and let’s go.” I hesitated. “But… there are other books I wanted to get…” “Name them.” “My Husband Ran Off With My Bun in the Oven and Gave Birth to Ten Babies.” Marcus’s face twitched. “Third shelf, first row, seventh from the left.” “A Eunuch’s Tale: The Nine-Thousand-Year-Old Virgin’s Conquest.” “Third shelf, sixth row, fifth from the left.” I stared at him, impressed. My first act as Queen would be to appoint him Royal Librarian. At the bookshop, I met up with my two best friends and partners-in-crime: the Prime Minister’s daughter, Clara, and the Grand Tutor’s son, Leo. Under Marcus’s death glare, I quickly made my purchases and we retreated to a nearby tea house. The Prime Minister was backing my third brother. The Grand Tutor was backing my fourth sister. Their delinquent children were backing me. Completely useless. “I really want to be Queen,” I sighed dramatically. “I really want to marry my darling Caspian,” Clara sighed back. “But he’s just an actor…” I couldn’t bear to see her so sad. “Clara, don’t worry. When I’m Queen, I’ll order you two to be married.” “Me too!” Leo chimed in. Clara shot him a suspicious look. “You’re in love with Caspian too?” “No! I’m in love with his co-star, Julian.” That was… also not ideal. But he was looking at me with such hopeful eyes. I couldn’t play favorites. “When I’m Queen, I’ll order you two to be married as well.” Leo dropped to his knees. “Thank you, Your Majesty!” Marcus looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. “I think all these books have rotted your brain.” I suddenly remembered he was there. Everyone gets a prize. “Captain Thorne, is there anyone you have your eye on? I could arrange a marriage for you too.” “There was,” he said grimly. “But then I saw these books.” I guess the Captain was a man of high literary standards. I laughed. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’m quite fond of you. When I’m Queen, I’ll make you my King Consort, and we can read together!” Marcus’s face went through several shades of red, white, and green. He finally settled on green and ground out one word: “Smut-peddler!” 5 I was just joking with my friends, but they took me seriously. They insisted I go see the Royal Seer to pick auspicious dates for their weddings. I was hesitant. The Seer held a special, powerful position in the court. If I was seen consulting him, my siblings might actually think I was a contender for the throne. Which, I mean, I was. I hurried over to the Seer’s temple before it got dark. The Seer himself, a man named Sterling, stopped me at the entrance. “Before you enter, take out what you’re hiding.” I patted myself down. “I’m not carrying any weapons.” Sterling gave me a cool, appraising look. “What you have is more dangerous than any sword.” I pulled out the book from my coat: My Nights of Captive Passion with the Ice-Cold Royal Seer. He didn’t even glance at it. He just turned away. “Burn it.” I reluctantly tossed my beloved book into the brazier. I didn’t get it. What was so dangerous about a book? Finally inside, my first question was, “Master Seer, can you tell me what day would be most auspicious for my coronation?” “Today would be an excellent day for Your Highness to ascend… to the heavens.” That wasn’t the kind of ascending I had in mind! “Fine,” I pressed on. “Then can you tell me when the old man is going to kick the bucket?” Sterling frowned. “Your Highness, the King is your father.” I didn’t say he wasn’t. “Okay, fine. You can’t do that, you can’t do this. Can you at least give me two auspicious dates for a wedding?” “Your Highness, I am the Royal Seer. I only read the heavens for the monarch.” To the dungeon with you! Sterling sat in the courtyard, brewing tea. His profile was elegant, his aura cool and distant. Before he became the Royal Seer, I used to visit him all the time. I’d ask him to tell me when my mother would come back, when my father would remember I existed. He’d done the calculations and told me I was fated for a lonely, difficult childhood, unloved by both parents. I’d thrown a fit and told him he was a terrible fortune-teller. The next day, he was appointed Royal Seer, which just infuriated me more. I sighed. “I’m kidding. But if I made you my King Consort, could you just find me two good dates for our wedding?” His hand, pouring the tea, paused. He stood up abruptly. “Wait here.” He disappeared into his chambers and didn’t return until nightfall. He looked pale and exhausted. He handed me a stack of ten slips of paper. “These are ten auspicious dates for a wedding. Take them. I will continue my calculations tomorrow.” I stared at the stack of dates, bewildered. Okay, now even I’m starting to ship us. Barely two weeks later, the King was fading fast. He summoned all of us to his bedside.

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I’m secretly married to a university professor who rarely cracks a smile. During one of his public lectures, I accidentally broadcast a steamy romance novel from my phone. He was the male lead. I was the author. The resulting uproar nearly blew the roof off the lecture hall. Dr. Miles’s gaze cut through the crowd and landed squarely on me. “My office. After class.” That night, he pinned me against the door, and I was trembling like a leaf. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I’ll never write it again.” He loosened his tie, his voice a low whisper. “Too late. Ten minutes for every word. You do the math.” 1 It was the first open lecture of the new semester. The hall was packed, standing room only. The moment my roommate dragged me inside, my eyes met a cool, impossibly handsome face. My heart stopped. The man stood at the podium in a crisp white shirt, his calm, intelligent eyes looking at me through thin-framed glasses, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he took in my deer-in-the-headlights expression. “Class is about to start,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “Please find a seat.” My roommate grabbed my arm, foiling my escape attempt, and pulled me into the front row. “Let me introduce you,” she whispered excitedly. “Professor Miles. My ultimate crush.” His hands, shuffling papers on the lectern, were just inches away. A simple wedding band gleamed on his ring finger. It was a perfect match for the one hanging on a chain around my neck. The second our eyes met again, I ducked my head, my entire body rigid. Oh, God. Can someone please tell me why my practically-a-stranger husband, who was supposed to be doing research abroad, is suddenly back in the country? Last month, in a drunken fit of madness, I’d sent him a series of progressively thirstier photos in the middle of the night. Dr. Julian Miles, ever the gentleman, had simply pretended he never saw them. When I sobered up, I remembered we barely knew each other. Our marriage was a family arrangement, a convenience. So why in the world was he suddenly here, at my university, as my new physics professor? This was a nightmare. Professor Miles stood straight, his gaze sweeping over my huddled form before that faint smile returned. “Due to some unforeseen circumstances, I will be taking over this physics course for the semester. I look forward to a productive term with all of you.” His voice was like a cool spring breeze, but it brought back a flood of memories that were suddenly attacking me. His faculty position… it was at Ashton University. I could feel his eyes on me, and I shrank further into my seat. Was he really going to fail me just because I’d sent him a few suggestive texts? He said nothing more about it, and the first lecture of the semester began. Sitting directly under his gaze, listening to that cool, melodic voice, I felt a wave of drowsiness wash over me. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was my editor. Talia, your professor character is pure fire. Polish this up, we’re taking it live! Half-asleep, I tapped the file she sent. The screen froze. A few seconds later, a robotic female voice emanated from my phone’s speaker. “In the dead of night, I slipped on Professor Miles’s white shirt and stumbled through his door, crashing into his arms.” “Oh, Professor… please, hold me tighter…” I jolted awake. My phone’s text-to-speech feature was on, broadcasting my R-rated prose to the entire lecture hall. I fumbled to silence it, but it was too late. Oh my God, oh my God, make it stop… The room was dead silent. Professor Miles had stopped talking. His expression was as serene as ever, but I felt his gaze on me like a physical weight, and I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. “I’m so sorry, my phone is broken…” I stammered, tears welling in my eyes. In my panic, I accidentally turned the volume up. The AI voice launched into the next, even spicier scene. The students around me were beet red, frozen in stunned silence. Professor Miles tapped a piece of chalk against the lectern. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound echoed in the suffocating silence. Finally, he spoke to me for the first time since his return. “Thank you for that… contribution. Please see me in my office after class.” 2 The silence in his office was deafening. I sat across from him, the ticking of the clock in the corner marking every second of my agony. Professor Miles was grading papers, his head bowed. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, its warm, golden light filtering through the leaves and falling across his perfectly tailored shirt, casting long, elegant shadows. He hadn’t said a word to me since I’d walked in. He hadn’t even mentioned the novel. Was he going to divorce me for writing fanfiction about him? “Um, Professor, I’m really sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.” He looked up and smiled faintly. “I understand. Artistic expression.” His gentle tone completely disarmed me. I managed a weak smile back. “Right, right… as long as you understand. I’m actually a very conservative person. My editor makes me write those scenes… there aren’t many of them.” The atmosphere seemed to relax. He pulled out a gift bag and placed it on the desk. His voice was polite and warm. “My return was a bit rushed, so I only managed to get you a cashmere scarf. The shirt will have to wait until next time.” Shirt? Professor Miles’s shirt?! I met his gentle gaze and realized he had completely misunderstood. Oh God, he thinks I’m a creep… Just as I was about to try and salvage my reputation, my phone exploded with a flurry of messages from my editor. The notification sounds drew both of our attention. “Does Julian really like doing it in the kitchen?” “That’s a fire hazard. I suggest you change it.” “The office scene is hot, though! Spill water on him, then pounce, use ‘changing clothes’ as an excuse to get him… where do you come up with this stuff?” My head shot up. Professor Miles’s calm gaze was fixed on my phone screen. Then, his eyes slowly lifted to the cup of water I was clutching in my hands. He smiled. “Are you… going to spill it?” A strange, mortifying silence filled the room. Finally, blushing furiously, I managed to choke out, “I would never do that. You have my word.” 3 After leaving his office, Professor Miles drove me to my parents’ house for dinner. They were thrilled he was back and had cooked a feast. I sat in the passenger seat, feeling like my soul had left my body. My editor was trying to comfort me via text. “Relax. He’s a serious academic. You think he has time to read smut on some little writing platform?” I snuck a glance at him. My heart immediately started doing a frantic tap dance against my ribs. He was focused on the traffic, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the steering wheel. The neon lights of the city washed over his handsome profile, painting him in shifting colors. The air in the car suddenly felt very hot. “He probably thinks I’m a total pervert,” I texted. “Well, aren’t you?” she shot back, along with a screenshot of an illustration I had drawn for the story. The caption read: Professor Miles’s Laundry Day. The top comment: “If you know, you know. He’s doing his own laundry because someone made a mess… and he was happy to do it.” “Someone explain?” a newer comment asked. “Go play somewhere else, kid.” I quickly logged onto the site and posted an update. “Taking a short break, guys. The subject has returned. Please, let’s all be cool.” My fans, however, were anything but. “Let’s go, girl! Get this story to #1 so the Professor can see it!” “A happy author means a happy fandom!” “OMG, this is like a live feed! Author, please, live in my phone!” “We’re here. There’s a car behind us,” Miles’s voice pulled me from my phone. “I didn’t write about a car! You’re mistaken!” I blurted out, shoving my phone away. I looked up and saw his baffled expression. I realized he was talking about the rearview mirror. “So,” he asked, a hint of amused resignation in his voice, “what exactly have you been writing?” “…” Kill me now. I was so flustered that I nearly walked into traffic getting out of the car. Miles grabbed my hand to pull me back. The gentle warmth of his skin and the subtle, woody scent of his cologne was like a spark landing in my palm, spreading a dizzying heat through me. Remembering my disastrous physics grades, I said anxiously, “I’ll study really hard. I promise.” He just grunted in response. Fearing he didn’t believe me, I raised my hand as if taking an oath. “I mean it! I’ll be a model student. Please, just don’t tell my parents about my grades.” He must have seen the genuine panic in my eyes because a soft, helpless laugh escaped him. “Alright,” he said. “I won’t.” His gaze made my heart flutter. Before I could respond, my mother’s booming voice came from the front door. “Talia, what is this you posted online? ‘Used to be scared to tell my parents I was dating, now I’m scared to tell my husband’? What is that supposed to mean?” I froze on the spot. I met Miles’s questioning look and blurted out, “My boyfriend is a fan-art character on a website—” I clamped my mouth shut, nearly biting my tongue. It was fan-art of him, and the thirsty comments were still all over it. Thankfully, he didn’t press for details. He just politely greeted my mom, who immediately forgot her anger and ushered him inside. As we walked in, I heard his low, warm chuckle. “I hope dinner tonight isn’t keeping you from your boyfriend.” “…” I am going to die. That night, to prevent him from finding the story, I frantically deleted comments. My readers were having a field day. “Oh ho, the plot thickens.” “Two minutes and another comment is gone. Don’t worry, I took screenshots. Professor, DM me, I’ll send them for free.” I barely tasted my food. When dinner was over and Miles stood up to leave, I finally breathed a sigh of relief. “You two head home,” my mom said with a loving smile. “Drive safe.” I blinked. “Me too?” “You’re married. If you don’t go home with your husband, where else would you go?” I turned and saw Miles standing by the door, holding my coat, waiting for me. My face went pale. This was a lamb walking willingly into the lion’s den. And so, I was brought to his home. After we’d signed the papers, he’d left for his research fellowship abroad. This was the first night we would ever spend alone together. My heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I stood in the doorway like an ostrich, refusing to go any further. “The master bedroom is that way. Your clothes are in the closet. You can shower first.” I found myself staring at the alluring line of his waist as he bent down to take off his shoes. “So… am I showering alone?” I asked, my face burning. In the dim light, his gaze found mine. “You’re certainly… direct.” I snapped back to my senses and scurried into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. My whole body felt like it was boiling. I could die of embarrassment. After my shower, I furiously texted my friends. “How do you make a man fall hopelessly in love with you?” My roommate replied instantly: “Talia! Look at you go! Already staying out all night, huh? And you’re still thinking about chasing guys?” They sent me a link to a post on the university’s online forum. My “glorious” moment in the lecture hall had gone viral. Someone had uploaded the video. It already had thousands of comments. “HOLY CRAP, TALIA VANCE IS LADY T! You can find her new story, My Wild Days with Professor Miles, on the Crimson Quill platform!” “Are she and the professor for real? Is this, like, a memoir?” “No way! That’s Julian Miles! Ashton’s untouchable Ice King! His failure rate is insane; they call him the Gentle Blade. Talia’s screwed for finals.” “Noooo, my professor’s reputation! He has such a pure, ascetic face, there’s no way he’s like that in private…” My personal social media accounts had been blown up. People were demanding an explanation. Worse, they were flooding Professor Miles’s official university profile page. “Professor Miles, you should sue her. For real.” “Look at what she wrote about you! (See attached screenshot)” Oh god, they were posting excerpts of my story and the fan-art directly on his page. I could feel a heart attack coming on. It was over. There was no hiding it now. Then, Chloe, the most popular girl in my year, chimed in. “But… isn’t Professor Miles married?” She posted a photo. A clear shot of his hand, with the wedding band unmistakable on his ring finger. Chloe added: “I know his wife. I just spoke with her tonight. My cousin said she had no idea about any of this.” The gossip mill went into overdrive. “Wait, you call her your cousin?” “Yes, we’re very close. She said she hopes Talia Vance will stop fantasizing about her husband. It’s making her very uncomfortable.” “By the way, she’s flying back to the States soon. She said she’d like to treat everyone to dinner to thank them for their support.” The tide of public opinion turned in an instant. “Does anyone know this Talia girl? Tell her to stop embarrassing the rest of us.” “The real wife is coming back. The delulu fanfic girl must be terrified now, lol.” Her words were so confident, for a second, I actually doubted myself. Did I dream up my own marriage? I pulled up the digital copy of our marriage certificate on my phone and stared at it. A handsome man, a beautiful woman. A match made in heaven. Even if God himself descended, I was still Julian Miles’s wife. 4 The internet mob was terrifyingly efficient. Within minutes, Professor Miles’s profile page was wallpapered with my writing and drawings. The thought of him seeing it all made me want to spontaneously combust. I had to get to his phone and delete everything before he saw it. Half an hour later, I pushed open his study door, my heart pounding. The room was quiet. He was sitting at his desk, the soft glow from his laptop screen illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He looked up at the sound, his brow furrowing slightly when he saw me standing there, barefoot. “Still awake?” As I got closer, he finally took in my attire—one of his white button-down shirts. Oh god, this looked less like a stealth mission and more like a seduction attempt. A hot blush flooded my face. His gaze traveled slowly down from my collarbone, over my waist, down my thighs, before finally meeting my crimson face. “Talia,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “What is this?” He set his pen down on the desk with a soft click. The small sound sent a shiver down my spine. My legs were shaking. I started babbling nonsense. “I… I was cold. Just looking for something to wear…” He leaned back in his chair, a half-smile playing on his lips. “This is a study,” he reminded me, his tone laced with amusement. My eyes locked onto his phone, sitting on the corner of the desk. Steeling myself, I swung my leg over and sat on the desk, right in front of him. I managed to snatch the phone. In doing so, I blocked the light from his small desk lamp. His face was instantly plunged into shadow, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, his voice, now husky and deep, drifted out of the darkness. “Talia, you are currently sitting on your physics homework.” “Do you have any idea what this behavior constitutes?” I held my breath, planting a foot on his thigh for balance. “Um, what? I’m just…” In a flash, he was on his feet, his hands on either side of me, trapping me against the desk. Click. He turned off the lamp. Darkness swallowed the room whole. I was enveloped in that woody scent, and before I could react, a strong hand curved around my waist. His voice was a hot breath against my ear. “You’re showing contempt for classroom decorum.” “And disrespecting your professor.” “And, you’ve managed to get your own homework wet.” “I have never had such a difficult student.” There was a hint of censure in his cool tone now. My body went limp. I rested my forehead against his shoulder, on the verge of crying from pure shame. “I’m sorry, Professor…” “I don’t accept apologies. Look at me.” The command was absolute. The moment I lifted my head, his mouth was on mine. Fireworks exploded behind my eyes. My hands scrabbled uselessly at his shirt as I surrendered completely to his aggressive conquest. In the darkness, he paused, his voice laced with a helpless amusement. “You really do have a thing for my shirts, don’t you?” My breathing was ragged, my skin on fire. I was so overwhelmed I thought I was going to pass out. I had pushed his phone aside during the kiss. Suddenly, the screen lit up, a blinding notification cutting through the darkness.

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Eight months pregnant, and I was at the hospital alone for a check-up. As I passed a park bench, I saw my husband, Vincent, who was supposed to be on an overseas business trip. He was kneeling, gently massaging the ankle of his childhood sweetheart, Stella. Vincent, always a man of few words, was now murmuring endless reassurances, making promises to soothe Stella’s petty pouting, letting none of her complaints fall on deaf ears. The sweet nothings I’d never heard from him made her giggle coquettishly. The Vincent I saw then was a stranger, a completely different person from the man I knew. This time, I didn’t collapse. I didn’t rush forward screaming and shouting like I used to. Instead, I slipped the wedding ring from my finger and tossed it onto the side of the road. In the third year of our marriage, I decided I wanted a divorce. 1 It was three in the morning when Vincent finally came home. He froze for a second when he saw me sitting on the sofa, then walked over, the faint scent of another woman’s perfume still clinging to him. “Why are you still up so late? Is the baby kicking up a fuss?” I shook my head and pushed the divorce papers across the coffee table toward him. “Let’s get a divorce.” Vincent let out a soft, weary sigh. He spoke with the casual, placating tone one might use with a child. “Oh, I see. Don’t you think it’s time for bed?” I unlocked my phone, pulled up the photo I’d taken that afternoon, and held it in front of his face. “I saw everything.” He paused for a fraction of a second, his expression unchanging, a familiar look of weary resignation settling on his features—the look that said I was overthinking things, as always. “I just see her as a sister.” With that, he sat down on the sofa opposite me, calmly waiting for the storm to break. He was prepared for the usual scene: me, hysterical and relentless, interrogating him, cornering him, demanding an answer he would never give. He would just sit there, silent, letting me unleash my fury, letting me smash things around the house until I collapsed onto the floor, exhausted. Then, he would shatter my remaining strength with a single, dismissive phrase. “Don’t be dramatic.” He would methodically clean up the chaos I’d created, replacing every broken object with an identical new one, putting everything back in its place. He would help me up, guide me back to our room, and, completely unfazed, even bring me a glass of water. “You must be tired. Have some water. It’ll soothe your throat.” Looking at Vincent’s impassive face, a profound exhaustion washed over me. It all felt so pointless. My emotional turmoil was just a performance to him, and in his eyes, I was no different from a madwoman. The eight-month belly was a heavy, leaden weight, and my legs were swollen and stiff. I calmly pushed myself up from the sofa and presented the signed divorce papers to him again. “Sign it.” My composure seemed to catch him off guard. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then finally relented with a condescending smirk. “Who put you up to this? Playing for such high stakes this time? Aren’t you afraid I’ll actually walk away?” “Fine, I’ll sign. Then you go to bed. Remember the baby.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “We have to go to my parents’ place in a few days. I’ll come and pick you up then.” I knew he wasn’t taking the divorce seriously. He thought that with me being eight months pregnant, an abortion was out of the question. To him, this was just a more sophisticated tantrum than smashing vases. Signing a piece of paper meant nothing; it was just a way to placate me. He scrawled his name with the practiced ease of someone signing a trivial document—messy and indifferent. After signing, he even noticed me struggling to stand and came over to massage my cramping legs, cooing at the baby in my belly. But this time, I was serious. 2 Everyone said I’d married a wonderful man. Mature, stable, and endlessly patient with all my moods. A rising star in the business world with a brilliant future, he was the perfect match for a pampered girl like me. And Vincent played the part perfectly. When we first married, I tried to be the perfect wife. I, who had never cooked a day in my life, tried to make him a meal and nearly burned the kitchen down. As I stood there crying in fear, Vincent came home. He said nothing, just quietly cleaned up the mess. “We have a housekeeper. Just tell her what you want to eat.” The dish I had painstakingly prepared was unceremoniously dumped in the trash. Whenever I clumsily messed something up, whenever I was heartbroken and falling apart, there was no comfort. My feelings were ignored, though he always efficiently fixed the problem. Then he would say: “Crying over something so small is pointless.” I thought that was normal. I thought I was just too clumsy, too sensitive. During my pregnancy, I couldn’t keep anything down. Morning sickness was an all-day affair. The constant nausea and discomfort, a double torment, made my temper increasingly volatile. I’d break down over the smallest things or burst into tears when I caught the scent of an unfamiliar perfume on his clothes. Vincent would just watch. Sometimes, he’d shut me in a room and let me scream and rage, never offering an explanation or a defense. “Pregnant women are sensitive. You’re overthinking it.” And yet, in his own way, he was good to me. He would drive four hours in the middle of the night to get me the specific cream-filled donuts I was craving. He would stand in line for five hours just to buy my favorite cake. He always remembered my cycle, ready with a cup of hot tea and a heating pad. Piece by piece, these gestures built a picture of a perfect, problem-solving husband. But my emotions, never acknowledged, never soothed, were like nails hammered into a board; the slightest touch sent a fresh wave of pain through me, leaving behind a scarred and splintered surface. Looking back on our three years of marriage, I realized I’d become a caricature of a bitter, nagging wife. 3 I packed a bag and went to my best friend’s place. Anna’s jaw dropped when she saw me on her doorstep, pregnant and hauling a suitcase. “You and Vincent had a fight?” she asked, her expression pure disbelief. “No way. It takes two to argue, and Vincent is basically a brick wall. I don’t believe it.” Before I could answer, a small, sweet-smelling bundle of energy launched herself at me. Anna’s four-year-old daughter, Lily, beamed up at me. “Auntie Aria, I missed you so much!” I smiled and stroked her hair. “See? Auntie came to visit you.” Anna gently pulled her daughter back. “You little rascal, be careful! Auntie has a baby in her tummy. Go get her a glass of water.” Watching Lily’s vibrant energy, I instinctively cradled my belly. A faint flutter, a tiny movement, answered my touch. I wondered if my baby would be just like her. I sat down, catching my breath, and got straight to the point. “I got a divorce.” Anna choked on her water. “A divorce? You? I don’t believe it.” “Vincent is so good to you! He remembers every little thing, drives across the state for your cravings, even lets you get away with murder at his company.” “And you,” she continued, “you’re head over heels for him. You analyze every little thing he does, get lost in your thoughts, cry yourself to sleep at the slightest hint of trouble.” “If you two could get a divorce, I’d give up on love entirely.” A tired smile touched my lips. “But that’s not what I wanted. He could handle any problem, but he could never handle my emotions.” “What he felt for me… it wasn’t love. It was a sense of duty.” Anna was speechless, her face etched with concern. “What about the baby? You want your child to be born without a father?” I bit my lip, feeling a wave of uncertainty as my hand went to my stomach again. Seeing my expression, Anna sighed in resignation. “Alright, forget it. Just get some rest for now.” I was drifting in a hazy sleep when a knock on the door startled me awake. A glance at the clock showed it was three in the morning. I opened the door to find Vincent standing there. He was holding a bag. “You didn’t tell me you were staying at a friend’s. You forgot your usual toiletries, and I brought them over, worried you wouldn’t be comfortable. I’ll come back to take you home in a few days.” He then turned to Anna, who had appeared silently behind me. “Pregnant women can be like that,” he said, his tone dripping with false apology. “Please bear with her. I really appreciate you looking after her.” I stared at him. He was so considerate, even bringing a gift for Anna. But he never once asked me why I had left. He just had his one-size-fits-all explanation: she’s pregnant, she’s hormonal, she’s irrational. As Vincent drove away, the passenger-side window rolled down. In the dim glow of the streetlights, I saw her. Stella’s profile. Three in the morning. A man and a woman, alone. A cold, humorless laugh escaped my lips. My heart felt surprisingly calm. So this is what it feels like to be completely numb. If all those unresolved emotions were the fuse, his infidelity was the final, crushing weight that made me certain: I had to get a divorce. 4 The first time I suspected Vincent was cheating was in our second year of marriage, at his company’s annual gala. That night, a torrential downpour swept through the city. I was late because I had been visiting my mother’s grave. Vincent was a man of rigid principles. Punctuality was paramount. So, he left me behind and went to the event by himself. The cemetery was in a remote area. I was soaked to the bone after waiting half an hour in the rain before a car finally stopped for me. By the time I arrived, the gala had already been underway for thirty minutes. I searched everywhere for Vincent but couldn’t find him. I called his assistant, whose voice was hesitant and stammering. “Mr. Blackwood ran into Ms. Stella on the way… she wanted to stop for bubble tea… He’ll probably be here in another half hour.” I waited. Finally, I saw them. Vincent and Stella, arm in arm, strolling into the grand hall. Rage erupted in me. I stormed over, tore Stella away from him, and grabbed the front of his suit jacket. My eyes were red with fury as I confronted him in front of everyone. “So you left me behind to go pick her up?” “Vincent, I am your wife!” Whispers rippled through the crowd. The accusations flew. Vincent, publicly humiliated, didn’t even flinch. Only after I had vented my rage did he speak, his voice smooth and placating. “Aria, Stella is like a sister to me. We grew up together.” He reached for my hand, but I slapped it away. With a sigh of theatrical helplessness, he pulled me into his arms. “My dear wife, you always misunderstand. Isn’t my devotion to you enough? What more do you want from me? Should I tear my heart out for you to see?” He looked out at the guests, his eyes filled with a look of indulgent apology, as if to say, forgive my wife, she has a bit of a temper. The onlookers chuckled knowingly. They saw me as the spoiled princess and him as the doting, world-class husband. Stella chimed in, her voice dripping with innocence. “Aria, please don’t misunderstand. There’s nothing between Vincent and me. If something were going to happen, it would have happened years ago.” I was half-convinced, calmed by Vincent’s gentle reassurances. But the fact that he had broken his own rigid rules for Stella left a deep unease in my heart. It was the first time I had ever seen him bend his principles for anyone. Later, I found out I was pregnant. Vincent’s attitude towards me didn’t change; if anything, he became even more attentive. I let the incident go, but life had another blow waiting for me. I accidentally saw his chat history with Stella on his computer. Their conversation was a constant stream of messages, back and forth, about everything from a stray dog on the street to planning her upcoming birthday. Their chat window was full, vibrant, and alive. I slumped in the chair and opened my chat with him. A month’s worth of my one-sided chatter, my attempts to connect, was met with his terse replies. “Okay.” “Fine.” “Got it.” I had always thought Vincent was just a man of few words. I never realized he saved his words, his stories, and his comfort for someone else. When I brought him lunch at his office, I discovered Stella had become his personal assistant. Vincent seemed rushed when he came out to meet me. As he leaned in, I saw it—a smudge of lipstick on his collar. I don’t remember how I got out of there. All I recall is the image of the overturned lunchbox and Stella crying in Vincent’s arms. It was the first time I had ever seen him comfort someone. He was so gentle, so patient. But I was already pregnant. I didn’t want my child to grow up in a broken home. I didn’t want my child to be without a father. Through countless nights, awake with pain and crying until my pillow was soaked, my spirit completely crumbled. I kept asking myself, what is the point of marriage? Is this what love is supposed to look like? But for the sake of my child, I swallowed the bitter pill and carried on.

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