Category: English

I was scrolling through Reddit when a post from a legal advice forum caught my eye. It was from my cousin, Ashley, who lives with us. [How do I prevent a manipulative cousin from inheriting my parents’ money?] I was confused. Her family lives in a double-wide trailer in Ohio. Why would she think I’d want a piece of that? The comments were what you’d expect: reassuring her that a cousin has no legal claim, that she was worrying over nothing. But then she replied, a little too eagerly: [Are you sure? I mean, we’re first cousins, practically sisters. That’s not a total stranger, legally speaking. Nothing’s ever 100%, right?] And just like that, I understood. The person trying to inherit someone else’s money… was her. 1 Reading the full post from my cousin’s burner account was a gut punch. [I’m an only child (24F). My dad is in international real estate, and my mom is a partner at her firm. We’re in the nine-figure club, so my inheritance is more than enough for several lifetimes.] [The problem is my cousin (23F). She’s lived with us for years. She’s smarter than me, more successful… basically the daughter every parent dreams of. My mom adores her, honestly more than she seems to adore me.] [How do I stop this cousin, who is a huge threat to me, from getting her hands on my family’s estate?] My head was spinning. The family background she was describing was obviously mine. And the “smarter, more successful, more loved” cousin she was pretending to be… was me. She was posting as me to get advice on how she could screw me over. The comment section was a mix of legal advice and common sense: > [OP, you’re probably young. A cousin has zero inheritance rights unless they are specifically named in a will. Relax.] > [Your first priority should be getting her out of your house. She’s freeloading on your family’s resources. The inheritance isn’t a real issue.] But Ashley’s replies were frantic: > [Are you sure? I mean, we’re first cousins, practically sisters. That’s not a total stranger, legally speaking. Nothing’s ever 100%, right?] The commenters were getting annoyed: > [Are you trolling or just legally illiterate? Your parents’ assets have nothing to do with your cousin. This is textbook paranoia.] > [Yeah, the only way is if your parents write her into the will. The chances of that are basically zero.] Ashley kept pushing: > [A will is unlikely. My mom might, but my dad never would. There’s no blood relation. Are there any other ways? Loopholes?] Then, someone posted the comment that changed everything: > [Theoretically, it’s not impossible. In extreme cases, there’s a concept called ‘heir by proxy’ or per stirpes distribution…] Ashley replied instantly: [OMG tell me more! I’m DMing you, please accept. This is urgent.] The thread quickly turned on her: > [Wait a second… it feels like you’re desperately trying to find a way for your cousin to inherit the money.] > [LOL, busted. You’re the cousin, aren’t you?] 2 Across the dinner table, Ashley angrily locked her phone and slammed it face down. My mom finally looked up from her own phone, tapping the table. “Chloe, can you put that away? Look at your cousin. Ashley knows that dinnertime is for family.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “You never FaceTime me when you’re at school,” she continued, her voice layered with guilt. “You’re finally home for the summer. Can’t you just be present? Once Ashley leaves for college next year, how many of these family dinners will we have left?” It was just the three of us at a massive ten-person table. Some “family dinner.” Ashley immediately softened her expression, turning to my mom with a syrupy sweet smile. “Oh, Aunt Linda, Chloe and I are different. When I’m in Europe, I’ll be calling you every single day. You’ll probably get sick of me.” She shot a smug look in my direction. “I mean, it’s just undergrad. How busy can you be? If someone doesn’t have time for a single call, it’s because they don’t want to make time.” 3 She was right. I rarely called my mom. She shipped me off to boarding school in the first grade and had me studying abroad before I was even eighteen. We saw each other a few times a year. We weren’t close. Beyond a quick “I’m alive and well,” I never knew what to say to her. Ashley was a different story. Ever since my uncle had another kid—a boy, of course—my mom brought Ashley, then a senior in high school, to live with us. Since then, this house had been filled with their laughter and inside jokes. Maybe I’m just emotionally detached, but their closeness never really bothered me. My mom supported me financially, giving me the freedom to pursue my master’s at an Ivy League school without worrying about loans. So I didn’t care that she gave Ashley the warmth and attention she never gave me. I didn’t even mind that she was footing the bill for Ashley’s entire life, including her new plan to study abroad. As long as it didn’t affect me, I figured it was her money. If Ashley could keep my mom happy, fine. I was even okay with her getting a nice chunk of cash to start her life. But now, seeing that post, I knew she wasn’t satisfied with a few hundred thousand. She wanted it all. A comment from that thread echoed in my head: Your first priority should be getting her out of your house. Damn right. This greedy parasite had to go. And she wasn’t getting another dime. 4 I casually took a bite of asparagus. “Oh, by the way, Mom. You asked me to look into the university Ashley got into. I did.” I paused for effect. “It’s a diploma mill. An unaccredited online university with a fancy name. Her degree won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on. That eighty-thousand-dollar tuition? You might as well just set it on fire.” My mom froze, a forkful of salmon halfway to her mouth. She shook her head with a weary smile. “Chloe, Chloe. Is this really necessary? Ashley is finally following in your footsteps, trying to better herself. Can’t you just be happy for her?” The story was this: Ashley heard I was starting my master’s program on a full scholarship. The very next day, she quit the preschool teacher job my mom had pulled strings to get her and demanded to be sent abroad, too. She found some shady international admissions agent who, for a hefty fee, got her “accepted” to a dozen garbage schools. From that pile of worthless offers, she picked the one that happened to be in the same city as my university. My mom, clueless, was bursting with pride. She threw Ashley a huge “going away” party, telling all her friends how, with the right support, girls could be just as successful as boys. I didn’t have the heart to burst her bubble then. But things were different now. The truth was better for everyone. 5 Ashley’s usual smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of anger. She scrambled for her phone, pulling up the school’s homepage. “Look with your own eyes!” she spat. “It says right here, this is a centuries-old institution, a sister school to Harvard! It’s located right in the heart of America’s capital, New York City, and has produced five First Ladies! It’s the top choice for socialites! What do you know, anyway?” I couldn’t help but laugh. I turned to my mom. “Mom, what’s the capital of the United States? Do you know?” Ashley rolled her eyes, slapping her forehead dramatically. “Chloe, are you for real? Your school is in New York. You don’t know where the capital is? Oh my god!” My mother, at least, wasn’t that ignorant. Her eyes widened as she snatched the phone, reading the poorly translated English description out loud. Her face was a mask of pure shock and embarrassment. 6 My mom, who had always trusted Ashley implicitly, was furious. She was mortified that Ashley had been so careless and, frankly, so stupid. She immediately contacted a legitimate educational consultant to come up with a real plan. The trip to the fake university was off. But with Ashley’s terrible high school grades and abysmal test scores, the consultant said it would take at least a year of hard work at a community college to even have a chance at a decent four-year school. Ashley stomped her foot, her eyes burning with a hatred so intense it was almost shocking. But this time, it wasn’t directed at me. It was directed at my mother’s retreating back as she rushed off to make calls on Ashley’s behalf. 7 Back in my room, I refreshed the Reddit thread. Ashley was spamming the user who mentioned “heir by proxy.” > [Hello? Are you there? This is an emergency, can you please reply?] > [Hey!! Anyone home? I can’t DM you anymore, you didn’t accept my friend request. Is anyone even alive on this site?!] She was panicking. I logged into my burner account and sent her a private message. [Hi there. I’m a paralegal student specializing in family law and estate planning. I saw your post. My family has a leech of a relative too, so I completely understand your situation. Happy to offer a free consultation if you need to talk.] She replied in seconds. No greeting, no pleasantries. [Can my cousin really inherit my parents’ money? Does it have to happen after they die? How does it work?] She quickly backpedaled. [I mean, I need to know so I can warn my parents. To protect our assets.] I sent a smiley face emoji and deliberately let her stew for a while. My phone started buzzing off the hook. > [What the hell? Where’d you go!?] > [Helloooo? I swear, are you a real paralegal or not? Which school do you go to? I’ll report you!] > [Is this how you run a business? I know it’s free, but I’m still the client! You have zero customer service skills!] After enjoying her meltdown for a few minutes, I finally replied. [So sorry, I was in class. Just got free.] She lectured me for another minute before getting back to her point. [Okay, so I’ve been thinking about a scenario. In my family, only my mom is nice to my cousin. My dad and I are pretty cold to her because she’s so perfect it’s annoying. So, could she sue for emotional distress or something? Claiming years of psychological abuse and demand a piece of the estate as compensation?] I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. I tweaked an AI-generated response and sent it to her. [Ma’am, legally speaking, being ‘cold’ to someone does not constitute abuse, and it certainly has no bearing on property division. The only way she can legally inherit is if your parents explicitly grant her assets in a legally binding will or trust. Without that, her claim has no basis. You don’t need to worry.] 8 Ashley was furious. [Who are you to say that? You’re not a judge! You’re just a student! You don’t know anything!] I sent a laughing emoji. [You’re welcome to consult with a licensed attorney. I’m confident their answer will be the same.] [So you’re saying there’s no way? That’s insane! She lived in our house for eight years! Eight! Even if she’s not family on paper, isn’t there something like ‘common law family’? How can they just cut her out? No way!] In her rage, she’d completely forgotten her cover story. [Ma’am, please calm down. That specific avenue won’t work, but it doesn’t mean all hope is lost. For example, you saw the other commenter mention inheriting ‘by proxy.’] [What does that even mean? Explain it to me. Now.] [It means that if, for example, your mother were to pass away, her mother—your grandmother—would be entitled to a share of her estate. If your grandmother then passed away, that share would go to her children, meaning your uncle. Your uncle could then gift that inheritance to his own child. It’s an indirect route, but it’s a possibility.] I wondered if she was smart enough to follow the logic. Her reply came quickly. [So if my mom dies, my grandma gets her money. Then if grandma dies, my uncle gets the money. And if my uncle gets it, it’s basically mine. Right?] I sent her three thumbs-up emojis. She was a quick study when it came to greed. [Ugh, why do you have to wait for people to die to get inheritance? So annoying. I have to figure this out.] Her last message sounded like she was thinking out loud. I decided to test the waters. I pasted another AI response. [Under state and federal law, homicide carries severe penalties, including life in prison or the death penalty. Even if you were to inherit, the Slayer Rule would legally bar you from receiving any assets from the person you harmed. I understand your frustration, but I strongly advise against any extreme measures. Please consider the legal ramifications.] Ashley didn’t reply. But later that evening, as if on cue, my mom let out a series of loud sneezes in the living room. That was just the beginning. In the days to come, she would learn the true depths of her beloved niece’s malice.

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The fourth time Devon broke up with me, his eyes were glued to another girl’s tear-streaked Instagram story. “Just play along,” he said, his voice low. “She has a weak heart. Can’t handle any stress.” I touched the faded mark on my ring finger where a promise once lived and watched him, my lips pressed into a thin line. He broke up with me every time he found a new target. That way, he said, it wasn’t cheating. His friend snickered. “You really letting her go, Jules? Thea’s been your little shadow since you were kids.” Devon scoffed, cutting a piece of steak and holding it to my lips like I was a pet. “My Thea’s the most obedient girl in the world, aren’t you?” I swallowed the steak, along with the bitter taste in my mouth, and nodded. As I turned away, I heard him make a bet, his voice dripping with confidence. “Give it three days. She’ll be back, hugging her pillow and begging me to take her back.” My phone felt hot in my palm. A new message had just come in. 【Thea, can’t you just let me be there for you?】 I wiped the corner of my mouth, erasing the last trace of pepper sauce, and typed a single word. 【Okay.】 1 The moment the message sent, my phone rang. Every head in the room, including Devon’s, turned to me. Before I could even answer, his friend let out a derisive laugh. “Whoa, I didn’t even know she had a phone. I thought our little Thea, with her social anxiety and all, just stayed locked up in her tower.” “No joke, man. If I hadn’t heard that ringer, I would’ve sworn her only hobby was staring at the front door, waiting for Devon to come home.” “Oh, shit. Then she must’ve seen my comment on Devon’s post about Lana’s ballet performance. The one where I said you two were soulmates. Hope we didn’t hurt your feelings, Thea.” The table erupted in laughter. I stood there, clutching my phone, feeling small and helpless. When he’d had his laugh, Devon tapped his wine glass with a silver fork. “Alright, that’s enough. You keep bullying my Thea like that, and you’ll have to deal with me.” “Right, right. Devon loves his girl the most.” “He may play the field, but Thea’s the one who’s always there.” Their mocking eyes darted toward me, each glance a physical sting. A cold dread washed over me, and I turned to flee. Devon’s hand shot out, grabbing my arm. His other hand went to my neck, yanking off the silver chain I always wore. “Lana loves vintage things. You don’t mind if I let her borrow this for a bit, do you?” His fingernail dug into the half-healed burn on my skin. I’d gotten it two days ago, making soup for him. He didn’t notice the slight wince of pain, just gave me a roguish, charming grin. I looked down at the locket in his palm. Tucked inside was a tiny, folded note he’d written for me on my eighteenth birthday. 【Thea is my life. I love Thea.】 He had given me the chain itself when I was fifteen, on a night of flash floods. He’d carried me on his back out of our collapsing apartment building, and later, he found the chain to soothe my frayed nerves. It was all his, really. What right did I have to say no? “Be my guest.” His friend burst out laughing again. “She’s always so agreeable. You’re a lucky man, Devon.” The air grew thick, suffocating. I wrenched my arm free and ran. I could still hear their booming laughter as the private dining room door swung shut behind me. The call had disconnected. A string of texts followed. 【Thea?】 【What happened? Why aren’t you answering?】 I slid down the cool hallway wall, tears blurring my vision. But I bit my lip, hard. I refused to cry for him again. The “Lana” they were talking about was Lana Thorne, a dance major still in college. Three months ago, Devon had been an honored guest at his alma mater’s centennial celebration. He’d seen her and been instantly captivated. He pursued her relentlessly, showering her with designer bags and luxury cars. He even gave her our promise token. It was a simple red cord bracelet I had braided myself, staying up for a week straight. I had even gone to a special retreat in the mountains to get the thread, hoping to imbue it with blessings. For years, even as it faded, he had never taken it off. But this time, he gave my heart away so easily. Last night, Lana had finally agreed to be with him, on one condition: she wouldn’t be the other woman. So, Devon broke up with me. Again. He swore it was just to fool the girl, that his heart belonged only to me. I had tolerated his cheating, his distractions, a thousand times before. But this time, I was really letting go. My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out. 【Thea? Answer me, please. Don’t make me worry.】 I took a deep breath, composing myself, and typed. 【Elias, I’m ready for a home now.】 Elias’s call came through instantly. I could imagine his excitement, and I knew that in the heat of the moment, people do impulsive things. So I let it ring and sent him a text instead. 【Focus on your business trip. Securing that new equipment for the hospital is too important. No mistakes.】 His reply was instantaneous. 【Yes, ma’am! Counting the seconds until I’m back. Wait for me!】 I let out a small, watery laugh, and the tears I’d been holding back fell like broken pearls. After the “breakup,” I didn’t go back to the house I shared with Devon. I checked into a hotel. Sleep didn’t come easy. In my dreams, Devon flickered between an angel and a demon. We were childhood sweethearts, our families equals in business. Our parents had always planned for us to marry. We fell in love for real when we were older. But then, a cruel twist of fate—a car accident that stole my parents and sent my family’s business into a nosedive. Even though Devon and I had already had our engagement party and set a wedding date, his parents suddenly refused to acknowledge me. But back then, Devon was completely devoted. He fought with his parents, determined to be with me. But after my parents’ death, I shut down. I couldn’t bear to be around anyone. A deep depression set in, and I developed a crippling social anxiety that often left me mute in front of strangers. Devon stayed by my side through it all, his constant presence a lifeline, always trying to make me smile. I was so moved. I thought I would follow him to the end of the earth. Halfway through the dream, the scene shifted violently. Devon had his arm around a new girl, a canary in a golden cage, and he was backing me into a corner, his words sharp and humiliating. His parents burst in, screaming at me, calling me shameless. I woke up with a gasp, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. Outside, a storm raged, thunder shaking the windows. I touched my forehead; it was burning. My phone’s notification light was blinking. It was Lana. A series of risqué selfies, taken in the bed I shared with Devon. I threw the phone aside and curled up under the covers. I don’t know how long I was out, but the ringing of my phone woke me again. It was Elias. “Thea, I miss you so much. I still have another week here…” His voice was a deep, magnetic hum that made me smile. But when I tried to answer, a hoarse croak came out, startling us both. I didn’t want him to worry. I lied and said I just had a small cold and had already made a doctor’s appointment. He sighed in relief, then fussed over me for a few more minutes before hanging up. Worried he might call the hospital to check, I dragged myself out of bed and called a cab. By the time I ran into the emergency room, I was soaked. Before my number was even called, a group of immaculately dressed young women cornered me in the hallway. They held up their phones, live-streaming. “Hey everyone, we’re Lana’s girl squad, and you’re not going to believe who we found! This is the home-wrecker who’s trying to steal Lana’s man!” “We’re here today to pay our respects! Smash that like button, everyone! Let’s get this home-wrecker trending!” They shoved and pushed me. I shrank against the wall, clutching my wet clothes, struggling to breathe. “Get a good look at her, people! Keep your men away from this viper!” One of them grabbed my chin, forcing my face into the camera. I tried to push them away, biting my lip in humiliation. “You bitch! How dare you fight back? We’re not saying anything that isn’t true!” “Lana’s too nice to deal with you herself, so we’ll teach you a lesson for her!” My shirt ripped. I tried desperately to cover myself, shaking my head wildly. I looked around for help, but the onlookers just watched, captivated by the drama. Just as despair set in, Devon appeared. He was backlit by the hospital lights, a savior striding toward me. A wave of relief and sorrow washed over me. “Devon…” I choked out, my voice thick with tears. “Help me…” He shot me a look of pure venom, then rushed past me to shield Lana, who was standing off to the side, silently crying. “Thea, did you have to follow her here? She just had heart surgery!” The taste of blood filled my mouth, sharper and more bitter than the day his mother had slapped me. I curled into a ball against the wall, my body shaking uncontrollably. “Devon, I don’t feel well. Can you take me to see the doctor?” Lana murmured, leaning against him. Perhaps because I was so silent, Devon finally deigned to look at me. The moment his eyes met mine, Lana clutched her chest and collapsed into his arms. His attention snapped back to her. He scooped her up and strode toward the examination room, his face etched with worry. As he carried her away, Lana glanced over his shoulder and gave me a triumphant smirk. Her friends followed, chins held high. The show was over. The crowd dispersed. All I could hear was the drumming of the rain. Staring out at the storm, my mind drifted back to when I was eighteen. Devon, covered in blood, had carried me on his back to this very clinic. He was so exhausted his lips were white, and he stumbled several times, but he never loosened his grip, whispering softly in my ear. “Don’t be afraid, Thea. I stabbed the guy who hurt you. I’m here. No one will ever hurt you again.” His young back wasn’t broad, but it was my entire world, my sanctuary. I had clung to him, my voice a faint whisper in reply. We made it to the clinic, and he collapsed before I did. The doctor checked me over. “You just have some scrapes. Your boyfriend, on the other hand… he has multiple stab wounds. The one on his side is serious. He’s lucky you got here when you did.” The boy who would have died for me was now protecting another woman, spewing poison at me. The image of him carrying her away shattered the memory of the boy who had once carried me. I lowered my head, no longer wanting to watch. In my heart, I said goodbye to him, and to the girl I used to be. My number was called. As I approached the examination room, I saw that the doctor on duty was a good friend of Elias’s. The thought of my pathetic state getting back to Elias was unbearable. I covered my face and fled. Outside, the storm still raged. I took a cab back to the hotel, stripped off my wet clothes, and tried to bring my fever down with a cool cloth. The phone on the bathroom counter lit up. It was Devon. “Thea, where the hell are you? How did you even know Lana had a follow-up appointment today? If I hadn’t gotten there in time, you would have bullied her into another heart attack!” I didn’t argue. I just hung up. A second later, a notification popped up. A new post from Devon. 【A new beginning.】 The picture was of him and Lana kissing. Around her delicate, white neck was my silver chain. I liked the post. Then I unfollowed him. A message from Elias came through immediately. 【Thea, you lied to me. I called the hospital. My colleague said you never checked in. How are you feeling?】 A warmth spread through my chest. I typed and deleted several messages before finally settling on one. 【I’m fine now. Just took some fever reducer and feeling a little sleepy. Focus on your work. Don’t worry about me.】 The phone went quiet. I smiled. Elias was always so considerate. The future head of the prestigious Thorne Medical Group, a man worth billions, yet he always listened to me. I had Devon to thank for meeting Elias. If it hadn’t been for his constant cheating, his endless breakups for other women, the crushing weight of it all wouldn’t have driven me to seek therapy. And I never would have met Dr. Elias Thorne. He was a top psychiatrist, yet he chose to see patients at his family’s private clinic out of a genuine desire to help. At first, it was just a professional relationship. He was my confidant, the one person I could talk to about the emptiness in my life. He was the only person I could talk to. As time went on, my visits became more frequent, my condition worse. Elias was baffled. In his entire career, he’d never had a patient who deteriorated under his care. It made him focus on me even more, and somewhere along the way, his professional concern blossomed into something deeper. I had rejected his advances at first. But after Devon’s latest, most public betrayal, I finally saw things clearly. I accepted Elias. I waited until the sky cleared before I went back to the house. I just wanted to pack my things and leave, but when I put my key in the lock, it wouldn’t turn. The lock had been changed. I stood there for a moment, stunned, and pulled out my phone to call Devon. But then the door swung open. Devon’s mother stood in the entryway, flanked by a team of maids, looking at me with disdain. “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. The trash my son finally threw out. What are you doing back here? Trying to steal something while he’s not home?” My hands twisted the hem of my shirt. “Mrs. Vance, I just…” “Shut up!” She cut me off with a wave of her hand and gestured to the maids. “Throw her things out.” My suitcases were tossed out onto the muddy lawn. My most prized possession, a sketchbook, landed in a puddle. Every page was filled with drawings of Devon. I had been learning to draw for ten years, all for him. But he was ashamed of my “pathetic little hobby,” and he never let me tell anyone about it. Even when a well-known art critic saw some of my sketches online and offered to mentor me, Devon had belittled my talent until I gave up the opportunity. I bit my lip and knelt to rescue my drawings. As I picked up the soaked book, a piece of paper fell out from between the pages. A letter, in Elias’s elegant script. “Thea’s eyes are like shattered stars.” I must have brought the sketchbook to one of my sessions. I had no idea when he’d slipped it in. The tears came, hot and fast. Devon’s mother stood over me, her voice dripping with contempt. “What are you crying for? So unlucky! The Vance family took care of you for ten years. That’s more than enough charity. Now get lost!” She shoved me, grabbing my arm and trying to drag me away. I clutched the letter, letting the mud stain my clothes, my skin, my everything. On the third day after our “breakup,” Devon called. “Thea. Have you learned your lesson?” His voice was scolding. I said nothing. After a long, tense silence, he chuckled. “You’re still the same. So jealous. You can’t stand to see me with any other girl. I told you, I was just having a little fun. I would have come back to you when I was done. Did you have to be so vicious and go after Lana?” A lump formed in my throat. I wanted to scream, to defend myself, but the words wouldn’t come. “Forget it. It’s pointless trying to reason with you. Since you refuse to change, you can keep reflecting on your mistakes. When you finally realize you were wrong, I’ll come back.” The line went dead. I let out a bitter laugh and blocked his number. I had missed three days of work. I went to the Vance Corporation building during my lunch break to resign. But before I could even speak to my manager, the head of HR found me. She slapped a termination notice on my desk. “Mr. Vance said to give you this when you showed up,” she sneered. My colleagues, who should have been at lunch, were all at their desks, watching the show. Their stares felt like physical blows, and I found it hard to breathe again. I scrambled to pack my things, desperate to escape. Just then, a delivery man walked in. “A Miss Thea Collins? I have a delivery for you.” He placed a massive bouquet of fiery red roses in my arms. I found the small card tucked inside. 【Thea, a friend of mine needs an illustrator for her gallery. The job is yours whenever you’re ready.】 It was from Elias. My boring clerical job had been Devon’s idea. I hated it, but I did it to make him happy. None of my colleagues liked me, but I gritted my teeth and did my work. But Elias… he always told me to just be myself. With his encouragement, the contemptuous stares of my colleagues didn’t seem to hurt so much. I put the flowers down and swept everything off my desk—pens, papers, pictures, everything—into the trash can. Including a framed photo of me and Devon. The HR manager’s jaw dropped. I picked up the roses and walked out without a backward glance. I was about to call Elias to thank him when my phone rang. It was Devon, from a new number. He was screaming. “Thea! Lana just collapsed and was rushed to the hospital! What did you do to her this time?!” Staring at the unfamiliar number, I found my voice. “Devon, if you have a problem with your eyes, go see a doctor. Stop using me as your punching bag. We are broken up.”

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Julian Wilson was unlike any other titan in New York. When the paparazzi caught him in a fender-bender with his latest lover in the passenger seat, he didn’t get angry. Instead, he flashed a grin and gave the photographers a friendly tip. “Remember, for stuff like this, you call my wife. She handles the checks.” The tabloid reporters would share a knowing smile. “Mrs. Wilson has the patience of a saint. A hundred of them, and she doesn’t bat an eye.” But they also remembered the day Julian Wilson married me in a wedding that was the talk of the decade. They remembered how he’d spoken to them in a low, almost hushed tone, shielding me from the flashbulbs. “My wife… she’s a little shy. Please don’t frighten her.” That was only seven years ago. In that time, the shy Mrs. Wilson had learned to claw and fight with his mistresses, to sign one check after another. Scandal containment: a million. A discarded lover: five million. A life-ending secret, an abortion: ten million. And so, as the world held its breath, waiting for the check that would accompany mistress number one hundred, I pushed open the heavy oak door to the Wilson matriarch’s private study. “We had a deal,” I said. “When he reached number one hundred, I would walk.” 1 When the reporter slid the glossy photo of Julian kissing another woman across the table, I didn’t even flinch. I simply stood, went upstairs, and opened the door. Matilda Wilson turned in her chair as if she’d been expecting me. She watched me with the calm, assessing gaze of a woman who had won this war a generation ago. My feelings for her were… complicated. “Have you made up your mind?” she asked. “Yes.” I pushed the signed separation agreement across her desk, my eyes lowered. “Thank you, Mother, for taking care of me all these years.” She let out a long sigh and shook her head. “Leave whenever you’re ready.” I can still hear her words from seven years ago, the day I first stepped into the Wilson mansion as its new mistress. She had looked at me with an expression that was half-pity, half-knowing. “Loving him is easy, Vivian. Keeping him is the hard part.” I was too young, too in love to understand then. It was only after Julian’s scandals began piling up at my door, one after another, that I finally understood her warning. It wasn’t a prophecy; it was a history lesson. Leaving her study, I took a deep breath. The butler was directing staff to bring in a new delivery of gift boxes. The latest Parisian couture, the ‘Heart of Eternity’ diamond from a Christie’s auction, and a pair of crystal slippers Julian had spent six months commissioning for me. On the sole, etched in his own handwriting, were the words: J, for my only love, V. My only love? What a bitter joke. Every woman in Manhattan envied me the penthouse apartment I used just to store these tokens of his affection. To me, they were nothing but trophies of his infidelity. Each gift marked another betrayal. In the beginning, I believed him every time he apologized. I believed he would change, that he hadn’t inherited his father’s insatiable appetite for women. But the gifts kept coming, and I felt myself withering, petal by petal, until I was nothing but rot pressed into the mud. “Do you like them?” Julian’s arms wrapped around me from behind. I smelled an unfamiliar scent of orchid on his collar. It was the signature fragrance of mistress number one hundred, Isabella Rossi. She fancied herself a rare flower, a stark contrast to me, who, in her words, reeked of the vulgar smell of money and checks. I shifted away from his touch. He stumbled slightly, the smile on his face faltering for a second before he caught my hands, his fingers lacing through mine. “Still not used to it after all this time?” he murmured. “Alright, let me change. We’ll have dinner together.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek, completely missing the small object I held clenched in my palm. I was about to say something. But he had already turned. His polished leather shoe came down, stepping directly on the plastic pregnancy test I’d dropped. The two faint lines on its screen were a secret he would never know. He kicked it aside like a piece of trash. His brow furrowed in disgust. “What is this filth doing in the house? Someone, get in here!” In that moment, I couldn’t tell if he was talking about the test, or about me and the child in my womb. A heavy, crushing pain settled in my chest. I couldn’t even make a fist. Julian noticed nothing. When he sat down again, he brought up an old topic. “Let’s put Isabella on your team. If you’re managing her, I won’t have to worry.” Isabella was the daughter of one of their maids. He’d personally mentored her, brought her into the company, and had been pushing for weeks to place her on my project team. I’d refused every time, not wanting a daily reminder of his affair. But this time, I simply smiled. “Alright.” 2 He looked surprised, but his surprise was quickly replaced by delight. He lifted my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles. “Darling, I knew you’d be understanding.” The happy curve of his lips should have been familiar, but it felt like I was looking at a stranger. During my four years at Columbia, whenever people whispered that I was the bastard daughter of a showgirl, that I was dirty and cheap, he had always been the one to stand in front of me. He was the one who took me to see the stars from a Brooklyn rooftop, the one who carried me through the streets in the dead of night when my appendix burst, his shirt soaked with sweat and his feet bleeding by the time we reached the hospital. As I lay in the hospital bed, I had asked him, my eyes red, “How can I ever repay you?” He just smiled. “I don’t want repayment. Just be my partner. Just be understanding.” Later, when I was held up at knifepoint during a shopping trip, he’d talked the mugger into taking him as a hostage instead of me. I was unharmed. He took three stab wounds to the arm and chest, yet he was the one wiping away my tears. “Don’t cry. I don’t want your tears. Just marry me. Just be my understanding wife.” I never could have imagined what “understanding” truly meant to him. It wasn’t about being a good partner in business or a supportive wife at home. It was about accepting and cleaning up the endless messes from his affairs. Julian’s initial joy was followed by a flicker of suspicion. “You’ve always said no before. Why the sudden change of heart?” My gaze drifted to the corner where the broken pregnancy test lay in the dust. I gave a faint, empty laugh. “I’m tired,” I said. “I don’t want to fight anymore.” Not for him, not for this family. Whoever wanted the title of Mrs. Wilson could have it. “If only you’d realized that sooner! Which of my friends doesn’t have a girl in every borough? Your own father played the field back in the day, didn’t he? And your mother never said a word!” It was true. My mother never said a word. She and my father met on the mainland. After I was born, he came to New York to make his fortune. When he had enough, he brought us over. For a while, he was the perfect husband, the perfect father. Until my fifteenth birthday. That was the day my mother discovered his other family, his other son who was exactly my age. She had screamed, a raw, hysterical sound, and grabbed my father by his collar. “Why? How could you do this to us?” He shoved her away and pointed a finger in her face. “A cheap showgirl has no right to question me! If you hadn’t given me a useless girl, do you think I would have needed to find other women?” He turned and kicked me hard, spitting in my face. “Useless. What a waste of space.” Later that night, my mother stabbed my father twenty-three times. Then, she killed herself. She died at my feet. The blood was still warm. It has been my nightmare ever since. There was a time when Julian would have threatened to kill anyone who even dared to bring it up. Now, he could toss my trauma out like a casual joke to shut me up. I wondered how many times he’d shared this story with his lovers, with his friends, all of them laughing at my expense. Seeing the look on my face, he finally had the decency to back down, offering a weak apology. “Sorry. My mistake. Slipped out.” The pain came in waves, so intense it made me tremble. I said nothing. I didn’t even look at him. Just as he started to move toward me, his phone rang. He picked it up and walked out of the room. I heard him murmur the word “baby” with a tenderness that used to be reserved only for me. I once thought it was my special name. I later learned he called every one of them “baby.” The sound of their flirting, muffled through the wall, was like a thousand tiny needles in my ears. I remembered my first year at Wilson Industries. I couldn’t make sense of the financial reports. He’d pull me onto his lap and go through them with me, giving me a playful bite on the shoulder for every mistake I made. Back then, we were the golden couple of the New York elite. Then came the first mistress. I fought. I screamed. I threatened divorce. He would promise it would never happen again, but his nights were still filled with parties and other women. I cried until I was empty, and he would stand there, refusing to sign the papers, yelling, “My father was like this! My uncles are like this! Every man I know is like this! What did I do that’s so wrong?” I, a Columbia graduate, became a shrieking harpy, turning our home into a warzone. Finally, his mother summoned me to her study. “It’s useless,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “Infidelity is in the Wilson blood.” “But I will give you a choice. Wait until he’s had his one-hundredth affair. After that, whatever you decide to do, I will support you.” She thought I would become like her: numb, resigned, and eventually, accepting. But I became Mrs. Wilson because I loved Julian. I didn’t love Julian because I wanted to be Mrs. Wilson. Without love, I didn’t want the man. I should have been numb by now. But as my eyes fell on the two-meter-long portrait of me in my wedding dress hanging over our bed—a mosaic he’d spent three months piecing together, his eyes red with exhaustion—and I heard him on the phone, patiently coaching his new lover on how to handle tomorrow’s investors’ briefing, the absurdity of it all was overwhelming. I wiped a tear from my eye, pulled a suitcase from the closet, and began to pack. Julian walked back in, a smile on his face. The smile vanished. “Where are you going?” 3 “I was thinking of a trip. Europe, maybe.” He looked me over and nodded to himself. “Good idea. Let Isabella handle things here. You go and relax.” The next day, the annual investors’ briefing was packed. Every partner of Wilson Industries was there. Isabella, dressed in a sharp power suit, commanded the stage, all traces of the timid girl who used to call me “ma’am” gone. Julian sat beside me, beaming with pride. Suddenly, the massive screen behind Isabella went black. A moment later, it flickered back to life, not with charts and figures, but with the unmistakable sounds of a couple in the throes of passion. An image appeared—Isabella, entangled in bed with a man. Although their faces were blurred, everyone in the room knew exactly who that man was. Isabella covered her face and ran from the stage, pushing through the stunned crowd to throw herself into Julian’s arms. She looked at me, her face streaked with tears. “Mrs. Wilson… Vivian… I know you’re angry, I know you look down on me, but how could you risk the Wilson legacy for your own petty jealousy?” With one sentence, she made me the villain. I looked directly at Julian. “Do you also believe I did this?” He didn’t answer me. He just held Isabella, murmuring words of comfort. After a long moment, he finally looked up, his eyes filled with a mixture of disgust and disappointment. “So that’s why you agreed so easily yesterday! You had this planned all along!” he hissed. “You came from nothing, Vivian. How can you be so cruel to her? We’re all selling something in this world. What makes you so much better than her?” He let out a cold, humorless laugh. “Don’t you forget, I made one Vivian Thorne. I can just as easily make another Isabella Rossi!” The air was thick with whispers and mocking laughter. I thought after seven years, I was immune. I thought I had cried all my tears and felt all the pain there was to feel. But his words… they churned something toxic inside me. I opened my hand, wanting to show him I didn’t have the remote, that it wasn’t me. The moment my hand moved, Isabella shrieked and recoiled. “Vivian, no! Don’t hit me! I’m sorry! I’ll never see Julian again, I promise, just please don’t hit me!” Julian’s face darkened. He grabbed her arm and yanked up her sleeve. The crowd gasped. Isabella’s arm was a canvas of ugly bruises and what looked like whip marks. In an instant, Julian’s eyes went red. He pulled the trembling woman into a fierce embrace and barked an order at his bodyguards. “Make her kneel.” I struggled, screaming, “Julian, calm down! It wasn’t me!” He sneered. “I’ve been too calm. I’ve given you too much respect, and it’s turned you into a monster. Today, I’m going to teach you how to be a proper Wilson wife.” As he finished speaking, a bodyguard stepped forward with a riding crop. The whip cracked through the air. The people around us just watched, some of them even starting to count. “One… two… three…” My face and limbs were pinned to the floor. Blood, mixed with tiny flecks of skin, splattered in front of my eyes. The pain on my back was a fire, burning its way straight into my soul. The man who once rode a bicycle with me through Central Park at dawn, the man who once whispered “don’t be afraid” as he shielded me with his own body, the man who knelt outside the library at Columbia and swore he would love me for a lifetime… that man was finally, irrevocably shattered. Tears streamed down my face. When Julian saw my tears, he flinched as if he’d been burned and took a step back. “Mr. Wilson, that’s one hundred,” a guard said quietly. “Any more and you might kill her.” He waved a dismissive hand, his brow furrowed. “Enough! Get her to a hospital.” As they loaded me onto a stretcher, I saw Isabella, still nestled in Julian’s arms, flash me a triumphant smile.

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My name was written on a card and dropped into a box. And just like that, I, Sloane Richmond, a scholarship student at the prestigious Blackwood University, became the new prey in the latest round of a hunting game played by the school’s untouchable elite. The one tasked with my taming was the student body president himself, Landon Cole. He pursued me like something out of a romance movie: gentle, attentive, and obscenely generous. Everyone on campus whispered that I was about to hit the jackpot, to become his pampered little thing. They placed bets behind my back, wagering on how hard I’d be crying on the final day of the one-month deadline. But none of them knew. The most dangerous predators are the ones who appear as prey. I came to this university with a single purpose: to evaluate the character of my potential fiancé. And now, the evaluation was over. 1 My name is Sloane Richmond. In the Blackwood University archives, I am, for all intents and purposes, a charity case. On the first day of school, my roommate, Nina, pulled me aside to give me a hushed, conspiratorial rundown of the Blackwood survival guide. “Sloane, you have to remember, there are two kinds of people at this school.” She lowered her voice, nodding toward a red Ferrari peeling away from the curb outside our window. “There are people like us, who fought tooth and nail just to get in.” “And then there are them,” she said. “The heirs, who show up to class in supercars.” “And that circle, the one led by student president Landon Cole… you have to stay as far away from them as you possibly can.” Nina’s expression was dead serious. “They’re monsters, Sloane. Actual monsters.” “They love this disgusting game they call the ‘Kingfisher Draw.’” My hand, holding a glass of water, froze mid-air. I looked at her. “What kind of game?” Seeing my casual curiosity, Nina’s voice trembled with urgency. “They collect the names of pretty, normal girls on campus—girls without money. They write them on cards and put them in a box.” “Whichever girl one of the rich guys draws, he has one month to make her fall completely and hopelessly in love with him.” Nina’s face was a mask of disgust and fear. “And on the last day, in front of everyone, he dumps her in the most humiliating way he can think of.” “They call it ‘taming the prey.’ The winner is the one whose prey cries the hardest during the breakup.” She gripped my arm, her knuckles white. “Last semester, a junior from our department was chosen. A month later, she found out she was pregnant.” “The guy’s fiancée showed up and slapped her in front of a crowd, called her a whore.” “The junior… she couldn’t take it. She jumped from the top of the humanities building. She and the baby… both gone.” “So, Sloane, you’re so beautiful. Please, just be careful. Don’t let them notice you.” I reached out and patted her tense shoulder. “Don’t worry,” I said, offering a placid smile. “I’m just here to study.” Nina looked into my eyes and, for some reason, shivered. That night, in a private suite at the exclusive Aurelian club. Isabelle Beaumont giggled, shaking a polished wooden box. “Landon, darling, it’s your turn! Let’s see which lucky girl gets to be graced by your attention.” Landon Cole was draped across a velvet sofa, swirling a glass of red wine, the picture of lazy, aristocratic boredom. He glanced at the box without a flicker of interest. Undeterred, Isabelle pushed the box right under his nose, her voice thick and sweet like honey. “Come on, Landon, just draw! I put a real prize in there for you this time.” “Scholarship student from the art department. Name’s Sloane Richmond. Looks like an absolute angel. Imagine the satisfaction of winning her over just to break her.” Hearing this, a slow smile spread across Landon’s face. He reached out and plucked a card from the box. On it, in elegant script, was the name: Sloane Richmond. He stared at the card, his smile deepening with meaning. “Alright,” he said, his voice a low purr. “This month, let’s play with her.” From that day on, my quiet university life was suddenly spectacular. Everywhere I went, I “happened” to run into the student body president. Lining up in the cafeteria, he’d appear behind me, insisting on swiping his card for me. “Come on, fate brought us together in the lunch line. It’s on me.” Studying in the library, he’d sit across from me. The moment I frowned at a textbook, a note would slide across the table with the solution neatly written out, accompanied by a bright, effortless smile. I went to the artisanal coffee shop my father had opened for me just outside campus, deciding on a whim to learn how to work the espresso machine. Landon, assuming I was a struggling barista, promptly bought out the entire day’s inventory of cold brew, handing it out to strangers just so I could get off my shift early. “Don’t work so hard,” he murmured, his voice laced with concern. “A woman’s hands aren’t meant for this.” It took every ounce of my self-control not to let my eyes roll all the way into the back of my head. Within a week, the entire campus was buzzing. The student president was relentlessly pursuing the scholarship student, Sloane Richmond. I became the target of every girl’s envy, jealousy, and hatred. Every time I went back to my dorm, Nina would look at me with the sorrowful eyes one reserves for a lamb being led to slaughter. “Sloane! I told you to stay away from him!” I threw my hands up in mock helplessness. “I don’t know how he does it! He just… appears.” “You can’t fall for it!” Nina stomped her foot. “He’s just playing with you!” I nodded, my face a perfect portrait of sincerity. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.” Of course I knew. Every time Landon performed one of his grand, romantic gestures, I could see Isabelle and her little posse in the distance, phones held up, recording everything. Let them film. My good side is all 360 degrees of them. Then came the invitation to Isabelle Beaumont’s birthday party at the Aurelian. Landon texted, asking me to be his date. I deliberately played my part. That place is way too expensive. I don’t have anything to wear. Ten minutes later, he was standing outside my dorm building holding a garment bag from a ridiculously high-end designer. Inside was a starlit blue evening gown with a price tag that could cover four years of tuition. “Wear this,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Tonight, you’re the princess.” Gasps erupted from the girls watching from their windows. “Oh my god, is that a custom D’Amore? That dress costs more than a new car!” “Sloane Richmond is the luckiest girl alive!” I had to physically restrain myself from crying with laughter. The price tag was almost as much as one of my favorite pairs of silk pajamas. I changed into the dress and walked into the Aurelian on Landon’s arm. The club was my eighteenth birthday present from my father, one of the more modest properties in my portfolio. As we entered, the general manager’s eyes lit up. He recognized me instantly and started forward, about to bow. I shot him a single, sharp glance. The man was a consummate professional; he pivoted smoothly and went to greet another guest as if nothing had happened. The birthday girl, Isabelle, saw me, and the jealousy in her eyes was a tangible thing. “Sloane, you look absolutely beautiful. Landon has such exquisite taste.” She paused, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But you should be careful in a rented dress. If you damage it, you could never afford to replace it.” I just smiled and said nothing. Throughout the party, Landon was the perfect gentleman. He intercepted drinks for me, cut my filet mignon, and draped his suit jacket over my shoulders when I feigned a shiver. Every detail was flawlessly executed, a scene from a Hollywood script. He pulled me before his friends, introducing me with an air of possession. “This is my girlfriend, Sloane.” His friends cheered and offered congratulations, their eyes glinting with derision and amusement. I stood there like a well-dressed doll, playing my part in his production. Midway through, I excused myself to go to the restroom. Just as I reached the corner, I heard Isabelle’s voice drift from the hallway. “Izzy, don’t you think Landon’s going a little overboard this time? A custom D’Amore gown? Is it possible he’s actually serious?” Isabelle let out a sharp, ugly laugh. “Are you kidding? My brother bought me that dress. Landon just borrowed it.” “After he’s done with her, that little charity case is going to have to take it off and give it back to me.” “It’s like fishing, you know? The more expensive the bait, the more satisfying the catch.” Another girl chimed in obsequiously. “You’re a genius, Izzy! Letting the poor girl wear Cinderella’s glass slippers for a night, only to smash them yourself. God, that’s going to be epic.” Isabelle’s voice was dripping with venomous glee. “Just you wait. The month is almost up. When the time comes, I’m going to make her strip that dress off in front of the entire school, crying her pathetic little eyes out.” Around the corner, in the shadows, I pressed the ‘stop recording’ button on my phone. After Isabelle’s party, Landon’s romantic offensive grew even more intense. Every morning, he was waiting outside my dorm with an elaborate breakfast. He skipped his own advanced economics seminars to sit with me through my boring required art history lectures. When I dozed off, he would secretly draw a tiny cartoon pig on the palm of my hand. On the day I had casually invented as my birthday, he presented me with a diamond necklace in front of all my roommates. Nina’s jaw dropped. She dragged me onto the balcony, her face etched with worry. “Sloane, be honest with me. You’re not actually falling for him, are you?” My fingers grazed the diamonds at my throat. I gave her a reassuring smile. “Of course not.” “Then why are you accepting something so expensive?” Nina’s voice was strained with panic. “With guys like him, everything they give, they expect back with interest! How are you ever going to pay for that?” I patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry.” “He’s going to regret it.” The next day, Nina and I were having lunch in the cafeteria. Isabelle, flanked by her friends, walked past our table carrying a tray. With a flick of her wrist, a bowl of scalding hot tomato soup came tipping toward me. I dodged, but the hot liquid still splashed across my arm. “Ah!” Nina screamed, frantically grabbing napkins to dab at my skin. Isabelle looked down at me, her expression one of pure contempt. “Oops. So sorry. My hand slipped.” Her eyes scanned my simple white t-shirt. “You get that thing from a thrift store for five bucks? Here.” She pulled three hundred-dollar bills from her wallet and tossed them on the table as if feeding a stray dog. “That’s three hundred. Should be enough to buy you a whole new wardrobe.” I had to clench my fists under the table. That blind fool. This one t-shirt was worth more than her entire tacky outfit. I had specifically chosen it from my closet full of bespoke clothing as my most “understated” piece, and she had just ruined it. Oh, Dad, I thought, the things your daughter endures for the sake of the family business. Just then, a figure charged through the crowd. Landon shoved Isabelle aside with enough force to make her stumble. He rushed to my side, his face a mask of frantic concern. “Are you okay? Did it burn you? How bad is it?” He whirled on Isabelle, his voice like thunder. “Isabelle, are you insane? Apologize to Sloane. Now.” Isabelle’s eyes instantly filled with tears. “Landon, darling, it was an accident.” “I said, apologize!” Startled by his fury, she mumbled a resentful, “Sorry.” The word was barely out of her mouth before Landon swept me up into his arms, princess-style, and strode toward the campus clinic as the entire cafeteria stared. “I’m so sorry, Sloane,” he whispered, his voice tight with emotion. “I should have protected you.” I lowered my gaze, letting my shoulders tremble. “It’s not your fault,” I whimpered, my voice thick with unshed tears. He held me even tighter. “Sloane, trust me. No one will ever dare to bully you again.” I rested my head against his chest. The cloying scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the acidic smell of tomato soup was truly nauseating. If Dad knew I’d gotten hurt playing this stupid game… But it was alright. The observation period was almost over. The one-month deadline finally arrived. I received a text from Landon. Lover’s Point. Tomorrow at 7 PM. I’ll be waiting. There’s something important I need to tell you. Okay, I texted back, adding a smiley face. I’ll bring a gift for you, too. It’s a surprise I prepared just for you. 😉 Nina saw my reply and started pacing like a caged animal. “Sloane, are you crazy? You’re actually going? He’s obviously going to dump you, and you’re bringing him a gift?” “I know,” I said calmly. “That’s why I prepared such a grand one for him.” A gift he would remember for the rest of his life. The next evening, I went to Lover’s Point as planned. Landon was already there, looking like a prince straight out of a fairy tale. Beneath his familiar, gentle smile, I could see the glint of a hunter’s excitement. In the shadows of the trees, I caught the tell-tale glint of phone screens. Isabelle and the rest of the Kingfisher Draw players were already in position. “Sloane,” he began, his voice heavy with fake regret. “I’ve thought about this a lot. I think… I think we should break up.” “Our families are just from two different worlds. My mother would never approve. It breaks my heart to do this, but it’s better to make a clean break now.” “It’s for your own good. You’re a wonderful girl, and I hope you find someone who can actually marry you one day.” He delivered the lines with such heartfelt sincerity; he really had a future in low-budget soap operas. But if it was a performance he wanted, I was more than happy to oblige. “So… this whole month?” I asked, my voice trembling as I looked up at him, my eyes shimmering with tears. “Everything you did for me, all the kindness… it was all just a game, wasn’t it?” Landon’s face broke into a cruel, unconcealed smirk. “Since you’ve already figured it out, I guess I can drop the act.” “That’s right. It was a game. Sloane, did you really think I could ever fall in love with some poor little scholarship girl?” He pointed a finger at the dress I was wearing, then at the necklace on my neck, and sneered. “Do you think you’re worthy of any of this?” “Now, the game is over.” “Give back what doesn’t belong to you. Especially that diamond necklace. I was planning on giving that to Isabelle.” Isabelle and her cronies stepped out from the trees, moving behind Landon, ready to watch me get stripped of my borrowed finery. I raised my hand and unclasped the diamond necklace he’d given me. Then, in front of all of them, I drew my arm back and threw it. The necklace cut a glittering arc through the twilight air before landing in the lake with a quiet plunk. Isabelle shrieked. “My diamond necklace! Sloane, are you insane?!” The others stood with their jaws agape, too shocked to speak. “Landon was right,” I said, my voice suddenly clear and steady. “A diamond necklace of this quality really isn’t worthy.” “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen diamonds of such poor clarity before.” “As for this dress…” I turned my gaze to Isabelle. “Isabelle, open your eyes and take a good, long look. Does this really look like the dress your brother gave you?” One of her more observant friends leaned in and whispered nervously, “Izzy… that doesn’t look like the D’Amore couture your brother bought. It… it looks more like the ‘Galaxy of Starlight’ gown the international master designer Julian Devereaux created for the Richmond heiress.” Isabelle shot her friend a withering glare. “Are you insane, too? Her last name is Richmond, so that makes her the Richmond heiress? Could a scholarship girl ever wear something like that?” It was getting late, and I needed my beauty sleep. It was time to wrap this up. “Landon, I have to admit, playing with you all has been… tiring.” “The observation period is over, fiancé. Congratulations.” “You’ve been disqualified.”

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It was late. I was alone, scrolling through Wattpad, and settled on a steamy story titled My Roommate is My Best Friend’s Boyfriend. The writing was good, the smut was top-tier, but the further I read, the more unsettling it became. The description of the male lead… Why did it sound exactly like my boyfriend? 1. 6’1″, thin lips, a lecturer at his alma mater. Allergic to nuts, with a small red mole just under his left collarbone… Could it really be a coincidence? My throat tightened. I kept scrolling. 【…he pinned me against the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room, his fingers expertly unbuttoning my shirt. The city lights blazed outside, blurring the figures of people walking on the street below. The thrill of being caught, the sheer risk of it, only seemed to make him harder, rougher.】 Another long, explicit passage followed. My heart skipped a beat. Ethan’s new apartment, the one he was so proud of, had a massive floor-to-ceiling window. He’d taken me to see it a few months ago when it was just an empty space. The setting sun had spilled across the river, catching in his smiling eyes. He’d held me from behind, his voice soft in my ear. “I know how much you love a good view. Once you finish your master’s and move in, we can sit here every night and watch the city light up.” I frowned. Could the man in this story really be Ethan? I read more carefully, but as I did, a sense of absurdity started to push back against my initial panic. The male lead in the story was wild, aggressive, whispering filthy things in the heroine’s ear. My Ethan was gentle, reserved, with an almost old-fashioned shyness. The few times he’d tried to say something even remotely flirty, he’d been the one to blush first. How could that man be the same one pinning a girl against a window for the whole world to see? Ethan was moderately well-known on campus. A handsome young lecturer was bound to attract attention. It wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility that someone was using him as a muse for their fantasy. Besides, I only had two best friends. One was studying abroad in Berlin, and the other had graduated and was a lesbian. I trusted them both completely. I let out a long breath, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. Maybe I was just being paranoid. 2. Even though my gut told me it was impossible, I read the rest of the chapters. The plot was simple. The heroine, a college student, moves out of her dorm after a fight with her roommate. She finds a new place, only to discover that her landlord and new roommate is a man—her best friend’s boyfriend. They both agree to keep it a secret. But living together, just the two of them, day in and day out… sparks were bound to fly. After the boyfriend has a fight with his girlfriend (the heroine’s best friend), the heroine comforts him. They drink, and the long-suppressed tension finally explodes. The heroine discovers that beneath his gentle, scholarly exterior, her best friend’s boyfriend has a completely different side. From there, the story was a non-stop smut-fest. My fingers, acting on their own, scrolled past the last chapter and into the comment section. A reader had posted: This feels so real, omg. Is the male lead based on a real person? Can’t wait for the next update! The author had replied to that comment just two minutes ago. Let’s just say… my inspiration is very close by. 😉 He just wore me out, I’m exhausted! We’re going to bed now, I’ll update tomorrow! Goodnight! xoxo I stared at that comment for a long time. My logical brain was screaming that it was a coincidence, that I was overthinking it. But I opened my chat with Ethan anyway. I typed: Are you asleep? The thirty seconds I waited for a reply felt like an eternity. The only sound in the dark, quiet room was the frantic thumping of my own heart. My screen lit up. 3. Ethan: Just finished some work. About to head to bed. Why are you still up? You know you need your sleep. His reply was as prompt and caring as always. On any other night, it would have made my heart melt. Tonight, it felt like a slap in the face. I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood. Impulse took over. I had to know. I had to see for myself. Words could lie. His apartment couldn’t. My fingers flew across the screen, moving faster than my thoughts. I opened the Uber app. Set destination. Request ride. Confirm. A long moment passed. I picked up my phone again and texted Ethan. Suddenly really miss you. I don’t have class tomorrow. I’m coming over. Is that okay? The second the message sent, my phone started ringing. The screen glowed with his name: Ethan. I immediately declined the call. A new text from him popped up. It’s almost 1 AM. I don’t want you coming over by yourself this late. Be a good girl. I’ll come pick you up first thing in the morning, okay? I replied: No. I want to see you now. I’m already in the Uber. After sending the text, I took two steps forward. The motion-sensor light in the hallway flickered on, illuminating my pale face. I was already standing right outside his door. 4. I didn’t knock. If the one-in-a-million chance was true, what would bursting in accomplish, other than showing my hand? I turned and slipped into the fire stairwell at the end of the hall. From this angle, I had a perfect view of his front door. A few minutes later, the door creaked open a few inches. Not all the way, as if the person inside was cautiously checking the hall. A man’s voice, hushed and urgent, drifted out. “Hurry up.” Then, a girl stepped out. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen. She pouted. “Do I really have to go? Can’t I stay a little longer? She’s still in the car, right?” Ethan’s voice was cold, hard, completely stripped of the warmth I was used to. It was the voice of a stranger. “Go home. Now. Don’t make me say it again.” “She could be here any minute. She can’t see you. I’ll text you when it’s safe to come back.” The girl seemed intimidated by his tone. She mumbled, “You’re so afraid of her…” “Calla, you know exactly what she means to me.” “And you’re not afraid I won’t come back?” “You will,” Ethan said, his voice certain. The story on Wattpad mentioned that the male lead had stopped charging the heroine rent. But my mind couldn’t focus on that detail. Because I recognized the girl. Calla. My sister. Or, more accurately, the sister I refused to acknowledge. The product of my father’s affair. 5. Ethan and I had only been officially dating for six months, but we’d known each other for over twenty years. We weren’t exactly childhood sweethearts. Our families had been neighbors, living in the same quiet cul-de-sac. My childhood memories were filled with him, a quiet little boy who always trailed after me, sharing his candy, chasing away stray dogs. My mom used to laugh and call him my little guardian angel. My world was small and safe back then. I thought it would last forever. Until Calla and her mother showed up. I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face, the color draining from her cheeks. My happy, carefree childhood had been a lie, eaten away by a secret rot. Calla was only a year younger than me. Which meant that while my mother was pregnant with me, full of hope and excitement, my father was in another woman’s arms, creating another “blessing.” The arguments, the crying, the sound of breaking glass, the prying eyes of the neighbors… that period of my life is a dark, painful blur. My mother was a proud woman. She couldn’t tolerate the betrayal, especially not when the other woman showed up on our doorstep with her child, demanding my mother step aside. In the end, my mother chose divorce. The day we left, it was drizzling. I pressed my face against the car window, looking back. I saw Ethan run out of his house, chasing our car, holding something in his hand. But he disappeared into the rain. That escape didn’t just take my family; it severed my connection to my childhood, to Ethan, to everything I had ever known. My mom and I moved across the country. Calla, and everything associated with her, became a wound I never spoke of, a mark of shame burned into my soul. The next time I saw Ethan was in high school. 6. He was on stage in the auditorium, giving a speech as a student representative. He was tall, confident, poised. I sat in the audience, not daring to believe it was him. But as the crowd was filing out, he spotted me and called out my name. It felt like fate, pulling us back together. The trauma of my childhood had changed me. I was no longer the happy, outgoing girl he knew. But Ethan saw all of it—my fragility, my insecurity, my sharp edges—and he stayed. Year after year, through high school and college, he was there. Finally, I let my guard down. I allowed myself to believe that he truly understood me, that he loved me. I never, ever imagined that his other woman would be Calla. He, more than anyone, knew how much I hated her. Why? When he held her, did he ever think of the helpless little girl I used to be? Of the tears I cried? This wasn’t just cheating. This was a slow, deliberate torture. He had taken my most painful memory and used it to slice away every last bit of my trust. The sensor light in the hallway clicked off, plunging me into darkness. I leaned against the cold wall and listened to the sound of his apartment door locking. The world was silent, but inside my head, the fortress I had built from love and trust was crumbling to dust. 7. My phone screen glowed in the dark. Ethan: Where are you? Should I come get you? I fought to keep my hands from shaking as I typed my reply. I’m suddenly not feeling well, really dizzy. Might have caught a chill. I’m not going to come over, just going to go back to my dorm and rest. He replied instantly: Not feeling well? How bad is it? Where are you right now? Still in the car or back at campus? Don’t move. Tell me where you are. I’m coming to find you right now. Wait for me. His panic felt so real it was almost convincing. I didn’t reply. Less than two minutes later, that door opened again. Ethan was rushing out, a t-shirt thrown on crookedly, his face a mask of genuine concern. He was fumbling to put on a jacket with one hand while holding his phone with the other. Watching him, so flustered and worried, I wanted to laugh. But all I felt was a deep, hollow sadness. Just as the elevator doors were about to open for him, I stepped out from the end of the hall. The stark, white light of the sensor enveloped us both. My voice was low, but in the silent hallway, it was as loud as a gunshot, and it made him freeze, his back rigid. “Ethan.” 8. His hand, halfway into his jacket sleeve, stopped moving. He stared at me, dumbfounded. “Chloe? I thought you were sick.” I ignored his question. “I just saw someone who looked a lot like Calla leaving your apartment.” My voice was flat. “Tell me I was mistaken.” His face went pale. He knew there was no point in lying. After a long moment, he managed to choke out two words. “I’m sorry…” “When did it start?” I asked. He looked down, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Four months ago. That time we had that big fight… she came over to comfort me. I’d been drinking. I thought… I thought she was you. It just… happened.” I closed my eyes. It matched the plot of the story perfectly. The journey from suspicion to certainty, from a flicker of hope to utter despair, had been brutally fast. It hurt, but more than the pain, I felt sick. I suddenly remembered my freshman year of college. Ethan and I had ended up at different schools. We had a stupid fight, and I’d impulsively told him I never wanted to see him again. I was hysterical, screaming cruel things into the phone. Two hours later, my roommate burst into our room, panicked. Ethan had scaled the spiked iron fence around our all-girls dorm. His palms were bleeding, but he didn’t seem to notice. He just stood under my window in the pouring rain all night, his eyes fixed on my room. He was so proud, so arrogant. But in front of me, he had made himself small. He ended up with seven stitches. As the nurse put in his IV, he looked at me, his eyes red-rimmed. “Chloe, I don’t want anyone but you. If you ever say those words to me again, I’ll… I’ll…” He never finished the threat. He just buried his head in my neck and cried, hot tears scalding my skin. He couldn’t live without me. I had been so sure of that. And it was that certainty that made this betrayal so much more pathetic. “Ethan,” I said, my voice terrifyingly calm. “We’re done.” 9. He refused to accept it. He begged. He pleaded. He was about to get on his knees. I didn’t stop him. So he knelt. I knew he was trying to make me feel sorry for him, to make me soften. But even fate wasn’t on his side. As he knelt, his phone slipped out of his pocket and clattered on the floor. The screen lit up with a text notification. I snatched it up before he could. The words on the screen were bright and damning. Calla: Is she gone yet? I miss you. We didn’t get to finish earlier… Can you just tell her to go home so I can come back and play? 😘 I let out a cold laugh and threw the phone at him. It bounced off his chest with a dull thud. “You both make me sick.” I turned and walked away. He scrambled to his feet, desperate. “Chloe, wait, let me explain—” I spun around and spat the words at him. “Don’t you dare touch me with the same hands you touched her with!” The pure disgust in my eyes finally broke him. He froze, not daring to take another step. I walked into the elevator without looking back. As the doors slid shut, his figure disappeared from my sight, once and for all.

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For my birthday, my sister Ashley gave me a ten-dollar scratch-off ticket. I won two hundred bucks. And my mother’s face fell apart. She snatched the ticket out of my hand, her knuckles white. “This is Ashley’s luck! You give this back to her, and I’ll buy you a new one.” I was stunned. “Mom, I’m the one who scratched it…” “Why do you have to be so selfish?” Her voice shot up, sharp and accusing. “Do you know what your sister makes an hour? This is a week’s worth of groceries for her!” Ashley, scrolling through her phone, didn’t even look up. “Whatever, Mom. Let her have it. It’s her birthday present.” My mother’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “You see? Look how considerate your sister is! And then there’s you, using your own birthday to take advantage of her!” I felt a cold wave wash over me. Just last month, for Ashley’s birthday, my mother had insisted I buy her a Tiffany bracelet. When Ashley got it, she didn’t even say thank you. Suddenly, the brand-new designer purse I’d bought for my mom, sitting in my bag, felt ridiculously out of place. It looked like she wouldn’t be getting it after all. 1. The candles on my cake were barely lit when Ashley tossed a crumpled scratch-off ticket onto the table. “Here,” she said. “Happy birthday. Go on, scratch it. If you win, you have to thank me.” I found a penny and scraped away the silver coating. The number “$200” appeared. “Wow, I won!” I looked up, smiling, only to see the joy drain from my mother’s face. She snatched the ticket, gripping it so tightly her nails dug into the thin cardboard. “This is Ashley’s luck! Give it back to her. I’ll buy you another one.” I just stared at her. “Mom, she gave it to me. I scratched it…” “Don’t be so selfish, Sarah!” she snapped, her voice cracking. “Ashley’s barely making ends meet. Two hundred dollars is a lot of money for her!” Ashley, still glued to her phone, sighed dramatically. “It’s fine, Mom. Just let her have it.” That was all it took for my mom to get choked up. “Look at your sister, so generous! And you, you have to make a big deal on your birthday and take from her!” Last month, for Ashley’s 24th birthday, my mother had taken me aside. “Sarah, honey,” she’d said, her voice dripping with concern, “Ashley needs something real for her birthday. A milestone. All her friends have nice things. You’re doing so well, you should get her something that will last.” She kept this up for a month. Daily calls and texts about how hard Ashley had it, how I was the big sister, how I could easily afford it. I caved. I spent three thousand dollars on a classic Tiffany & Co. bracelet. When I gave it to her, Ashley ripped the box open and immediately clasped it onto her wrist, not even bothering with the tissue paper. “Mom! Look!” She wiggled her arm, the silver catching the light. “It fits perfectly!” My mom beamed, adjusting it for her. “It’s beautiful! You have such delicate wrists, everything looks good on you.” Ashley threw her arms around Mom. “Thanks, Mom!” I was left standing there, holding the empty blue box. My mom patted Ashley’s back, then glanced at me. “See? She loves it.” Ashley finally looked at me and gave a dismissive little smile. “Oh, yeah. It’s nice.” Then she went right back to admiring her wrist. Not a single “thank you” was directed at me. “The quality is just wonderful,” Mom murmured, turning Ashley’s hand over and over. “She can wear this for the rest of her life…” I quietly put the empty box in my purse. The crinkle of the wrapping paper was the only sound I made. “Oh, right,” my mother said, as if suddenly remembering I was there. “Sarah, make sure you give Ashley the receipt. In case she wants to exchange it for a different style…” “I will,” I said, my voice flat. Ashley finally tore her eyes away from the bracelet and held her hand out to me. “Receipt?” I pulled the slip of paper from my wallet. She plucked it from my fingers and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans. “So, what’s for dinner?” she asked, linking her arm through Mom’s. “I’m craving sushi.” “Of course, sweetie,” Mom said instantly, then turned to me. “You want to come?” I looked at the gleaming bracelet on my sister’s wrist, and a heavy, sinking feeling settled in my stomach. “No, thanks,” I said, grabbing my bag. “I have a brief to finish up for work.” As I was walking out the door, I heard Ashley ask, “Why does she always have to be such a downer?” The door clicked shut, cutting off my mother’s sympathetic laughter. 2. Staring at the flickering candles on my cake, I replayed that scene in my head and felt like an idiot. What was I even expecting? I touched my purse, feeling the smooth leather of the Chanel handbag inside. It cost a fortune. My birthday is also the day my mom went through hell to have me, and I wanted to give her something special, a real nest egg. Since Ashley had her Tiffany, I thought Mom deserved something even better. But now? No. I was keeping it for myself. My mother was still going on. “Your sister has it so tough. As the older sister, can’t you just let her have this one thing?” That sentence was the match that lit a thirty-year-old powder keg. All the times I had swallowed my pride and my hurt… I was done. I am thirty years old. I’ve spent three decades letting things go. This time, I wasn’t going to. “Let her have it? Haven’t I let her have enough?!” My voice was so loud it startled me. My mom stared, speechless. Ashley finally looked up from her phone, her expression one of pure shock. “From the day she was born, what haven’t I given her? Toys, clothes, my room, my opportunities… and now I’m supposed to give her my winning lottery ticket?!” I snatched it back from her hand and clenched it in my fist. “She has it so tough? Then how could she accept a three-thousand-dollar bracelet from me without so much as a thank you?!” My mother’s face hardened. “Now you’re keeping score…” “Keeping score?!” I laughed, a bitter sound. “You didn’t seem to mind when I was spending three grand on her! But over two hundred dollars, you call me selfish?” Ashley rolled her eyes. “God, Sarah, what’s the big deal? It’s just a scratch-off ticket.” “It is a big deal!” I spun to face her. “Of course it’s not a big deal to you! You’re always the one getting everything handed to you!” My mother’s face was pale with rage, her finger trembling as she pointed at me. “How dare you speak to your sister like that!” “Oh, I’m just getting started,” I said, taking a deep breath and speaking each word with cold precision. “From this day on, I’m not giving up another damn thing.” With that, I grabbed my purse and walked out. “You get back here!” she shrieked behind me. “What is this attitude!” I slammed the door without looking back. In the hallway, I could hear Ashley’s syrupy voice. “Mom, don’t be mad. You know how she gets…” I stood at the elevator, jamming the ‘down’ button over and over, desperate to escape the house that had been draining the life out of me for my entire life. 3. I’m six years older than Ashley. My mother had a complicated delivery with her. A hemorrhage. She almost died on the operating table. She always said Ashley was a miracle, a gift from God that had to be protected. So Ashley became the center of her universe. A delicate doll to be cherished and shielded from the world. And I became the older sister who always had to step aside. When I was in elementary school, I won first prize in the school’s academic fair. The prize was a brand-new, bright red backpack. I loved it. Ashley, who was in preschool, decided she had to have it. My mom didn’t even ask. She just started pulling it off my shoulders. “Your sister wants it. You’re older, you can use your old one.” I clutched the straps. “But I won it…” Smack. The sting on my cheek was sharp and immediate. “Do you have any idea what I went through to give you that sister?” my mom screamed, her eyes red. “I almost died! My back has never been the same! You ungrateful child!” I have so many memories like that, but the one that sticks with me the most was the Disneyland trip. I was ten, Ashley was four. She threw a massive tantrum, screaming and crying that she had to go. My mom finally gave in. I stood by the door, twisting the strap of my schoolbag. “Mom, can I come too?” She didn’t look up from braiding Ashley’s hair. “And do what? Do you know how much a ticket costs? We can’t afford to take you both. You need to be more responsible. You can stay home and do Ashley’s laundry.” I bit my lip. “But I have homework…” “Do it tonight!” she snapped, slamming the hairbrush on the table. “Your sister rarely asks for anything. Can’t you be considerate for once?” My eyes burned. “Why do I always have to be the one? Why do you never take me anywhere? Don’t you love me?” She shot up, her hand raised to hit me again. “Don’t I love you? How do you think you got this far, you ungrateful little—” My dad stepped in, guiding her away and shooting me a look. “Your mom’s just stressed, Sarah. Don’t make it worse. We’ll bring you back a souvenir.” After they left, I stood in the empty living room and cried until I couldn’t breathe. And after I was done crying, I started to believe it was my fault. That I really was inconsiderate. So I washed all of Ashley’s clothes. I mopped the floors. I even scrubbed the greasy stove top. I thought that when they came home and saw how clean everything was, they’d finally praise me. That afternoon, I heard the key in the lock and ran to the door. Ashley burst in, waving a new teddy bear, and immediately tripped over a small stool I’d used for cleaning. She fell and started wailing. My mom rushed over, scooped Ashley up, and then turned and shoved me, hard. “Did you push her?! You are a vicious child! Just because we didn’t take you to Disneyland?” I stumbled back against the wall, my shoulder aching. “I didn’t! She tripped!” “Liar!” Mom raised her hand again. “You’ve been jealous of your sister since the day she was born!” I flinched, tears streaming down my face. It wasn’t until a terrified Ashley whimpered, “…it was the stool…” that Mom lowered her hand. But her expression only got uglier. “Well, it’s your fault for leaving the stool in the middle of the room!” That night, I cried myself to sleep. In my mother’s eyes, I was always wrong. Her guilt over nearly dying to have Ashley had been forged into a weapon. And she used it on me, every single day. My dad’s refrain was always the same: “Your mother has it hard. You have to understand.” But who was supposed to understand me? Maybe from the day my mom almost died, I was destined to be the sacrifice. My hurt was meant to soothe her guilt. My surrender was meant to fix her trauma. But why? Because I was born six years earlier? Because I grew up healthy and without complication? From then on, I buried myself in books. It was the only place I could win. When I got the best grades, teachers praised me. When I won competitions, my classmates were impressed. It was the only time I felt like I was worthy of being loved. 4. Thankfully, I was a good student. All those years of feeling invisible, I channeled that pain into my studies. I fought and clawed my way into a top law school. The day I graduated, I stood on the stage in my cap and gown, accepting an award for academic excellence. The auditorium was filled with applause, but the one person I wanted to see wasn’t there. She was at Ashley’s high school for a parent-teacher conference. After I started my career, I rarely went home. That house was a museum of my pain: Ashley’s stolen toys, my mother’s dismissive glare, my father’s weak, placating smile. Every visit felt like suffocating. But last Christmas, my aunt convinced me to go home. When I opened the door, I was shocked. My mother’s hair was so much grayer, like a dusting of snow. The moment she saw me, her eyes filled with tears, and she grabbed my arm with her thin, frail hands as if she was afraid I’d vanish. At dinner, she kept piling my plate with my favorite foods. She remembered. Later, my dad pulled me onto the porch. “Your mother…” he began, his voice thick. “She stays up some nights, just looking at your old childhood photos.” He sighed. “I think she knows she was wrong.” In the moonlight, I could see the glint of tears in his eyes. In that moment, my resolve softened. Ashley was away at college out of state. My parents were alone. I started visiting every week. I bought my mom expensive supplements and took my dad for a full physical. Mom would stroke my cheek and say, “My oldest girl is the best.” I thought we had finally turned a corner. I thought we could be a normal family, and I craved that long-overdue affection. Until the day Ashley graduated and moved back home, dragging her suitcases behind her.

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The year Weston and I loved each other most fiercely was the year he got a vasectomy for me. It was the year he signed over his entire fortune and had a signaling implant embedded under his skin, so I could summon him with the press of a button. That was also the year his mother was dying of cancer, and I was the one who called off the emergency measures. I let Weston beg, let his pleas echo in the sterile hallway, but I wouldn’t let anyone give his mother a single drop of blood. After she died, he shielded me from the cameras and calmly signed a waiver, absolving me of all legal responsibility. He told me, “Even if you had asked for my life, I wouldn’t hate you.” And then, “Lana. For the rest of my life, my love for you will be unconditional.” After that, everyone in Veridia City knew Weston Blackwood was madly in love with me, a force that defied gods and men. But in the seventh year of our marriage, he fell for a girl who spoke of “The Divine” as if it were her closest confidante. For her, he had the implant surgically removed. For her, he had the vasectomy reversed. He started spending his days with her, lingering in sun-drenched chapels and quiet sanctuaries. It all came to a head the day my father was in a car crash, hemorrhaging, his life measured in minutes. I called Weston, hoping he could leverage his connections to find a rare blood type. But the girl, Seraphina, answered his door. She blocked the entrance with her delicate hand, a smirk playing on her lips. “The Divine has spoken,” she said, her voice light and cruel. “Your father, and you… you’re both meant to die.” I called Weston’s cell. When I told him, his voice was a flat, distant thing. “Your father lived a few years longer than my mother. It’s his time. This time, I’m listening to the will of the Divine.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I grabbed Seraphina by the throat and dragged her up to the rooftop. One by one, I started breaking her fingers. Then I made a video call to Weston, my face a calm mask. “The Divine has a new message,” I said. “If you can’t save my father in the next hour, it’s a life for a life.” 1 Weston, a man I hadn’t seen in months, appeared on that rooftop less than ten minutes after I hung up. His eyes landed on Seraphina, curled on the ground, five of her ten fingers already twisted at grotesque angles. His pupils contracted, his brow furrowed in a deep line. “Lana, this is too much. Because of you, Seraphina will never play the piano again.” He took a step closer. “You don’t need to take your anger at me out on her. She’s just a kid.” The moment the words left his mouth, I brought my heel down on her sixth finger. Seraphina’s voice was already raw from screaming. A choked, gurgling sob escaped her as her body convulsed. “Westy, save me,” she whimpered. “The Divine wouldn’t want one of its flock to lose her hands.” Her cry sent a jolt of panic through Weston. “Lana, I said let her go! Don’t you want to save your father?” I froze, lifting my foot. A sardonic smile touched my lips. “Then what are you wasting time here for? Go find the blood. If I don’t hear from you in fifty minutes, your little treasure is going to pay the price.” Weston’s gaze, thick with worry, settled on Seraphina. He whispered a soft, “Wait for me,” and then he was gone. Watching his retreating back, Seraphina began to tremble, but it was with laughter. “Even if you cripple both my hands, Westy will still love me. Unlike you. You’re just a psycho, a freak with a broken brain.” She looked up at me, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Do you know what he said the night he took my virginity? He cried. He said he hated you. He said he hated you for killing his mother, that you were nothing but a filthy, disgusting murderer!” For a second, the world went white. A sharp pain lanced through my skull, and I was thrown back seven years, to the day I stood in front of a team of doctors, blocking them from saving Weston’s mother. He had begged me then, begged me until the light above the operating theater went out, until the white sheet was pulled over his mother’s face. I had asked him, “Do you hate me?” If he had said yes, just one word, I would have told him everything. I would have gone to prison for it. But he shook his head. And I actually believed him. I believed he didn’t hate me. Seeing my composure falter, Seraphina’s expression grew even more triumphant. With her few remaining intact fingers, she flipped me off. “You know, Lana, you’re not even as useful as a broodmare at a stud farm. But maybe you should go learn—” She paused, her eyes widening in mock realization. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I almost forgot. You already are one, aren’t you? Ridden and passed around by a thousand different men.” Her contemptuous laugh was cut short after three seconds. I was holding a dagger, its point aimed directly at her throat, ready to slice down. A split second before I made contact, a boot kicked the dagger from my hand. I grunted, clutching my hand. I didn’t need to look to know the blade had flipped, slicing my palm open. Blood was already welling. Weston swept a crying, trembling Seraphina into his arms, his expression like carved stone. “A blood match was found. Your father is receiving a transfusion now.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. “Show me.” Weston nodded, and a bodyguard held a phone in front of my face. It was a live feed from the hospital security camera. My father was surrounded by doctors, and I could clearly see a bag of blood plasma hanging by his bed. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and looked up at Weston’s retreating back. “Weston,” I said. “Let’s get a divorce.” He stopped, his shoulders stiffening. He turned around. From this distance, I could see the faint smile on Seraphina’s lips before she buried her face in his chest to hide it. “Seraphina is just a child. She won’t affect our marriage, so I won’t agree to a divorce,” Weston said, his eyes dark and unreadable. “My mother’s life was my wedding gift to you. It’s also the chain that binds our marriage. This lifetime, you’re never getting away.” My hand shook as I lit a cigarette. I swiped at my phone, not looking at him again. The blood from my palm smeared across the screen, and it took me a long time to wipe it clean. Weston gave an order to one of his men. “Get gauze and antiseptic. Make sure her hand doesn’t scar.” He didn’t remember. He and his mother had already left countless scars on my body and in my soul. As his footsteps faded, I looked at the faint, silvery lines on my wrist and spoke to my lawyer on the phone. “Draw up the divorce papers. I want them today.” After I hung up, I stubbed out the cigarette and went downstairs to see my father. In the hospital corridor, a couple of nurses were whispering. “It’s so tragic. Wrists and ankles both slit, bled him out…” “That’s what you get for crossing the wrong people…” My heart leaped into my throat. I ran, a frantic, desperate sprint toward his room. The heel of my shoe snapped, and I heard a sickening crack from my ankle. I limped the rest of the way, bursting through the door. There he was. My father, limbs splayed out like a starfish, the flesh on his wrists and ankles peeled back. His skin had a sickly, bluish-gray pallor. “…Dad?” I whispered. I stumbled toward him, took his hand, and pressed it against my cheek. “Dad, you said you wanted those cream-filled cannolis from that little shop in the North End, remember? I’m not busy today. I’ll go get them for you, okay?” The icy chill of his hand made my tears feel like acid. In the dead silence of the room, I heard laughter from next door. It was Seraphina, her voice a sickly sweet whine. “Westy, I want the cannolis from that little shop now. I mean it. If you don’t go buy them for me yourself, I’m not taking my medicine!” She held up her bandaged hand pitifully. “Go buy them now, and then you can feed them to me. Please, hurry up!” Weston’s eyes were full of doting affection. He gently pinched her cheek. Seraphina pouted, and then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw me standing in the doorway. Her smile was bright, blinding. “Lana, I’m not mad at you anymore for what happened earlier. The Divine teaches us to forgive everyone. And Westy isn’t mad either, right?” Weston wouldn’t meet my eyes. After ten years together, I knew that look. It was guilt. I hooked my fingers under his chin, forcing his head up. I ignored his frown and held him steady. “My father is dead,” I said softly. A faint smile touched his lips. “He deserved to die. But the blood in his body won’t go to waste. What do you think… blood pudding?” CRACK. The sound of my hand hitting his face echoed in the hallway. His head snapped to the side, his expression hidden by his hair. “Don’t you hit Westy! The Divine will never forgive you for that!” Seraphina shrieked, jumping in front of him. A second later, she was reeling from a slap of her own. The moment she cried out in pain, Weston moved. He opened his mouth to yell at me, but then he saw the tears streaming down my face. His expression went completely blank. I had only seen that look on his face once before, seven years ago. His mother was undergoing chemotherapy, and I had disappeared for seven days. When he saw me again, my face was also stained with tears. The thick armor I had built around myself had shattered. I had made him promise never to lie to me again. He had lied to me three times since. He lied about working late, the night he took Seraphina’s virginity. He lied about not liking birthdays, throwing away the cake I baked from scratch, only to place a handmade gift from her under his pillow. He lied about saving my father, but left me with nothing but a corpse. The harsh words on Weston’s lips softened. “The Divine told Seraphina that bloodletting therapy might be effective. I didn’t think your father wouldn’t make it. But I promise, I’ll give him a funeral worthy of a king.” He sighed. “This was my mistake. Do whatever you want to me, just don’t hurt yourself.” As the words left his mouth, I pulled the stylus-sharp pin from my hair and plunged it into his shoulder. Seraphina let out a tearful scream. He grabbed her hand, telling her not to move. A laugh bubbled up inside me. How did it come to this? How did I become the irredeemable monster in this story? My fingertips brushed against the warm, sticky blood. I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger. “Weston, I want you to personally take a knife, slit Seraphina’s wrists and ankles, and drain three bowls of her blood.” “Lana, don’t push it!” Without even flinching, Weston pulled the hairpin from his shoulder and tossed it into a trash can. “Seraphina’s anemic. Besides, your father dying was fate. Don’t drag an innocent person into this!” “Fine. Then we’re divorced,” I snapped. “Impossible!” “Nothing’s impossible. You used to say it was impossible for you to cheat, and now you have a mistress, don’t you?” I gave them both a cold, withering look. Just then, my lawyer arrived, handing me a divorce agreement. The smile that was about to bloom on Seraphina’s face vanished instantly. Because Weston tore the papers to shreds. I toyed with a lighter as my lawyer handed me a whole stack of identical agreements. I lit one on fire, then held another one out to him. “Tear all you want. I had a few thousand copies made.” Weston looked exhausted. “Lana…” I enunciated each word. “Did you not understand me? I want you to personally slit her wrists and ankles and drain three bowls of her blood.” Weston’s gaze shifted to Seraphina. She started shaking like a leaf. “Westy, I’m anemic! And… and The Divine doesn’t like its followers to be imperfect! Besides…” she looked up at me, a cunning light in her eyes. “Lana, I’m carrying Westy’s child. I’m not like you, all used up and broken inside, unable to have one. This is our first baby.” She covered her mouth. “Oh dear, did I say something wrong?” Her words were like lightning strikes, leaving me charred and exposed. I lunged at her, my teeth gritted, and aimed a punch straight for her stomach. “If you’re so sorry, then you can join me in never having children!” Weston’s hand clamped around my wrist like a vice of iron. I thought I heard the bones creak. “Was she wrong? Isn’t it the truth?” he ground out. “Lana, Seraphina and I have been in the chapel, praying for your repentance for what you’ve done.” His voice was laced with righteous fury. “You should be atoning for your sins, not running wild like a madwoman!” My vision tunneled. “Atoning? What sin did I commit?” Weston’s handsome features twisted into a cruel mask before my eyes. “You’ve committed no sin? Weren’t you the one who took your anger out on my mother after you let other men sleep with you?” “My mother did nothing wrong! Why did she deserve to die at your hands?” I burst into hysterical laughter, tears streaming from my eyes. “You say she did nothing wrong?” “Yes, yes, you’re right. It’s my fault. The biggest mistake I ever made was marrying you!” How could we have ended up here, when we were once so in love? I had loved him so much that when his mother, sick with cancer, suggested using my blood as some kind of folk remedy, I had sliced my own wrist without a second thought. I had loved him so much that even when I was pushed into that dark room, when countless hands reached out to grope me in the blackness, I held onto one belief. I believed that Weston loved me. I can still see his mother’s sneering face. “Lana,” she had said, “if a woman loses her purity, do you think Weston will still want you?” And later, after I stopped the doctors from saving her, she was still smiling from her hospital bed. “Lana, you have no womb, and no purity. You will never, ever have Weston’s untainted love!” But the night she died, Weston had held me in his arms, his embrace firm and unwavering. He had chosen me. My lawyer discreetly handed me a fresh copy of the divorce agreement. My hand trembled as I signed my name, refusing to wipe the tears from my eyes. I threw it at Weston. “Let’s get a divorce. A sinner like me can’t possibly compare to your pure little Seraphina.” I saw the rage in Weston’s eyes cool for a moment. But then he heard Seraphina start to sob. He snatched a pen, and with a cold snort, scrawled his own name on the paper. “You want to play this divorce game? Fine, I’ll play along,” he spat. “But Lana, even divorced, you’ll only ever be mine. I told you, we die together. Let’s just see how many days you last this time before you come begging me to take you back.” Those words, once so full of passion, now made me want to vomit. It was true, this wasn’t the first time I had brought up divorce. But this time… Remarry? Never again. Not only that, I was going to make them lose everything. Clutching the signed agreement, I limped away. Behind me, I heard Seraphina’s soft, cloying voice. “Westy, I hurt all over. How are you going to make it up to me?” Weston’s voice was deliberately loud, meant for me to hear. “How about a wedding?” As I walked away, I made a discreet gesture to my lawyer. “I need you to do something for me.” Weston thought he could still wound me emotionally. He paraded Seraphina around at every high-profile event, his arm around her, introducing her as his fiancée. Soon, everyone was looking at me with a strange mixture of pity and contempt, as if the madwoman had finally been cast aside. But Weston would always try to compensate afterward. The expensive, custom-blended scar cream he’d won at a high-stakes auction at the Phoenix Club—no matter how much Seraphina whined for it—was still delivered, untouched, to my bedroom. I wouldn’t leave the Blackwood estate until after my father’s casket was in the ground. I was afraid. Afraid he wouldn’t be able to find me. On the seventh day, the day of the funeral, I stood at the door in a black dress, greeting the mourners. Suddenly, an invitation card flew through the air, its sharp edge slicing my cheek. Seraphina stood there, arrogant and proud, dressed in a pure white wedding gown studded with the very jewels that had been the talk of the city at an auction just days before. “Lana,” she said with a saccharine smile, “you don’t mind if I borrow your venue for my wedding today, do you?” Before I could react, her burly bodyguards pushed me aside, clearing a path for her. I stumbled, my eyes falling on the gilt-edged card on the floor, now stained with my blood. It read: Groom, Weston Blackwood, and Bride, Seraphina Vance, cordially invite you to witness their love. In the moment it took for me to process this, Seraphina had skipped over to my father’s open casket. Her face was a mask of childlike innocence. “Uncle’s complexion doesn’t quite match today’s wedding theme!” She took a marker from her purse and drew a bright red clown nose on my father’s face. She beamed at me, triumphant. “What do you think? Isn’t that much better?” Weston had clearly sheltered her well. It had only been a few days, and she had already forgotten the feeling of pain. I grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking until I could feel her scalp tear, and slammed her head against the heavy wood of the casket, again and again. I let her scream, let her struggle. Weston appeared out of nowhere. “What the hell are you doing now? Are you trying to kill her?!” he roared. I laughed, not stopping. “That’s right! I am going to kill her! Today is her death day!” I let her go. “And before she dies, I’m going to rip that pretty mouth off her face!” When I finally released her, Seraphina was a mess. Her makeup was smeared, her hair was matted, and a patch of her scalp was bald. The pure, white angel had become a crawling insect on the floor. Weston caught her, his face a mask of anguish and hatred. “Treating her like this will only push me further away,” he said, his teeth clenched. Words like that couldn’t stir a single ripple in my heart anymore. Because Weston was already a world away from me. He probably didn’t remember it. The day he found me, homeless, and took me in. The day he stood between me and his mother’s whip. The whip. I would never forget the whip. Weston had sworn to me then. He had said that nothing, nothing, could ever push him away from me. My eyes burned. I pulled a dagger from a sheath strapped to my thigh. “Get out of my father’s funeral, now!” Seraphina sobbed in Weston’s arms. “Westy, I only want to have our wedding here today. Nowhere else will do! You can’t say no! Do you want to betray the vows we made before the Divine?” Weston held her close and gave a sharp nod to his men. In an instant, the dagger was knocked from my hand, and my arms were pinned behind my back. “Lana,” Weston said, his voice cold. “I hope today’s events will teach you a lesson.” Seraphina clung to him, her expression a mixture of triumph and scorn. There, in the black-and-white solemnity of the funeral hall, in front of my father’s memorial portrait, a priest invited the bride and groom to exchange their vows. “Wait!” Seraphina suddenly said, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “After Westy and I are married, I’ll be the primary wife. If Lana is still around, she’ll be the secondary one. It’s only right that the second wife kneel before the first to show respect. A little tradition will make our modern wedding perfect.” Weston hesitated for a moment, then nodded. I was dragged in front of Seraphina. Two bodyguards tried to force me to my knees, their hands heavy on my shoulders. But I gritted my teeth, my body rigid, refusing to budge. “You want me to kneel to you?” I spat. “You’re not worthy.” “Seraphina, if I get through this today, I swear I will make you wish you were never born!” My threat seemed to ignite something in Weston. He barked at his guards. “More pressure! If she still won’t kneel, break her kneecaps!” BANG! A bullet whizzed past Weston’s ear. Suddenly, the hall was filled with more than a dozen men in black suits. At their head was a young man who looked barely out of his teens. He waved his hand, and every man raised a weapon, aiming directly at Weston and Seraphina. “I’m here today,” the young man’s voice rang out, cold and clear. “Who dares make her kneel?”

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I was the “accident” my parents had when they were too young and too reckless. They dropped me off with my grandparents and disappeared, each starting a new life, a new family, without me. Eighteen years later, I was the state’s top scholarship recipient. They fought through a crowd of reporters to reach me. “See?” my father said, beaming. “If I hadn’t been tough on you, you never would have learned to be so independent.” My other relatives showed up with bags of bruised, overripe fruit from the discount grocery store. “Poppy,” they cooed, “don’t you forget who your family is.” I smiled and looked them straight in their eager, guilty eyes. “The ‘family’ you’re talking about? I stopped needing it a long time ago.” 1 I was different. The other kids had moms and dads, sometimes in the same house. All I had was Grandpa and Grandma. One day, after Grandpa came home from a long shift at the factory, I tugged on his sleeve. “Grandpa, where are my mom and dad? Why don’t they even come for Christmas?” My voice was small. “Is it because I’m not good? Is that why they don’t come back?” He pulled me onto his lap, his calloused hands wiping away my tears. “Don’t you cry, Poppy. You’re Grandpa’s treasure.” “Your mom and dad just went somewhere far away, and it’s hard to get back. Nobody could ever not want our Poppy.” But Grandpa, you were lying. I asked Mrs. Gable down the street. She sat on her porch swing, cracking sunflower seeds and spitting the shells into a coffee can. “Oh, honey, you came to the right place,” she said, her voice raspy. “My Jim and your grandpa were the ones who drove out to get you and your folks after you were born. You were just a little thing, three months old.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Your mom and dad, they had the reception all planned at the VFW hall. Then, couple weeks later, poof! Your mom took off. Your dad followed soon after.” I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I ran home, my chest tight with a secret I couldn’t understand. The next day, I told my best friend, Tina. Our small town elementary school didn’t have a cafeteria, so we’d eat our packed lunches under the big oak tree by the playground. “It’s a secret,” I whispered, after I’d told her everything. “I only told you. You can’t tell anyone.” She put down her sandwich and hugged me. “I won’t, Poppy. I promise.” The very next day, I was taking out the classroom trash with a boy named Kevin. He shoved me, and I fell onto the dusty floor. “Teacher!” he yelled. “I don’t want to take out the trash with an orphan.” Every head in the class swiveled to look at me. I looked at Tina. She was staring intently at a hangnail on her thumb. Our teacher just sighed. “Kevin, that’s not nice. Fine, someone else go with Poppy.” From then on, I was the class orphan. Every look felt like it was laced with pity or disgust. At lunchtime, the student helper in charge of doling out the hot lunch always gave me the smallest, soggiest piece of pizza. After two months of being hungry, I finally worked up the courage to tell the teacher. The next day, the lunch helper, a boy named Mark, shot me a hateful glare. When it was my turn, he loaded up my tray with three slices of pizza, burying them under a mountain of tater tots. “That’s too much,” I whispered. “I can’t eat all that.” He slammed the serving spoon down. “What’s the matter? Weren’t you complaining to the teacher you were starving? Today, I’m gonna make sure you’re full.” His friends surrounded me, laughing, and started shoving food into my mouth. I started to gag. He stood over me, arms crossed. “Learned your lesson, Poppy? You gonna go snitching again?” My throat was clogged, but I stared right at him, forcing back the tears that burned my eyes. I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. “You’re a nobody,” he sneered. “Who do you think you are, tattling to a teacher?” “Get on your knees and apologize, and maybe we’ll leave you alone.” As they tried to force me down, I locked my knees and braced my neck, my forehead hovering an inch from the grimy linoleum floor. I wouldn’t let it touch. In my peripheral vision, I saw Tina watching. When they finally let me up, I touched my forehead. It was cold and sticky. Red. Then, everything went black. 2 I woke up at home. Grandma was sitting by my bed with a bowl of warm soup. Grandpa didn’t come home until late that night. I found out later he had taken his old pickup truck into the city and driven straight to the district superintendent’s office. He got back on the third morning. The truck had a flat, and he’d had to walk the last five miles, his pants caked in mud. I watched from the window as he bent over the tire, his spine curved like a fishing rod under a heavy catch. “Grandpa.” I opened the door. The bandage on my forehead scraped against the frame, and I flinched. He whipped his head around. His eyes were shot with red. “What are you doing up? Doctor said you need to rest.” “Grandpa, where did you go?” His hands tightened on the tire iron, the veins standing out. “Next time someone at that school lays a hand on you,” he said, his voice a low growl, “you fight back. You hear me? You fight back like your life depends on it. I’ll handle the rest.” That afternoon, the principal came to our house with a new teacher. The new teacher’s name was Ms. Liu. She had a kind smile and a gentle way about her. “Poppy,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I should have been paying closer attention.” She pulled a small, tin pencil box out of her tote bag. “This is for you. If you ever need anything, you come to me.” I stared at the little rabbit painted on the lid but didn’t take it. Grandma wrung her hands. “She’s just shy, Ms. Liu. Thank you.” When I went back to school, Grandpa drove me in his newly-repaired truck. I saw him in the rearview mirror; there were new streaks of gray in his hair. As we pulled up, I saw Mark’s father yelling at him by the flagpole. Ms. Liu moved my desk to the front row. There was a little sticky note on the corner that said, “You got this.” But I was still scared. Tina slipped a piece of candy onto my desk between classes. The wrapper was crinkled, like she’d been holding it for a long time. “I’m sorry, Poppy,” she whispered. I didn’t answer. At the end of fourth grade, I got the highest test scores in the class. Ms. Liu gave me a certificate in front of everyone. When Grandpa picked me up, he folded it carefully and put it in his breast pocket, patting it every few minutes all the way home. Just when I thought things were getting better, a new girl transferred from the city. Her name was Nicole. Our small town had so few students in the upper grades that we sometimes had to board at the school during the week. One morning, I went to grab my washbasin from under my bunk, and it was full of pee. Nicole was watching me, a smirk on her face. “Wow,” she snickered. “No wonder you don’t have parents. You’re so gross you have to pee in a bucket.” It had to be her. I thought of Grandpa’s words. I wasn’t going to take it anymore. I picked up the basin and threw its contents all over her. “You peed in my basin,” I said calmly. “I figured you must want to wash your face with it.” She shrieked, sputtering and spitting. As she ran off, she screamed, “You are so going to regret this!” My stomach dropped. Nicole was the mayor’s granddaughter. 3 The walk home felt like wading through cement. The setting sun stretched the shadow of the old sycamore tree across the road. I heard Grandma’s panicked voice before I even reached the yard. “Please, ma’am, she’s just a little girl, she didn’t mean any harm…” “A little girl?” a sharp voice shot back. “She threw urine on my Nicole! My daughter has never had a harsh word said to her, let alone this!” I peered through a gap in the fence. The mayor’s wife was standing in the middle of our small living room, hands on her hips. Nicole was hiding behind her. Grandpa was squatting by the cold wood stove, a cigarette burning down to his fingers. “Grandpa.” Everyone turned. The mayor’s wife glared at me. “There you are, you little savage!” Grandpa shot to his feet, the cigarette dropping from his lips. “You talk to me,” he said, stepping between us. His back seemed even more bent than before. “Talk to you? Your granddaughter is a menace! My Nicole is a delicate flower from the city, and she was assaulted!” “Either she gets down on her knees and apologizes, or you pay us five thousand dollars for emotional distress!” Five thousand dollars. My breath caught. Grandpa made maybe a hundred dollars on a good day at the factory. “I won’t,” I said, my voice shaking. “I threw it. But she peed in my basin first.” “You little liar!” the woman shrieked, raising her hand to slap me. Grandpa caught her wrist. “The girl said your granddaughter started it.” “You old fool, you’re defending her? This isn’t over! I’ll have her expelled by tomorrow!” She stormed out, Nicole making a face at me over her shoulder. Grandma helped Grandpa sit down. “Why do you have to fight them? We can’t afford to make an enemy of the mayor.” Grandpa didn’t answer. In the dim light, his eyes glowed. “Poppy, come here,” he said, his rough hand stroking my hair. “You did the right thing.” “But…” “We’re poor, girl. But we don’t let people walk all over us.” He knocked the ash from his pipe. “I’ll go to the school tomorrow.” 4 The next morning, Grandpa walked me to school. As we passed the mayor’s house, I saw a curtain twitch. In the classroom, Nicole was sobbing at her desk. Ms. Liu looked exhausted. “Poppy, my office. Now.” Grandpa followed. The mayor was sitting there, sipping coffee from a mug. “Well, Bill,” he said to my grandpa, “your granddaughter has caused quite a stir.” Grandpa pulled a small paper bag from his coat. “Mr. Mayor, the kids had a spat. Here are some fresh eggs from our hens for Nicole.” “We don’t want your charity eggs!” the mayor’s wife snapped, snatching the bag and throwing it on the floor. Yolks splattered across Grandpa’s worn work boots. I ran in front of him. “She peed in my basin first!” “I did not!” Nicole wailed. “I saw her,” a small voice said from the doorway. It was Tina. “I saw Nicole take Poppy’s basin into the bathroom this morning.” A stunned silence filled the room. Nicole went pale. Ms. Liu sighed. “Everyone just go home. I’ll handle this.” As we left, Tina tugged on my sleeve. “Poppy, I’m sorry. Before…” “It’s okay,” I said, watching Grandpa bend down to pick up the broken eggshells. That afternoon, Nicole was transferred to another school. The mayor never bothered us again, but the looks we got in town were colder. Some said Grandpa was stubborn; others said I was trouble. “Grandpa,” I said on the way home, “maybe I should just quit school and help you work.” He stopped and knelt to tie my shoelace. “Don’t be silly, girl. You stay in school until the day you can be your own boss.” That fall, during the harvest festival, I saw Grandpa crying behind the barn. Grandma told me the mayor had cut our family from the town’s heating assistance program. “It’s fine,” Grandpa said, wiping his eyes. “Poppy, don’t you worry.” That night, I scrubbed the dried egg yolk from his boots. The moonlight was bright. I suddenly understood that Grandpa’s spine wasn’t bent from a lifetime of hard labor. It was bent from the effort of holding up the sky for me. On my final report card, I had the highest grades in the county. Ms. Liu pulled me aside. “There’s a scholarship spot at the county high school,” she said. “I put your name in for it.” I clutched my report card and saw Grandpa waiting for me by the curb. The wind blew his graying hair into a messy halo. “Grandpa,” I said, running to him, “I’m going to high school.” He grinned, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling. “That’s my girl,” he said. “That’s my Poppy.” 5 For the first time, it felt like things were really looking up. The mayor was investigated for corruption and lost his office, and the county scholarship covered my tuition. The high school dorm was a cramped room with four bunk beds. On move-in day, Grandpa carried my bedding in a huge plaid duffel bag, stopping twice on the stairs to catch his breath. “Wow, Poppy,” he panted, “this building’s as tall as a skyscraper.” The other parents wore new-looking shoes and carried brand-name luggage. Grandpa was in his worn-out work boots. I saw some of them glance at him. I pulled him over to my bunk and said loudly, “Grandpa, look! I got the top bunk by the window!” The bus ride from our town to the county seat was over an hour. One Sunday, as Grandpa was driving me back to the dorm in his truck, I watched his gray hair flutter in the wind. “Grandpa,” I said softly, “thank you.” His shoulders tensed. “Poppy, we’re family. No need for thanks.” “I’m going to study hard, Grandpa. I’m going to make enough money so you and Grandma can have a good life.” His voice was thick when he answered. “I’ll be waiting for that day, Poppy. You can bet I’ll live to see it.” “You better,” I said, my own voice catching. “You’re going to be the oldest, most stubborn old man in the whole county.” 6 During my sophomore winter break, I went with Grandpa to the recycling center. The bed of his truck was overflowing with cardboard he’d collected. A bitter wind whipped snow into our faces. He stomped on aluminum cans, crushing them flat with an efficiency born of long practice. “You stand back, Poppy,” he said. “Don’t want you getting dirty.” When he straightened up, his back cracked audibly. He pulled a baked potato from his coat pocket. “Got this from the vendor on the corner. Still warm.” I broke it in half and offered him a piece, but he waved it away. “You eat. I’m not hungry.” I found out later he’d only had a piece of dry bread for breakfast that morning, to save enough money to buy me a new textbook. In my junior year, a boy asked me out. I found a pink envelope in my locker. The whole class was watching me. A boy from the basketball team, Ryan, was leaning against the wall, his face red. “Well?” he said. “You gonna read it?” I walked over and pushed the envelope back into his hands. “Ryan,” I said quietly, “I’m sorry. I’m focused on my studies right now.” He stared at me, clearly not used to being rejected. “I can wait until after finals,” he said. “Don’t,” I said, turning back to my locker. “I don’t have time for this.” During gym class that day, Ryan, who was the team captain, made me run extra laps. “What’s the matter, Poppy?” he taunted. “Can’t keep up?” I was never a great athlete, but I could endure. But on the second lap, a sharp pain shot through my ankle. Someone had thrown a rock onto the track. I stumbled. Ryan just blew his whistle. “Last one to finish runs three more!” My ankle swelled up like a softball. I ran the three laps, my teeth clenched against the pain. I didn’t say a word. 7 The next day, during the school’s “service period,” Ryan assigned me the filthiest job: cleaning behind the dumpsters. He threw a broom into a puddle of muddy water. “That’s your area. Don’t come back ’til it’s spotless.” I was picking up slimy garbage when a piece of broken glass sliced my finger. Ryan and his friends were playing basketball nearby, occasionally yelling insults in my direction. When I finally finished, I walked back into the classroom covered in grime. “Whoa,” Ryan shouted, “did someone forget to flush?” The boys roared with laughter. A quiet girl in the back of the class stood up. “The only thing that stinks in here is you, Ryan.” She gave me a small, conspiratorial wink. Just then, the principal and my guidance counselor walked in. My grades were too good for them to let this kind of thing slide. I limped home that weekend and told Grandpa everything. For the first time, he got angry with me. “Poppy, why didn’t you tell a teacher sooner? Why do you always wait until you’re hurt?” He insisted on carrying me on his back to the town’s small clinic. I could feel the thin fabric of his shirt, damp with sweat, and the frailness of his frame. The stars were bright that night. Grandpa’s laughter echoed in the quiet street. “Well,” he said, “I better hang on. I’ve got to live to see that good life you promised me.” 8 But you broke your promise, Grandpa. The last day of my final exams, I walked out into the sunshine, scanning the crowd for his old truck. He wasn’t there. My guidance counselor ran up to me, her face pale. “Poppy, there was an accident. Your grandfather… he’s at the hospital.” The world tilted. The trees lining the road blurred into a green smear, just like they did from the window of Grandpa’s truck. “After he dropped you off this morning,” she explained, her voice trembling, “I think your father called him, asking for money. He was on his way to meet him when a truck ran a red light…” The word “father” was a ghost from a forgotten language. I didn’t hear the rest. All I could see was Grandpa that morning, waking up at 5 a.m. to boil me two eggs for good luck. He’d waved as I went into the school. “When you’re done,” he’d said, “we’ll take these bottles to the recycling center and get you a new pen to celebrate.” The hospital smelled of antiseptic and fear. I changed into scrubs and went into the ICU. He looked so small in the big bed, like a fallen tree. I choked out his name. “Grandpa, it’s Poppy. I’m finished with my tests. Wake up, Grandpa…” He didn’t move. For the first time, there was no one to wipe away my tears. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound, a dull, rhythmic torture. On the third morning, it became a single, piercing drone. I lunged for his hand, but for the first time, he didn’t squeeze back.

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It was the seventh time in a year that Lucas Kane’s childhood sweetheart, Daphne, had been hospitalized. And he was finally asking me for the one thing I couldn’t give. “I want to give Daphne a wedding first. It’s just a formality, Claire. I hope you can understand.” This was the seventh time he had postponed our own wedding. A bitter smile touched my lips. I nodded calmly. As I was leaving, I heard his precious Daphne ask him in a small, careful voice, “Lucas, we’re already legally married now. She’s not going to make a scene when she finds out, is she?” Lucas stroked her hair, his voice a low chuckle. “She’s easy. A few sweet words and she’ll be fine.” He was so sure. So certain that even after he was a married man, I would still cling to him like a loyal puppy. Waiting for him to get a divorce so I could eagerly take his hand in marriage. I looked down at the photo that had just appeared on my phone screen. I smiled and typed back a reply. 【He’s handsome. Are you free to get married? Like, right now?】 1 The person on the other end was silent for a long time. Finally, a message came through. 【Don’t you want to get to know me a little better first?】 My mother already did. She wouldn’t set me up for failure, would she? I, on the other hand, had spent seven years getting to know Lucas Kane. And all it took was one childhood sweetheart returning from abroad to turn it all to ash. I replied with three words. 【No, I’m good.】 I glanced up at the private hospital suite. Daphne was gazing up at Lucas, her face a picture of innocent, girlish charm. “Thank you, Lucas, for making my wish come true. One month is enough.” “After a month, we’ll get a divorce.” A wave of pain washed over Lucas’s eyes. “Don’t rush it. We’ll talk after you’re better.” “How can this body of mine ever get better? But I don’t want to get in the way of you and Claire.” She didn’t want to get in our way, yet she’d wasted no time getting a marriage certificate with him. But that’s not how Lucas saw it. He shut down her suggestion with a tone that bordered on harsh. “You don’t need to worry about her.” His voice was laced with a casual, almost contemptuous certainty. “I could forget about her for twenty years, and the second I called, she’d come running.” “Oh, good,” Daphne said, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. The warm afternoon sun illuminated their faces, making them glow. Standing outside the door, I clenched my fists, a bitter sting in my nose. I don’t know how I managed to escape the hospital. All I knew was that the moment I breathed in the fresh air, a tearing, shattering pain ripped through my chest. The entrance was bustling with people coming and going. Only I stood frozen, completely lost. A year ago, Lucas’s childhood sweetheart had returned. Not with a roar, but with a whimper. She was sick—an illness they couldn’t cure, but that wouldn’t kill her either. She was kept alive by medication. Lucas was heartbroken. He moved Daphne into a new villa he’d bought, hiring a team of four or five people to care for her around the clock. Daphne had loved tennis before she got sick, so Lucas bought out the villas on either side, tore down the walls, and built her a private tennis court. At first, she wouldn’t accept it, disappearing from time to time. “Lucas, I don’t want to be a burden,” she would say, her brow furrowed with sorrow. “Just let me go.” He would get furious, but he always found her and brought her back. Then came the hospitalizations. Seven of them. And seven times, Lucas stayed by her side, day and night. I used to think he was just a naturally reserved person, that his patience with me was a sign of affection. His profile picture had always been a generic landscape photo, something an old man would use. It took me a month of coaxing just to get him to change it to a matching one with me. The first time Daphne was hospitalized, she mentioned she liked a popular cartoon puppy. Lucas immediately changed his profile picture and his entire social media background to it. The CEO of the Kane Corporation, with a cartoon dog as his avatar. It was so jarringly out of character that our mutual friends all messaged me, asking if I’d forced him to do it again. I couldn’t bring myself to reply. This time, it wasn’t me. It was for her. Each time Daphne was hospitalized, our wedding was postponed. The fifth time, he announced he was going to do a wedding photoshoot with her. It was every girl’s dream, he’d said. And he might be the only one who could ever grant her that wish. He hoped I would understand. I understood. The sixth time, he gave her the engagement ring meant for me. Daphne happened to like that design, he explained. He promised he’d get me a better one later, and hoped I could be generous. I didn’t stop him. The seventh time, he told me he was going to have a wedding ceremony with her. And somewhere along the line, without my knowledge, they had already gotten legally married. He came to inform me, lying that it was all just for show. If that was the case, then all I could do was wish them a lifetime of happiness. I would never, ever be the other woman. Tears blurred my vision. A black sedan pulled up silently in front of me. The rear window rolled down, revealing a face so handsome it made my heart skip a beat. “Ms. Cheng. Get in.” I froze, wiping away my tears. “What are you doing here?” The man’s voice was deep and magnetic. “Weren’t you the one who wanted to get married immediately?” He glanced at the luxurious watch on his wrist. “If we hurry, we can still make it today.” 2 That evening, Christopher Ensler’s car dropped me off at my apartment building. We hadn’t spoken a word the entire ride. I stole a few glances at him. He sat with his hands clasped in his lap, his gaze fixed on the scenery outside the window. His expression was as placid as still water, impossible to read. I figured he was probably being pressured by his family to get married, too. My family background was clean, our parents were old acquaintances, and I wasn’t hard on the eyes. So he didn’t overthink it. He just took me straight to City Hall. I didn’t care if he liked me or not. My mother had vetted him; he had to be reliable. And honestly, I was tired. I didn’t have the energy to go through the whole process of falling in love again. All I wanted was a decent, suitable person to settle down with, to finally give my parents some peace. Lucas’s constant delays had already pushed my parents to their breaking point. They said I was chasing after him and disgracing the family. My father declared that even if Lucas became the richest man in the world, he would never approve. He even threatened that if I insisted on being with Lucas, the family business would go entirely to my younger brother, and I wouldn’t see a dime. My mother, frantic, started setting me up on blind dates, desperate for me to see reason. At the time, I was dead set on marrying Lucas. I ignored every single one of her suggestions. Christopher was the last one she introduced. She told me that if I didn’t take this one seriously, she was done. She would consider herself daughterless. That was right around the time Lucas told me he was doing a wedding photoshoot with Daphne. I had already lost the war in love. I couldn’t afford to lose my family and my career, too. 3 Just as I was about to get out of the car, Christopher, who had been silent the whole way, suddenly spoke. “Take your time packing. I’ll come get you when you’re ready.” My breath hitched. Did he mean he wanted me to move in with him? His chiseled profile was like something carved from marble. My heart skipped a beat. Seeing me stare blankly, he turned to look at me, his tone matter-of-fact. “You should move in with me.” I nodded. I had no reason to refuse. As I opened the door, he called out to me again. “Open up your social media profile.” It took me a second to understand. I had never let him see my posts since we connected. I fumbled with my phone, my fingers clumsy under his gaze, and finally showed him my profile page. “There.” He pressed his lips together, nodded, and let me go. After Christopher drove away, I stared at the red marriage certificate in my hand, feeling a sense of surreal displacement. This little red book, the one I had dreamed of having with Lucas, was now so easily in my possession. The groom wasn’t Lucas. But somehow, it didn’t feel all that different. I opened the door to my apartment and was surprised to see Lucas there. He hadn’t stayed here in a long time, choosing to spend his nights at the new villa with Daphne. This penthouse he’d bought had become my solitary home. He seemed to be in a good mood, a smile playing on his lips. When he saw me, he walked over and handed me an elegant card. I knew it instantly. It was the wedding invitation I had designed for us. When I had excitedly shown it to him before, he had tossed it aside dismissively. “It’s just an invitation. Whatever.” But now, his handwriting was on it. 【Groom: Lucas Kane & Bride: Daphne Ji】 “It actually turned out quite nice,” he murmured, his fingers gently caressing the two names on the cover. “The date is set for next week. It’s short notice, so we’ll just use this design.” He paused, then added, “When we get married, I’ll have a new one designed.” I stared at the invitation. Even though my heart was already dead to him, a familiar sting pricked my eyes. Seeing my silence, Lucas’s good mood began to fade. “What, you’re not happy? If you’re not happy, then just don’t come to the ceremony.” He actually expected me to attend his wedding to another woman. I clutched the invitation, biting my lip hard. A profound sense of helplessness washed over me. “Look, I promise, it’s a fake marriage,” he said impatiently, seeing my stubborn silence. “As soon as Daphne’s wish is fulfilled, we’ll go and register our marriage.” His tone was like he was bestowing a great favor upon me. I kept my head down, not responding to his monologue. Lucas reached for my arm, pulling me toward the living room. “Come on, help me decide on the decor for the venue.” As I jerked my arm away, the paper bag I was holding tore. A stack of documents and a bright red booklet slid out. Lucas’s eyes flickered to the red certificate. The calm mask on his face cracked for a fleeting second. He immediately bent down, snatched up the marriage certificate, and clutched it tightly in his hand. “You found out,” he said. It was a statement, not a question. If he had bothered to open it, he would have known. This wasn’t his marriage certificate with Daphne. But he was too busy watching my reaction to even look. I gave a small, bitter laugh and nodded. “I know. You two are legally married.” Lucas’s lips thinned. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but his voice remained calm. “Well, since we’re already having the wedding, the certificate doesn’t really change anything. You have to go all in, right? You don’t mind, do you?” I said nothing. “We’ll get divorced in a month,” he rushed to explain. “It won’t delay our wedding.” I doubt even he believed that. After the wedding would come the once-in-a-lifetime honeymoon. Then pregnancy, childbirth, raising a child… whatever Daphne wanted, he would give her. I was too tired to argue. I just held out my hand. “Give it to me.” He hesitated, rubbing the cover of the certificate before reluctantly handing it over. “Put it back where you found it. I’ll need it for the divorce.” I ignored him, took the certificate, and walked toward the study. Just before I closed the door, I saw him beaming as he sent a voice message. “See? I told you. She found out and it’s fine. A little sweet talk is all it takes.” I looked down at the invitation in my hand. A mocking smile crossed my face. I tore it to shreds and threw it in the trash. My phone vibrated. A message from Christopher. 【Can you move tomorrow morning?】 【I have a lot of stuff. Why the rush?】 Just a little while ago, he’d told me to take my time. The “typing” bubble appeared for a long time before his message came through. 【Move in the morning. Maldives in the afternoon.】 【For what?】 I asked. He replied: 【Honeymoon.】 4 Around midnight, Lucas left again, summoned by a call from Daphne. I knew he wouldn’t be back until long after their wedding, if ever. I began to pack, sorting through my belongings one by one. I had known Lucas for seven years, been with him for five, and lived with him for four. Every object in this apartment was etched with our memories. The sapphire necklace in my hand was the first gift he ever bought me. My favorite piece of jewelry. I stared at it for a long time before slowly closing the box and placing it on his bedside table. When I first met Lucas, he was a gentleman, but with a sharp, predatory edge. I had just returned from studying abroad and started working at my family’s company. He was my first major business partner. He was three years my senior and already at the helm of the Kane Corporation, while I was still shaking off my student awkwardness. Having seen my share of flashy, arrogant rich kids abroad, I was utterly defenseless against his mature charm. “Ms. Cheng, I’ve reviewed your proposal, but I’d much rather you discuss it with me in person.” “Ms. Cheng, that sapphire is lovely on you. But your eyes are more beautiful.” “Ms. Cheng, relax your wrist when you swing. You’re so tense. Are you nervous?” “Are you nervous because of me?” He was attentive and incredibly perceptive. He knew I loved spicy food and would always book a Sichuan restaurant for our team dinners, except for the times I had canker sores. Then, he’d switch to a Cantonese place so I could eat comfortably. When a disgruntled business partner cornered me in a parking garage, threatening to ruin my reputation, it was Lucas who appeared out of nowhere, saving me and getting me out of there safely. I never found out what he did, but I never saw that man in the industry again. For a long time after, I was terrified to go out alone. He drove me everywhere, dropping everything to accompany me, even waiting patiently for hours while I got my hair cut. He pursued me relentlessly, and I fell fast. He guided me in my career, helping me become a capable executive in my own right. He consumed my thoughts, keeping me up at night. There were so many nights he’d look at me, his eyes dark with desire, and no one could have resisted the man he was then. He told me he didn’t fall easily, but once he loved someone, he would never let go. I didn’t understand what that really meant back then. I later learned that the person he would never let go of was never me. Our story after that was a cliché. The deeper I fell in love, the colder he became. Eventually, everyone was saying that I was the one who couldn’t live without him. I didn’t sleep a wink that night, packing away my life. I sat on the soft carpet, leaning against the bed, scrolling through my phone. I came across a post from Daphne from a few hours earlier. She was wearing a face mask, flashing a peace sign at the camera. 【Trying on wedding dresses tomorrow, but I’m missing a sapphire necklace. What to do?】 Another post meant for me to see. Just as I was about to scroll past, a call from Lucas came in. I stared at the screen for a long moment before answering. “Claire, Daphne is trying on dresses today and she wants to wear a sapphire necklace. Bring yours over now.” A silent, cold laugh escaped me. The memories that had been replaying in my mind all night suddenly felt like a cruel joke. The things you treasure are meaningless to others. I glanced at the green velvet jewelry box on the nightstand. “It’s on the bedside table,” I said coolly. “Come and get it yourself.” I hung up before he could reply. I don’t know why I felt such a sudden urgency, a surge of defiant energy. Without hesitating, I dialed Christopher’s number. He sounded like he was still half-asleep, his voice a low, lazy drawl. “What’s wrong, babe?” I froze. Babe? Did he call the wrong person? “This is Claire Cheng,” I reminded him. His voice was clearer this time. “I know it’s you.” I didn’t press the issue. “Can you come pick me up now?”

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My husband Grant and I had an arrangement. We played our own games on our own time. Until the day he brought home a pregnant woman, and I brought home a five-year-old boy. “Grant, this is my son. He was… lost to me for a while,” I said, my voice soft as I stroked the child’s face, a face that was a near-perfect miniature of my own. “He’s so young. He needs his mother.” The demure, innocent expression on the woman behind Grant froze, cracking like porcelain. Grant’s face went dark. 1 I was about to make a saffron risotto for the “son” I’d just brought back from a bar when the doorbell rang. I went to answer it, spatula in hand, apron tied around my waist, my mood already sour. “Who the hell—” The words died on my lips. Grant stood there, his eyes filled with a familiar disgust, his arm wrapped around a woman with skin like snow and a doll-like face. Her belly was gently rounded. The look she gave me was a cocktail of contempt and triumph. I held my breath for a moment, then let it out in a single, sharp word. “Seriously?” “Sloane, watch your tone,” Grant said, his voice as cold as steel. I pointed a finger at the woman, my question a deliberate performance. “What is this?” Grant’s gaze dropped. “She’s pregnant,” he said flatly. “It’s mine. I can’t let them suffer.” A laugh, sharp and bitter, almost escaped me. The depth of my love for him in the past was matched only by the intensity of my hatred now. I hated him for the sweet nothings of our youth, for the gentle romance, for the solemn vow of “I will never fail you.” And I hated him for shattering that beautiful illusion just a few years later. I still remember the day Grant came home, his collar and neck smeared with lipstick. He’d stopped hiding it, parading his infidelity in front of me as if it were a trophy. I screamed at him, my voice raw and cracking. He just loosened his tie, his expression clouded with weariness. “Sloane, can you stop being so dramatic? Business is business. These things happen.” “If you can’t be a supportive wife, at least don’t make my life harder,” he’d added. “Look at you. Do you even remember how to act like the woman I married?” Then came the night I went to pick him up from a private club. I found him in a booth, his arm around a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. The way the low light caught the tenderness in his eyes—a look I once thought was reserved only for me—was now being given away so freely to someone else. That was the night he laid out the new rules. “Sloane, let’s just do our own thing,” he’d said. “Hire an escort, find a boy toy, I don’t care what you do. But you don’t get to interfere with my life, either.” He’d offered a final, hollow assurance. “Don’t worry. You’ll always be Mrs. Harrison. I won’t bring these flings home. Your position is secure.” And now, here he was. “She’s pregnant. I can’t let them suffer.” A noble excuse, delivered without a hint of shame, as he brought his affair to my doorstep. The promises of men are ghosts. For the longest time, I thought seeing this would feel like a knife in my heart. After all, I had loved him so fiercely. But now, I was surprised by the profound, unnerving calm that settled over me. The woman spoke, her voice a soft purr. “Sloane… Grant didn’t want this to happen. But a child needs his father. You’re a generous woman. Surely you can find it in your heart to make room for us? Grant and I… we’re in love.” As she spoke, a single, perfect tear traced a path down her cheek. A masterclass in calculated fragility. Grant, of course, bought it completely. His expression hardened, his gaze condescending as he warned me, “Sloane, whether you accept this or not, Layla is a good person. Don’t you dare try to hurt her.” I stared at him. “…Are you fucking kidding me?” 2 “Mommy?” A small, clear voice piped up from behind the sofa. A moment later, a handsome little boy with my eyes and my mouth peeked out. It was only then that I remembered what I’d forgotten. All my melancholy and anger evaporated in a rush of panic. “Oh, shit! My risotto!” I sprinted back to the kitchen. It was too late. The creamy rice was a burnt, sticky mess at the bottom of the pan. Goddammit. Just then, I felt a gentle tug on my finger. “It’s okay, Mommy,” the little boy said, his wide, earnest eyes looking up at me. “I’m not that hungry anyway.” His perfect face, his soft little hand clutching mine… my heart melted. I knelt down and planted a loud kiss on his cheek. “I’ll let myself starve before I let my sweet boy go hungry,” I murmured. “Mommy will make something else. Mommy makes the best grilled cheese in the world.” The toxic couple in my foyer was completely forgotten. My universe had shrunk to this adorable “son” of mine. I could feel Grant’s unease from across the room. He had been married to me for nine years. He knew damn well that in all that time, I had never been pregnant. His voice trembled slightly. “Sloane… who is he?” Only then did I seem to remember they were still there. I lifted my gaze lazily. “Grant, this is my son. He was lost to me for a while.” I looked down at the boy, my voice laced with manufactured pity. “As you can see, he’s very young. A boy needs his mother.” The weak, innocent facade on Layla’s face shattered. Grant’s face went black with rage. “Sloane!” he roared, his eyes turning red, a storm of fury gathering around him. He couldn’t accept it. It was as if he could sleep with the entire city, but the thought of me being with someone else was unforgivable. The little boy pouted, his brow furrowed. “Mister, you’re scary.” Then, he turned to me, his expression melting into a soft, angelic smile. He wrapped his little arms around my legs and hugged me tight. “You shouldn’t be mean to my mommy. I would never be mean to my mommy.” 3 My heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer against my ribs like a drum. Adorable! How could he deliver that line with such devastating cuteness? I wanted to scoop him up and never let go. But I restrained myself. There were still two pieces of trash to take out. I gently covered the boy’s ears and shot Grant a mocking look. “What are you so angry about? Weren’t these your rules? We don’t interfere with each other.” A vein pulsed in Grant’s temple. He ground his teeth, struggling to contain his rage. His voice was a low, furious growl. “Play around all you want, Sloane, but who the fuck gave you permission to have another man’s child?” “Permission?” I shot back, my voice dripping with scorn. “You bring your pregnant mistress to my home and tell me you can’t let them suffer, but I can’t have another man’s child? Do you really think you have the right to ask me that?” I let out a cold laugh. “Grant, don’t be such a goddamn hypocrite.” He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. Then, a sneer twisted his lips as if he’d figured it all out. “Sloane, are you jealous? Did you really grab one of your cousin’s kids just to get my attention? This little game of yours… it’s not going to work on me anymore.” “…” I honestly couldn’t comprehend how the bright, handsome boy I’d fallen in love with had devolved into this greasy, arrogant, and utterly delusional man. Was I blind back then, or just stupid? He looked down at the boy with contempt. “Sloane, get rid of this little bastard right now, and I’ll pretend this never happened.” CRACK! The sound of my palm connecting with his cheek echoed in the kitchen. He stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. I flexed my stinging hand. The last thing I wanted was to be violent in front of a child, but the moment he said “little bastard,” I couldn’t stop myself. “Mr. Harrison!” Layla shrieked, glaring at me. “How could you do that to him?” CRACK! I slapped her too, right in front of Grant. Layla was stunned. “You hit me…” she stammered, and then, forgetting her delicate act, lunged at me. I calmly lifted my foot, my voice flat. “Do you want to keep the baby in your belly, or not?” She froze, instinctively clutching her stomach, her eyes pleading with Grant. “Sloane, she…” “Both of you, get out,” I cut her off, my patience gone. I turned my cold gaze back to Grant. “You cheated. I moved on. You’re about to have a child. I already have one. I’d say that makes us even.” With that, I pulled a folded document from my apron pocket and threw it at his chest. A DNA report. I didn’t want him indulging in any more fantasies that this was all a joke. “He is my son,” I said, my voice like ice. “And I am his biological mother.” The words on the report—”The probability of maternity is 99.999%”—seemed to burn into his eyes. “Are you done looking? If you are, get the hell out of my house. Now. Don’t keep me from making dinner for my son.”

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