Category: English

Three years into our arranged marriage, my aloof, CEO husband started acting strange. He became even colder. He refused my advances. And his lawyer was frequenting his home office. I thought I understood: Carter had finally reconnected with his “White Moonlight”—his high school crush—and was preparing to divorce me. Being the sensible wife, I drafted the divorce papers myself. The next day, just as I was about to board a plane for my “Eat, Pray, Love” world tour, I received a video. It was Carter. He was standing on the edge of a rooftop, eyes red and swollen, hugging my beagle and sobbing uncontrollably. “She wasn’t supposed to leave us until next year! Why did the timeline change?!” “Buddy, you have to promise me… you have to bite that other man to death for Daddy, okay?!” 1 Carter got into a car accident. By the time I rushed to the hospital, he had already been awake for a while. He lay on the hospital bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, looking exhausted. The nurse whispered to me, “Mrs. Sterling, since he woke up, he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything. He seems… troubled.” I sat by the bed and opened the thermos. “Carter.” As I brought the spoon to his lips, he frowned almost imperceptibly and pulled back. I could tell something was off. So, I put on my sweetest voice. “Honey, try it. It’s still warm. I made it myself.” This time, his eyes were cold and distant. “I don’t want it.” He rejected me again. There was zero warmth in his gaze. He was a completely different person from the man who had cuddled me to sleep the night before. I tried one more time, patiently. “Really? I simmered this chicken soup for hours. Just one sip?” Carter remained silent. He studied me, as if analyzing my next move. I mentally rolled my eyes. I turned the spoon around and swallowed the soup myself. Fine. Starve then. 2 Carter Sterling and I are in an arranged marriage. Our families—the Sterlings and the Yorks—merged assets, and we merged lives. We were high school classmates, but we ran in different circles. He was the stoic loner; I was the social butterfly. After the wedding, we were polite roommates. Things changed in the second year. One day, I came home and bumped into Carter walking out of his room wearing only a towel. I froze. Who knew my buttoned-up husband was hiding that kind of body under his suits? Carter slammed his door shut, clearly annoyed by my ogling. But that image stuck in my brain. After a week of… interesting dreams, I realized something. He is my legal husband. Sleeping with him is literally my right. 3 From then on, I made it my mission to seduce Carter. But he was tough. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, had no hobbies. His life was a scheduled loop: home, office, weekly dinners with parents. He was an NPC. I couldn’t find a crack in his armor. Until one day, I wandered into his bedroom and saw our high school graduation photo on his nightstand. In the photo, Carter stood tall, slightly smiling. Next to him, a girl with a cute bob was leaning toward him. Her name was Zoey. The “White Moonlight.” The one that got away. I remembered the rumors. Carter’s mom had paid Zoey off to leave the country so Carter would focus on the family business. Suddenly, I felt bad for him. He was the classic tragic hero—forced apart from his true love, emotionally shutdown. But that was fine. Before I unbuckled his belt, I would listen to his trauma. Eventually, I succeeded. We slept together. In the heat of the moment, I whispered magnanimously, “Carter, I saw the photo. It’s okay. I understand.” He froze. Then he kissed me with a sudden, fierce intensity. 4 After leaving the hospital, Carter was still icy. He was avoiding me. Tonight, it was almost midnight, and he was still in his study. I put on my new silk nightgown and decided to take the initiative. I knocked and walked in, circling his desk to sit on his lap. “Honey, I had a nightmare. I’m scared.” Usually, he would hug me and carry me to bed. I straddled his lap, ready for action. But Carter just looked at my neckline. Then, his long fingers reached out… and buttoned my top button. “Go to sleep, Harper.” What?! I stared at him. “But we agreed to try that new thing this week!” “I have work.” “You said that yesterday.” Carter looked up. “Harper… is sex that important to you?” He stumped me. But I thought about it. We had no emotional foundation. Physical intimacy was the only thing holding this marriage together. So, yes. I nodded. Carter closed his eyes, looking pained. “I understand. Leave me alone.” 5 Over the next few days, I barely saw him. His lawyer, Mr. Shen, was always there. One day, I was bringing fruit to the study when I heard them talking. “Miss Zoey’s funds and apartment are arranged.” “Good.” “And this agreement… are you sure? It’s very unfair.” “Not a penny left for her?” I froze. Carter replied coldly, “Do your job, Shen.” Mr. Shen sighed. “I know you said you ‘saw the future’ and that you’re dying, but… this seems extreme. Harper was just cutting fruit for you…” “So everyone knows we have a bad marriage,” Carter laughed bitterly. I backed away silently. I understood. Carter thinks he’s dying. He’s probably having premonitions about reuniting with Zoey in the afterlife or something. And now, he wants to divorce me. And leave me with nothing. 6 I was done. I moved into the guest room immediately. I called my lawyer to draft divorce papers and booked a full-body health checkup (just in case). Late that night, I was lying on the rug in the living room, venting to my best friend on the phone. “…If anyone says Carter is a good guy, I’ll scream. It’s a moral issue!” “I knew arranged marriages were a scam!” I started crying. “You don’t know how hard my life is! Carter is so mean! I miss you so much, babe!” Click. The living room light turned on. I froze and looked back. Carter was standing there like a ghost. He stared at my phone, his face pale. “Harper.” “Is it him?” 7 “Who I talk to is none of your business,” I snapped, hanging up. “And eavesdropping is rude.” Carter looked like he was in physical pain. “Is calling another man ‘babe’ privacy?” “I’m your husband. You’ve never called me that.” I laughed. He wants me to call him babe? Go ask Zoey! I smelled alcohol on him. “Babe,” I said, my voice flat and dead. “Happy now?” Carter lowered his head, hiding his red eyes. “Can I go to sleep now?” I asked, walking past him and slamming the guest room door. 8 I didn’t know that after I left, Carter stood in the dark living room for hours. He covered his face in despair. It was happening again. The cold look. The annoyance. The slam of the door. It matched the visions he saw while in his coma. In his visions, Harper falls in love with another man. She smiles at him, kisses him, and then ruthlessly divorces Carter. In the vision, Harper mocks him: “Carter, you are boring. Sex was the only interesting thing about you, and now even that’s boring.” “I hate you. My kindness was all an act.” “You loved me for ten years? Wow, you’re such a ninja. Want a medal?” “Your love makes me sick.” So, that was her truth. When Carter woke up from the coma, he wrote down a list of every potential male rival. It was ten pages long. He felt like he was going crazy. Has the man already appeared? No. Harper wouldn’t do this. She must have been manipulated by that “Other Man”! Who is he?! Carter took a deep breath. He had one year until the divorce timeline. He had to change fate. This time, the man Harper lives happily ever after with… must be him.

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I walked up to them with a heavy wooden club in my hand, right as Alexander Knight and the younger Eliza Thorne were about to share a private moment. “If you dare take her out again, I will break your leg.” “Excuse me, who the hell are you?” They both turned simultaneously, Alex’s arm instinctively shooting out to shield Eliza. The memory of that protective gesture—a gesture he would repeat countless times in our life together—flickered violently through my mind. The club was trembling slightly in my grip, but my voice was unnervingly calm. “Me? I’m Eliza Thorne, eight years from now.” Alex laughed. It was that familiar, condescending chuckle I knew so well. “You’re crazy.” He reached for his phone to call 911. But Eliza’s hand shot out, pressing his down. She peered around his shoulder, her eyes wide with a hesitant curiosity. “Eight years from now?” I looked at the girl standing before me, twenty years old, her eyes bright enough to hold starlight, every strand of her hair practically humming with life. Of course, without a closer look, she wouldn’t recognize the shell of a woman who stood before her—the 28-year-old version. A woman whose eyes were dull and lifeless, whose body was soft and out of shape from pregnancy and childbirth, and who reeked of exhaustion and resentment. “The scar on your knee? You got that falling off your bike trying to grab an ice cream cone when you were seven. Your journal is hidden beneath the mattress in your bedroom. And you always use your left hand to push the front door open when you come in.” I spoke slowly and clearly, each word a cold, hard fact. Alex glanced from her to me, then back to her, pulling her close to his side. “Liz, honey, is this some crazy relative of yours? Let’s just go. Don’t pay her any attention.” But Eliza’s feet were rooted to the pavement. She shook off Alex’s hand and took a step toward me, beginning a detailed examination of my face, searching my eyes. Eight years can change a lot, but some things time can’t erase: the curve of the brow bone, that tiny, almost invisible scar on the lower lip, the faint mole at the corner of the left eye. None of it had changed. Her breathing hitched. “Are you really me, eight years from now?” “No way, Liz, you actually believe her? She’s clearly a scammer.” Alex looked utterly exasperated, reaching out to pull her away again. “We are calling the police right now.” I looked at Alexander Knight, this still-green man who would instinctively protect me, and forced a smile. “Alex, you saved up three months’ worth of pocket money to buy the ring. It’s sitting right now in your left pant pocket, and you planned to give it to her tonight, didn’t you?” The hand he was using to pull the twenty-year-old version of me away froze, then unconsciously, and with utter disbelief, reached to cover his pocket. The next second, he looked at my hand and challenged me. “If you’re the Liz from eight years in the future, then why aren’t you wearing a ring?” “Maybe because, later on, we never actually stayed together?” I countered, staring him down. “We will.” Alex’s denial was immediate and resolute. He squeezed Eliza’s hand tightly. “I love Liz. I will only ever want her for the rest of my life, and she feels the same way. We will be together, we’ll get married, we’ll have a kid, and we’ll live happily ever after.” Twenty-two-year-old Alex Knight: his love was hot, bright, and utterly blind, convinced of a future paved in gold. And he was right. We did love each other. We did walk down the aisle. We did have a child. As for the happily ever after? I ran a thumb over my left ring finger. Now, there was only a pale scar. A scar I got in the second year of our marriage, when Alex scratched me with the very ring he had given me. Our daughter, Maya, liked the ring—an eight-year-old style that had long been discontinued. So, he came to demand it from me for her. He’d said then, “It’s just a ring, Liz. You’ve worn it for seven years. What’s the big deal about letting Maya have it?” I refused. He tried to grab it, and in the struggle, he tore the sharp edge across my finger. “Who is Maya?” I asked, looking at the young Eliza, whose hand was still tightly held by Alex, their bond already palpable. “Maya is the woman who will eventually sleep in your marital bed, wear your wedding ring, and call me a crazy bitch.” The color drained from Alex’s face. “That’s impossible.” I thought so too. Alex was obsessed with me. I was the center of his universe. He was terrified of me ever feeling wronged. How could he possibly fall in love with someone else? So, when I first saw the cute little bunny charm dangling from the rearview mirror of his car, I didn’t question it. I assumed it was a new prototype from his design studio. Twenty-nine-year-old Alex had opened an independent design studio, specializing in lifestyle and artistic products. He was constantly busy with new product development, production, and networking events. My life, meanwhile, was consumed by our infant daughter—a relentless cycle of formula, diapers, and screaming fits. My sleep was fragmented, and the thought of finding time to look in the mirror felt like a luxury. But trust was the bedrock of our relationship. I trusted him as I trusted myself. Until later, when I reached into the narrow gap between the passenger seat and the center console and felt a long strand of auburn hair. I pinched the strand, holding it up in the gloom of the underground parking garage. “Whose is this?” He barely glanced at it, not a single muscle in his face twitching. “Oh, I gave Summer a ride home today. It must be hers.” “Who is Summer?” Alex slapped his forehead, feigning annoyance at his own forgetfulness. “I’ve been so busy lately, I forgot to tell you. I hired a new junior assistant. Her name is Summer.” I silently dropped the hair out the window. The next day, I made an effort to get myself ready, then took our daughter to his studio. In the office, a young, pretty girl was leaning over the computer screen, debating the curve of a certain design line with Alex. As she spoke, her auburn hair would occasionally brush against his cheek. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” The two of them sprang apart as if electrocuted. Alex awkwardly tugged at his tie. “What are you doing here?” I shifted our daughter in my arms. “You haven’t been home for a few days. We missed you, so we came to visit.” Alex came over and took Maya from me, a look of guilt washing over his face. “That’s my fault. I’ve been swamped. As soon as this new collection launches, I promise I’ll make it up to you both.” I glanced at the computer screen. It displayed two stylized human figures. “What’s the name of this collection?” “A Lifetime Too Late.” The girl answered brightly. I looked at the vibrant, spirited girl. “You must be Summer. Did you just graduate from college?” “I’m twenty.” Alex chimed in casually, “Summer looks exactly like you did when you were twenty.” In some quiet corner of my heart, something went ping. The sound of ice cracking—the first, impossibly fine line in a frozen expanse. The twenty-year-old Eliza in front of me asked, “What happened after that?” I rubbed the small of my back. Since the birth of our daughter, it was a constant, dull ache. I slowly walked over and sat on a nearby bench. The wind swept between the three of us, seemingly carrying the heavy burden of those eight years. After that? After that came countless nights of self-doubt. I blamed the grind of motherhood, believing that I had become too suspicious, too unlovable. I tried not to check his phone for text messages, I stopped questioning his late nights. I desperately tried to make myself attractive again. Until the day I brought our daughter home a day early from the hospital—she’d been running a high fever—and found them, naked, in our bed. Clutching my daughter, who was asleep from the medication, my arm went stiff and a cold chill ran up my spine. I pushed open the door to the nursery and gently settled Maya into her crib. Turning to walk toward the bedroom door, the floor felt like a swamp. Each step was too heavy to lift. Alex was habitually leaning back against the headboard, smoking a cigarette. Summer was nestled into his arms. “I just wish I’d met you sooner, before that old woman hogged all this time.” “Don’t be silly.” Alex smiled, full of sickening indulgence. “How old were you when I met her? It’s not too late. We’re starting now.” Alex turned his head, his gaze colliding with mine in the narrow crack of the door. The hand holding the cigarette paused, a minuscule, tell-tale twitch. Summer finally turned and saw me, letting out a sharp gasp, immediately grabbing the duvet to wrap around herself. I looked at the king-sized bed we had picked out together, at the scrap of lacy lingerie that wasn’t mine carelessly tossed on our wedding portrait. A thousand words condensed into one quiet question. “Why?” Thirty-year-old Alex draped his arm around Summer’s shoulder and said calmly, “Because I love her.” Before me, twenty-two-year-old Alex’s face instantly darkened. He unconsciously gripped the young Eliza’s hand tighter, his voice strained with disbelief. “That’s not right. I would never do that to you. I would never love anyone else.” See? Even his younger self couldn’t comprehend or accept the cruelty of the man he was destined to become. How could he possibly love someone else? I went insane, lunging forward to claw at Summer, only to be shoved violently back onto the floor by Alex. He looked down at me, utterly devoid of warmth. “Don’t blame Summer, Liz. I’m completely in love with her.” His eyes dropped to my left hand. “Give me the ring. Summer really likes this style.” I refused. It was the one thing I cherished, the symbol of the very beginning of our love story. He lunged for it, his fingers digging into the metal band, and yanked hard. The ring snapped and flew off, leaving behind this permanent scar on my finger. “It’s just a ring, Liz. You’ve worn it for seven years. What’s the big deal about letting Summer have it?” It was true. A person’s heart really could change. It could become so cold, so ruthlessly final. In a single moment, everything we built was pulverized. The twenty-year-old Eliza broke free from Alex, rushing forward to hug me. “It must have hurt so much.” The tears I had been holding back finally broke free. My body shook uncontrollably. “It hurt, baby. It hurt so much that I became a crazy woman.” I compiled their filthy secret into short videos, added desperate captions, and posted them on every social media platform I could find. I printed out banners and hung them outside our condo complex and his studio. I clung to our marriage certificate, refusing to sign the divorce papers, hoping to forever nail Summer to a pillar of shame—a forever-unseen mistress. But in the dead of night, I would still break down and text him, demanding to know why he had betrayed me. None of it worked. Alex easily had my videos deleted and my accounts suspended. The building security guards politely, but firmly, escorted me away when I showed up with my banners. Finally, Alex looked at my hands, which were shaking from the medication I was on, his eyes filled with only deeper contempt. “Stop making a scene, Liz. All you’re doing is making me look down on you even more.” Then, he delivered the final, most devastating blow. One afternoon, while I was passed out from exhaustion and a mental breakdown, he and Summer returned and took my daughter. “Your current mental state makes you completely unfit to raise a child.” His voice was cold, flat, through the phone line. “I’m applying to the court. From now on, you can only see Maya once a month.” “Or, you can sign the divorce papers quickly, and I might consider relaxing the visitation terms. You choose.” In the end, I compromised. I signed the divorce agreement. “And after that? Why did you come here?” The day I signed the divorce papers, Alex’s studio officially launched its new collection with great fanfare: “A Lifetime Too Late.” A massive banner, bearing a romanticized quote about fated, timeless love, was plastered across the venue. At the product launch, they unveiled two giant, special edition sculptures: a fox tightly embracing a small, delicate pink bunny. Alex and Summer attended, each wearing matching fox and bunny lapel pins. Under the flashing cameras, Alex’s gaze rested softly on Summer. “I’m ten years her senior. When we met, she was in the absolute prime of her youth, and I thought my life was already set in stone,” he said to the crowd. “She always tells me, ‘A lifetime too late.’ It was that pure, passionate sentiment that struck me. She is my muse.” He put an arm around Summer. “Today is not just the launch of my new series, but the beginning of a new chapter in my life. This collection is the testament to our story. I hope everyone, after all the detours, finally finds their true love.” The room erupted in applause. And I? I was lying in a bathtub, watching the water slowly turn red. On my phone screen, I watched the thirty-year-old Alex’s face warp and rewind, settling back into the twenty-two-year-old version I now stood before. He said he would love me forever. Then, I heard a voice asking if I wanted a chance to go back. I said yes, without a second thought. I wiped a tear and looked at the speechless Alexander Knight. “That is why I’m here.” The twenty-year-old Eliza spoke softly, lifting a hand to stroke my hair with genuine sorrow. “You must be so angry.” “It’s not anger,” I heard myself say, my throat tight. “It’s just that the ache lasted too long.” The club slipped from my grasp, hitting the ground with a deafening CLANG. Tears streamed down my face simultaneously. “Changing others is too hard,” I said. “We can only try to stop the us who was rushing headlong into this.” “So, the choice is yours now. The future depends entirely on you. Do you want to try and choose a different future for yourself?” The twenty-year-old Eliza’s hand froze mid-air, beginning to tremble slightly. Twenty-two-year-old Alex suddenly lunged forward, grabbing the young Eliza by the shoulders, his knuckles white. “Something must have gone wrong!” His voice was frantic, carrying the conviction of his age. “I swear, I truly love you, Liz. Only you. I’ve never even heard of a ‘Summer.’ I would never want anyone but you.” He cupped the young Eliza’s face, forcing her to look at him, his eyes blazing with an intensity and sincerity that the thirty-year-old man had long lost—only complete devotion and pleading. “Don’t listen to her, honey.” “Don’t leave me. We will have a different future. I promise I’ll do better. I’ll protect you forever. We won’t turn out like she says, absolutely not!” His vows, carried on the evening breeze, sounded both profoundly earnest and tragically fragile. But then again, he’d sounded just as resolute before. Love and neglect, deep affection and brutal betrayal, could apparently coexist in the same man. I looked down at my watch. “Eliza, you have ten minutes to think. After that, I will disappear. You might remember today as a strange event, or maybe just a blurry dream.” “But your choice, it has to be made in these ten minutes.” From far away, the indistinct noise of traffic and the city’s low hum drifted toward us, as if a parallel universe was operating as normal. Twenty-two-year-old Alex was still desperately pleading, trying to control the present with his unrestrained love. And the twenty-year-old Eliza? Her gaze was fixed on my face. She looked at the ugly scar on my ring finger, at the sheer exhaustion and despair radiating from me. Then, just as I faded from existence, she finally spoke. I opened my eyes in a hospital room.

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I reclaimed the three properties and the half-million-dollar trust fund I had put in my daughter’s name. She knelt before me, crying and begging, “Mom, I can’t live without him!” I refused without a moment’s hesitation. She wiped her tears, stood up, and told me she would rather disown me as her mother than give up on marrying that gold digger. The next day, the gold digger himself showed up with a gift, asking to meet with me alone. 01 When I arrived, Ryan was already there. We were in the most exclusive café in the city center. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows lay the bustling financial district, its glittering towers reflected in the glass, and in the pained sincerity of Ryan’s face. His coffee was untouched. A beautifully wrapped gift box sat on the table. I ignored the gift, sat down opposite him, and placed my Birkin bag on the adjacent chair. “Mrs. Heaton, you’re here,” he said, half-standing before settling back down, his smile perfectly calibrated. “Olivia didn’t sleep well last night. I was so worried about her.” His opening line, as always, was that of a devoted, caring boyfriend. I stirred the ice in the glass of water in front of me, not even bothering to order a coffee. The cubes clinked against the glass, a sharp, cold sound. “Get to the point,” I said, my gaze as sharp and dissecting as a scalpel. The smile on his face froze for a second before stretching back into place, though it no longer reached his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “Mrs. Heaton, you’re a smart woman.” “Olivia loves me. She loves me enough to give up everything, including you.” A sharp pain lanced through my chest. The stirring stopped. He seemed pleased with my reaction, the curve of his lips deepening. He began to list all the “foolish” things my daughter had done for him. She ate the cheapest cafeteria food for two months just to buy him a designer watch. She lent him her car so he could show off to his friends, while she squeezed onto the subway for over an hour every day to get to work. To protect his pathetic ego, she never dared to mention our family’s true financial standing, telling him only that I was a mid-level corporate employee. Each story was a blunt needle, pushing slowly but surely into my heart. The spoon in my glass trembled slightly, but I betrayed nothing on my face. “And?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. Finally, he showed his true colors. “So, give Olivia back the properties and the money.” “After we’re married, you’ll still be her mother. We’ll take care of you, just like before.” He paused, the threat in his eyes now naked and unvarnished. “Otherwise, you might find it very difficult to even see her again.” The café’s heating seemed to fail. A chill crept up from the floor. I stared at him, at the undisguised greed and calculation in his eyes. This was no longer an attempt to persuade me. This was a declaration of war. As if that weren’t enough, he added one more piece of ammunition. “Mrs. Heaton, Olivia is still young, and sometimes she acts on impulse.” “What if, one day, we were to have an… accident? A baby? Surely you wouldn’t want your own grandchild to be born into a family without your blessing.” He was using my daughter’s womb to threaten me. I laughed. A cold, mirthless laugh that felt foreign on my face, making the muscles ache. “Your ambition isn’t worthy of my daughter.” He laughed too, a smug, sickening sound of absolute confidence. “No, Mrs. Heaton, you’re mistaken.” “It’s your daughter who can’t live without my ‘love’.” 02 When I got home, a half-packed suitcase was already in the entryway. My daughter, Olivia, was sitting on the rug, her eyes red and swollen. She looked like a little rabbit abandoned by the world. She shot to her feet the moment she saw me, her eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and hurt. I changed my shoes, walked to the living room sofa, and calmly recounted my entire conversation with Ryan. I didn’t add a single embellishment, didn’t inject any emotion. I was a recording, playing back his every word. I thought that would be enough to make her see him for who he truly was. I was wrong. Her reaction was even more explosive than I had anticipated. “You forced him to do it!” Her voice was shrill, laced with tears, every word an accusation. “He loves me so much! He was just trying to show you how much I love him! He was trying to reassure you! He was doing it for both of us!” For us? By threatening me? Seeing how deeply she had been manipulated, my heart sank, piece by piece, into an icy abyss. “Mom, is money the only thing you see?” “You’ve never believed I could find true love! You measure everything in dollars and cents. You don’t understand what pure love is!” My own marriage had failed years ago precisely because I had trusted a man who was only after my money, a mistake that nearly cost me everything I had built. I thought my past would be a cautionary tale for her. Instead, it became her weapon against me. She saw my caution as an insult to her love. Any explanation now would be pointless, twisted into further proof of my “controlling” nature. I couldn’t say a word. I just watched her. My silence seemed to enrage her further. She zipped the suitcase shut with a violent tug and dragged it to the door. She turned back, tears streaming down her young, stubborn face. “I’m moving in with Ryan.” “We’ll let you know after we get our marriage license.” “You’re going to regret this, Mom! You’ll see how wrong you were today!” The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the house. It felt like it had shattered the twenty-three years of love between us. I stared at the closed door, a profound sense of powerlessness washing over me for the first time in my life. I was alone in the vast, empty living room. Photos of her, from a babbling toddler to a proud college graduate, lined the walls, each smiling face a mockery of my failure. I had raised an accomplished, kind-hearted daughter. But I had failed to teach her how cruel the world could be. After a long time, I took out my phone and dialed a number. “Mr. Davis, I need you to find me the most reliable private investigator you know.” “I need a full background check on a man named Ryan. His family, his social circles, his past relationships, his finances. Everything. I want to know everything.” I hung up and didn’t turn on the lights. I sat there in the darkness, all night long. Grief washed over me like a tidal wave, but from the ruins of that sorrow, a harder, colder resolve began to grow. 03 The private investigator was efficient. Less than three days later, the first report arrived in my encrypted inbox. Ryan’s hometown was in a dirt-poor, rural county, in a village nestled deep in the mountains. His parents were farmers with antiquated, misogynistic views that were truly appalling. They had bled themselves and their several daughters dry to put their one son, Ryan, through college. He had a younger brother, five years his junior, a high school dropout who loafed around at home, the lazy, spoiled hope of the family. Most of Ryan’s salary since he started working had been funneled back home. He himself lived in a tiny, 300-square-foot studio apartment near his office. I looked at the photos—the crumbling house, the weathered lines on his parents’ faces, the sneer on his bleach-blond brother’s face. This was the “simple, kind-hearted” family he had told Olivia about. At almost the same moment, my “mole” sent me a message. The mole was my distant niece, Sarah, a couple of years older than Olivia. I had introduced them as friends. Sarah’s text read: Aunt Katherine, it’s bad. Ryan brought his whole family to the city! Attached was a photo. Four people were crammed into that tiny apartment. Ryan’s parents sat on the only worn-out sofa, their expressions a mixture of discomfort and scrutiny. His brother was slouched in a chair, legs crossed, engrossed in his phone. And my daughter, Olivia, was in the cramped kitchen, wearing an apron, her back to the camera. She looked so utterly out of place. Sarah’s play-by-play followed. The moment his mom met Olivia, she grabbed her hand and asked when the three properties would be transferred back to her name. She said she and the old man were getting old and needed one to retire in. His brother was getting married soon and needed one for his marital home. The last one, they could live in. Olivia awkwardly explained the properties weren’t in her name right now, and his mom’s face just fell. She started making snide remarks, like ‘City girls are so precious. Not even married yet and already talking back to her mother-in-law.’ I could practically see the scene, see the helpless, cornered look on my daughter’s face. And the brother is even worse! He just flat-out asked Olivia for money to buy the new iPhone, acting like she owed it to him! Ryan just stood there trying to smooth things over, saying things like ‘Don’t make it hard for Olivia,’ but he was giving her these looks, like he was telling her to just play along. In the end, Olivia had no choice. She transferred him a thousand dollars from the two thousand she had left in her account. That two thousand dollars was graduation money I had given her. Aunt Katherine, I was so furious I could have exploded! How can Olivia be so blind?! The last message contained a few audio recordings. I pressed play. It was the sharp, grating voice of Ryan’s mother. “What is this supposed to be? It’s so salty, it’s slop fit for pigs! Olivia, you should just quit your job. A young woman shouldn’t be out in the world like this. Quit, stay home, learn to cook properly, and get your body ready to give our family a healthy grandson!” In the background, I could hear his brother shouting at a video game and Ryan’s half-hearted, “Mom, that’s enough.” I turned off my phone, my fingertips ice-cold. Excellent. The fish were starting to take the bait. I looked out at the inky black sky, my own eyes darker than the night. The show was just beginning.

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The day Liam was diagnosed with a condition that left him unable to feel love, he asked the doctor if he would ever be capable of it. The doctor gave a noncommittal answer. I squeezed Liam’s hand. He pulled it away. “Sorry,” he said. He proposed a platonic marriage, explaining that intimate contact made him uncomfortable. I agreed, assuming it was just part of his condition. We slept in separate rooms for seven years. Until yesterday, when I found a folded sonogram report tucked inside a book he often read. Gestational Age: 20 weeks. Name: Isla Vance. Date: Three months ago. On the back, in his handwriting: “Prenatal appointment: City General Maternity, Wednesday afternoon.” So it wasn’t that he didn’t want a child. He just didn’t want one with me. Liam, that’s ten lies. I told you. After the last one, I would walk out of your life and never look back. 1 I put the sonogram report back where I found it and acted as if nothing had happened. We were at the breakfast table. He sat down, drank his coffee, and read the financial news. His coffee was black today. That was careless. He was never careless. “Liam,” I said, cutting into my fried egg. “It’s Wednesday.” “Mm,” he answered, not looking up. “Do you have plans this afternoon?” “A meeting.” A nervous swallow. An unconscious touch of his nose. He was lying again. The eleventh time. I nodded and kept eating. The egg was hard. It had just come off the pan, but it felt cold. Today was our seventh wedding anniversary. He had promised me last night that he would spend it with me. But now, he had either completely forgotten, or he had never cared in the first place. “I bought a new potted ivy yesterday. It’s on the windowsill.” “Fine.” He turned a page in the magazine. Still so cold. He didn’t even glance my way. The ivy was already dead. I’d discovered it last week while watering it, the roots rotted through. But I didn’t throw it out. I just let it wither on the sill. He had probably never even noticed it. His phone screen lit up. I caught a glimpse of the notification: “City General Maternity reminder: Prenatal appointment today at 3:00 PM. Please be on time.” He quickly blanked the screen. “The soup’s getting cold,” I said, pushing the bowl closer to him. He took a spoonful, then paused. “Did you put ginger in this?” “To warm you up,” I said, looking at him. “You’ve been coming home so late recently. I was worried you’d catch a chill.” He didn’t say anything else, just finished the soup. His mind was elsewhere, his gaze shifting away from mine. His Adam’s apple bobbed, his jawline tight. For over two thousand days and nights, every time I needed him to see me, he was always looking somewhere else. I acted as if nothing was wrong. I threw away the ivy he had given me. It was completely rotten. There was no reason to keep it. People are the same. At two in the afternoon, I said I was going to the library. Instead, I turned right out the door and went into the coffee shop across from the maternity hospital. At ten past three, he appeared at the hospital entrance. He was wearing a dark gray overcoat and carrying a file folder. A young woman with long hair, dressed in a cream-colored knit dress, walked toward him. That was Isla. I’d seen her picture in our high school yearbook. The dimples that appeared when she smiled were identical to the ones on the girl in the graduation photo tucked away in Liam’s wallet. They came out just as I was finishing my third Americano. He helped her down the steps, his hand cupping her elbow, a light, protective gesture he never released. When Liam’s car pulled away, I hailed a taxi. “Follow that black Mercedes,” I told the driver. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror but didn’t ask any questions. He had driven back to the maternity hospital. He walked into the lobby carrying a paper bag, his steps quicker than usual. I didn’t get out of the cab. Through the window, I watched as Liam leaned down and kissed Isla’s forehead. Like a devoted husband. He and I had never been so intimate in public. Every time I tried to take his hand, he would gently pull away. Isla took the bag, looked inside, and her eyes curved into crescents as she smiled. He reached out and very lightly touched her stomach. A gesture so natural it looked like he’d practiced it a hundred times. It was the middle of winter, but the air in the car felt thick, suffocating. I rolled down the window, and the cold wind that rushed in finally cleared my head. There was a time when I wanted a child with him, too. But that was a long time ago. Disappointment after disappointment had worn me down. Liam, I don’t think I love you that much anymore. 2 My phone vibrated. A message from him: “Won’t be home for dinner tonight.” I typed back: “Okay. Happy anniversary.” Three minutes later, a question mark appeared. But he deleted it almost immediately. “You too.” Two words. He couldn’t even be bothered to ask what anniversary it was. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to fight with him. It was just that the disappointment had piled up so high that I was too tired to dig through the past. I told the driver to take me to the waterfront. The wind was strong, whipping my hair across my face. A couple was taking wedding photos by the shore. The bride’s white veil billowed in the wind, and the groom laughed as he held down the hem of her dress. We never had wedding photos. He said he didn’t like being in front of a camera. Looking back now, I realize he just didn’t like being in front of a camera with me. As dusk fell, I went to the restaurant we used to frequent. The table for two I had booked was half empty. Steak, red wine, candlelight. And a small cake with “Happy 7th Anniversary” written on it. I finished my portion, then cut up his steak and slowly ate that, too. I tried a bite of the cake. It was too sweet. So sweet it was bitter. When I paid the bill, the manager recognized me. “Mrs. White, Mr. White isn’t with you tonight?” “He’s busy,” I said with a smile. As I walked out of the restaurant, I got a text from my bank. A large sum of money had been transferred to my account. The memo read: “Gift.” He always used money to solve everything. Wedding anniversaries, birthdays, even last year when I was hospitalized with a fever. He transferred money with a note: “Hire a nurse.” That was just him. He would throw money at a problem rather than offer a single word of comfort. It wasn’t until today that I realized he did know how to take care of someone. That someone just wasn’t me. And he would never, ever see me. We met on a blind date. He said I was a good fit for him. We dated like a normal couple, except I never once saw a spark of light in his eyes. He would prepare for our anniversaries. Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses, every grand gesture I could have wanted. But he was always so detached. I thought he just had trouble expressing himself. It turns out his heart already belonged to someone else. Later, when we got married, we didn’t have a wedding. Our friends all thought Liam was just painfully shy. The truth was, I was afraid to stand on that stage and see no recognition in his eyes as he placed the ring on my finger. I was afraid that when the officiant asked, “Do you take this man?” my “I do” would be louder than his. It was nearly midnight when I got home. He still wasn’t back. The door to his study was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and saw a gift box sitting on his desk, already opened. Inside was a tiny baby onesie, pale blue, with little airplanes embroidered on the cuffs. I picked it up, imagining how carefully he must have chosen it. I saw the open journal next to it. His parents wouldn’t let him be with Isla. And I was the most suitable marriage partner. He had met twenty other women that day. None of them were right. Until he saw me. He stopped searching. Because I looked so much like Isla. Our marriage certificate was a lie. He had never seen me as his wife, only as an obligation. This whole marriage was a mistake from the very beginning. So, Liam. Let’s just call it quits. 3 I heard footsteps on the stairs. I folded the onesie exactly as it had been and placed it back in the box. As I walked out of the study, I passed him in the hallway. “You’re home,” I said. “Mm.” He smelled faintly of lilies. I hate lilies. “I went to that steakhouse today,” I said, leaning against the wall. “It tasted the same.” He paused in the middle of loosening his tie. “Alone?” “Who else?” I smiled. He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of scrutiny in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Get some rest,” he said, then went into the study. The door clicked softly shut. Then I heard the lock turn. That night, I lay in bed and heard the faint sound of music coming from the study. It was a piano piece he used to listen to often. I had once downloaded the same album, and he had frowned. “It’s noise,” he’d said. Now I understood. Isla liked to play the piano. It must be difficult for her now, with her belly so large. So he was playing for her. My phone screen glowed in the dark. I opened the airline app and confirmed my flight details. Departure: Tomorrow, 3:40 PM. My bags were already packed and stored in the closet. One small suitcase, just enough to hold everything I owned from this marriage. At four in the morning, I got up for a glass of water. As I passed the study, I saw through the crack in the door that he had fallen asleep at his desk. The lamp was still on, illuminating the open notebook beside his hand. At the top of the page, it said: Liam & Isla. Below was a list: 1. Crib 2. Child car seat 3. Inquire about school districts 4. … The handwriting was neat, the list organized. He had always been meticulous. I gently closed the door and went back to my room. Seven years. Even an iceberg should have melted by now. But Liam White had not. That night, I walked into his room. He was still awake, reading. I sat on the edge of his bed. His body tensed almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t move away. “It’s been seven years,” I said. “Have you ever tried to feel something for me? Anything at all.” He was silent. “Not even a little?” “You are my wife,” he said, avoiding the question. “So it’s just a responsibility?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. When he apologized, he sounded as if he were commenting on the weather. “Liam, I want to have a child with you.” “We can adopt.” I laughed, and tears started to fall. He pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to me, careful not to touch my hand. “Liam,” I said, wiping my eyes. “You’re lying again.” His brow furrowed slightly. “I have never lied to you. I told you I couldn’t love you.” He was right. He had told me. He told me the day he was diagnosed. I was the one who had been lying to myself for seven years. Thinking his condition was the only obstacle. Thinking there was no one else. Thinking time could change things. But I was wrong. I fell apart that night. I cried, I screamed, but he remained unmoved. His calmness made me feel like a hysterical, unreasonable child. He pushed me away, saying my emotions were unstable, that I wasn’t acting like an adult. But he used to say something else. He used to say that since he had no emotions of his own, he was happy to be my emotional dumping ground. It turns out you were just looking through me, at someone else. Dawn was breaking, light seeping through the curtains. I should buy myself some flowers, I thought. Any kind of flower. Just for me. 4 One last time, I lay in this bed. One last time, I listened to the silence of this house. One last time, I was Liam White’s wife. At nine in the morning, before he left, he said to me: “I have a work dinner tonight. Don’t wait up.” “Okay.” I stood in the entryway, adjusting his tie. His body stiffened, but he didn’t pull away. “Liam,” I said, letting go. “Your tie is crooked.” He glanced down. “Thank you.” “Drive safe.” He nodded and turned to leave. Just before the elevator doors closed, I saw him raise his wrist to check his watch. His memo from yesterday had noted it. Today was Isla’s birthday. After the door shut, I called the housekeeper. “You don’t need to come in today.” Then I began the final cleanup. My toothbrush, my towel, my slippers. The few clothes in my closet. The half-read book on my nightstand. I erased every trace of myself, as if I had never been there at all. Finally, I placed the sonogram report in his room. At noon, as I was pulling my suitcase through the living room, I found him there. He was watering the ivy. He had bought a new one. He turned around, the small watering can still in his hand. “Where are you going?” he asked. My voice was cold. “A business trip.” He picked up his coat. “I’ll drive you.” He already had his car keys in his hand. I wanted to refuse, but in the end, I just nodded. Fine. One last time. And the first time in seven years he had ever offered to take me anywhere. He opened the trunk and put my suitcase inside. The car was clean, with a faint scent of lemon. The good luck charm hanging from the rearview mirror was one I had gotten from a temple three years ago. He started the car, and warm air blew from the vents. Then, he did a series of things that caught me completely off guard. He turned down the volume of the radio. He switched to the podcast I always listened to. He handed me a cup of coffee. An oat milk latte. My usual. “Picked it up on the way,” he said. I took it. The cup sleeve was my favorite shade of light blue. No sugar, extra milk, the temperature just right. He knew all my preferences. He had just pretended not to see them. I think he must have seen the sonogram report on the table. He didn’t even ask how I found it. Maybe he didn’t think it was important. We had a silent agreement not to mention it, but we both knew. As we drove out of the neighborhood, I stared at the logo on the coffee cup. This coffee shop was near my office. It wasn’t on his route. It was a twenty-minute detour. “Send me your flight number,” he said, his eyes on the road. “I’ll pick you up when you get back.” I didn’t say anything. “There’s a new movie out.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel while waiting at a red light. “The one you said you wanted to see.” I looked down and sipped my coffee. “Liam,” I said, watching the city streak past the window. “Do you remember what my least favorite flower is?” He was silent for two seconds. “Lilies.” The air in the car turned to ice. The podcast host was laughing, saying, “In Iceland, saying goodbye is such a light, simple thing.” She was right. Goodbye is light. So very light. I didn’t bring up Isla. It was the last bit of dignity I was affording him. I was tired. I had no interest in dissecting his feelings. I just wanted to live my own life. I pushed the car door open, and a blast of cold air rushed in. “Liam.” “Do you know what day it is today?” His lips moved, but no sound came out. He touched his nose again. Nervous, blushing, unable to meet my eyes. The trunk popped open automatically. I got my suitcase and pulled up the handle. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving.” Before I left, I said one last thing, without turning back. “Liam. You said you could never learn to love anyone.” “But you learned how to lie.” Goodbye, Liam.

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My junior brother used my photos to catfish the school belle, but ended up hooking the fierce school bully instead. The bully was so furious he posted a warning thread online. [My roommate is a pervert, can I kill him?] [He still insists the goddess in the picture is his sister.] Netizens advised him to think twice: what if the pervert really has a fairy-like sister? The bully didn’t believe it, saying no one could be that beautiful. Until he saw me cheering for the opposing team on the basketball court. He hurriedly updated the thread. [My brother-in-law is doomed, but he sleeps like the dead, what do I do? Can I warm the bed instead?] 1 Since we were kids, I’ve known my twin brother was an idiot. When I was doing Math Olympiad, he was playing with poop. While I was winning awards left and right, his teachers hinted he should get his brain checked. I skipped three grades and got into college early; he was tormented by high school knowledge, not knowing which way was up. Finally, the year I was about to graduate, he barely scraped into the same university. Not long after school started, he fell in love. He shyly told me he was going to pursue the school belle. The school belle liked girls. But he said love could conquer all. He shared his simp diary with me every day. “Sis, I finally got her number!” “She actually said hi to me, so happy, so happy~” “The school belle’s emojis are cute, her words are cute, sweet girls really save the world!” “!!!” “Sis, help me, help me, she asked me out tomorrow, what do I do?” “…” “It’s over, I was so excited I smashed my phone, I have to use this laggy old one now, boohoo, so good sister, will you sponsor a new phone for your brother~” “Hehe, I finally succeeded, Sis, you must come tomorrow, you must!” “Sis, help your brother win this tough battle tomorrow, okay~” Followed by a few cheeky emojis. When I received Ben’s message, I was rushing a paper. Without thinking much, I agreed haphazardly. I revised until midnight before submitting the result I was most satisfied with to my advisor. After happily scrolling through my phone for a while. I remembered the school belle was known for being a cool, aloof queen. Where was the sweetness? Also, could an idiot like Ben really catch the school belle? Before I could figure it out, a friend forwarded me a campus forum post. Saying the content was quite explosive. I threw my brain aside and started reading. The OP was fierce. [My roommate is a pervert, can I kill him?] 2 The onlookers were excited. [How perverted? Please elaborate.] [Hahaha I get it, I get it, OP is a man, roommate is a man, men talking about men being perverted is just that, hehehe~] [Bestie, the BL you love to watch is real!] [Heh, OP is discriminating, reported.] The OP stated he didn’t discriminate against any group, but hated deception. [He photoshopped a stunning photo as his profile picture, I thought he was a woman!] Receiving the reply, the classmates who scolded the OP immediately apologized. [That really is perverted, using a woman’s photo to date a straight man, disgusting beyond measure, sorry for the friendly fire.] This comment got many likes. Occasionally there were replies advising him. [It’s late, don’t make a scene bro, just beat him up a couple of times to vent, being roommates it’s not worth it.] [How did you just find out your roommate is a pervert?] The OP replied to him. [I’m a freshman, mixed dorm, rarely stay in the dorm, don’t interact much with roommates, and usually he acts silly.] [Thinking about it now, maybe he was playing dumb.] [Can I really not kill him? I even bought a shovel.] [Oh, he confessed the profile picture isn’t photoshopped, it’s stolen from his sister, dying of laughter, how is that possible!] In just a few minutes, more people flooded under the post. Watching the drama with great pleasure. I also laughed out loud, twisting like a maggot on the bed. Until I scrolled to a blurry dorm photo at the bottom. Suddenly I couldn’t laugh anymore. In the bottom left corner of the photo was a gray backpack, hanging a familiar squirrel plushie. It looked exactly like the ugly one Ben won from a claw machine. Coincidentally, the post updated. [Can’t take a beating at all, started crying before I even got serious, he keeps saying the profile picture is his sister, his sister looks like that, something about catfishing the wrong person.] [He also said his sister is coming to help him tomorrow.] [Does that mean a fight? His sister is in the underworld.] [Fine, tomorrow I’ll just beat them both up and be done with it!] !!! F*ck, that dead pervert wouldn’t be my brother, right! 3 My brain crashed instantly. Numbly refreshing the post and flipping through replies for clues. Finally, I accepted my fate with tears. That idiot who used his sister’s photo to catfish the school belle but caught his roommate instead was my twin brother from the same parents. Ahhh, Ben, you’re dead! [Whoa, big talk, not afraid of the underworld, OP sounds tough, doesn’t seem like a freshman.] [Upstairs, don’t say not like a freshman, not even like a human! Could he be from the underworld too?] [So fierce, so crazy, so domineering, OP’s identity must be extraordinary.] [Hahaha that arrogant disdainful tone, I think I know who it is, let me reveal a bit, more badass than the underworld, the principal begged him to attend this school!] [Wow wow wow, that’s a true young master!] Reading the replies below, I got more and more alarmed. Years of life experience and novel reading told me, there are three types of “masters” you can’t mess with in this world. The old master crossing the street, the master you owe money to, and, the young master of a certain family! Which one isn’t trouble and hard to deal with? The urge to kill Ben reached its peak at this moment. Scrolling with my fingers, I subconsciously switched to the chat screen. When I calmed down, [Ben, you’re dead!] had already been sent successfully. After a long time, a voice message came from the other side. I hesitated and clicked it. The idiot’s scream pierced my eardrums “Sis, Sis, save me!” Luckily I was wearing headphones, my roommates couldn’t hear. Following that, was a clear, cold sneer. “Gutsy, which side are you from? How many people tomorrow?” 4 Realizing Ben’s phone had been commandeered. I typed and deleted. [Just me? Um, actually this is a misunderstanding…] He seemed angry. Without waiting for me to explain clearly, he unilaterally ended the conversation. “Look down on me? Fine, respect your decision, my principle is not hitting women, I’ll give you a two-hand handicap tomorrow.” Voice strong and powerful, sounds like he can really fight! I suddenly didn’t want to care about Ben anymore. Forget it, the battle of the century has always been like this, sleep! Before closing my eyes, the replies under the post suddenly became crooked. [OP have you ever thought, what if his sister really looks like the photo?] [So what? Does it affect beating people tomorrow?] [Upstairs forgot why OP was tricked, the photo must be stunning! Speaking of which how beautiful is she, show us.] [Hehe must be very beautiful, charmed OP so much he lost his north without sleeping with the pervert, photo probably saved.] […] The OP suddenly got anxious, replying one by one. [Impossible, absolutely impossible for anyone to be that beautiful!] [This is a premeditated scam, scammed people and still so arrogant, their chat history is evidence!] [Just a scammer’s trick, will I fall for it!] The alumni who got retorted posted a shrugging emoji. [See, anxious again.] [OP is mad confused, who exactly got into the OP’s thunder list, so hard to guess~] [So mad spinning in circles yet still won’t release the photo, don’t you have a clue in your heart?] The OP ignored everyone, making a bold statement. [First time I’ve been tricked since childhood, meet tomorrow, whoever begs for mercy first is the grandson!] [Those siblings just wait to get beaten!] I pulled a tired smile. Seemed like no way out, actually no way out indeed. 5 Woke up in the morning, phone popped up a message. [Something came up, I’ll tell you the time and place when I decide.] [Buy a helmet, I’ve never hit a woman.] Ha, he’s actually kinda nice. But I don’t want to send myself to death, Ben that idiot caused his own trouble, let him bear it himself! Rare weekend, I decided to vegetate in the dorm and binge dramas. My best friend Hannah came over grinning and hugged my arm. “JoJo, such nice sunshine, let’s go out and play~” Yes, the idiot brother and I took our parents’ surnames respectively. He took my dad’s surname, Ben Evans. I took my mom’s surname, JoJo Quinn. Plus I despised Ben for being too stupid and embarrassing, so people around thought I was an only child. And he didn’t dare say he had a twin sister. Afraid I’d get angry and cut his allowance. “JoJo, there’s a basketball game at the North Playground today, men, all men!” “Heard several freshmen are super handsome!” “Come with me, please~” Unable to withstand her coquetry, I had to go with her to watch the game. The playground was packed. Girls from several surrounding dorm buildings all came! Even from other schools. “Big scene right? Look, they’re all here for Liam.” “He’s the new campus heartthrob, rich second generation, the new teaching building of our school was donated by the King family.” “Also, he didn’t take shortcuts, got in by legitimate exam, handsome to a tragic degree, just a bit fierce.” Hannah pulled me to the front row, pointing at the center of the court. Liam King? I tried to open my eyes, blurringly, saw a big guy who could teleport. “JoJo, how is he?” “Mm, not bad, should be number one in fighting!” 6 Hannah asked if I was okay. Leaned in to look. “Where are your glasses? Take them out and put them on, Liam is so good looking!” “Speaking of which, JoJo you are a recognized beauty, just too low-key didn’t participate in the campus belle contest.” “Sometimes I really want to beg you not to study, isn’t it nice to find a handsome guy to date?” She stared at my face, suddenly changing the topic. I quickly interrupted: “So you support Liam?” She shook her head, looking shyly at the opposing team. Waved at the man in the very front: “No, I support my man.” !!! “What are you surprised about, you study all day, how would you know I found a new boyfriend.” She acted like a shy little wife. “Hehe, want to know the taste of a man?” I covered my face, indicating I didn’t want to. She had to pull me to cheer for her boyfriend. “Damn Liam is sick, why steal my man’s ball!” “Down with Liam, go go go!” “What a messy formation, JoJo, put on your glasses quickly and help me find my man.” Hannah’s voice was too loud, women around threw daggers with their eyes. Even the players on the court were startled. That big guy named Liam looked over. Front row position made it easy to see his face. Sword brows red lips, high nose bridge. Breathing slightly panting with the intense game, Adam’s apple rolling. Broad shoulders narrow waist, sweat wetting the translucent jersey, outlining tight waist and abs. He was very tall, visually over 1.8 meters. The ball landed in front of us, Liam glanced over casually. When sweeping over me. He widened his eyes, the ball he just picked up fell from his hand. Eyes filled with stars suddenly brightened, but then quietly dimmed. Like he discovered something terrible. The whole person was about to shatter.

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The annual performance reviews were released, and my score was an “Unsatisfactory.” The lowest possible grade in the company. I was stunned. As the lead architect who had spent sleepless nights dragging three major projects across the finish line, how was this possible? Before I could even storm into HR, three different executives called me for “private chats.” My direct manager said, “I fought for you for hours, but the CEO and the HR Director have a bias against you. Don’t worry, because of our history, I made sure to give you an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ on my end.” The HR Director said, “Everyone saw your results. I gave you a top tier rating. But… have you offended your department head lately?” Finally, the CEO himself consoled me: “In terms of raw talent, you’re the best we have. Regardless of what others think, I insisted on giving you an ‘A.’ Don’t lose heart; keep it up next year!” I almost laughed. Did they really think I was that stupid? There were five evaluators in total. If three of them gave me an “A,” how did I end up with a failing grade? So that’s how they wanted to play? I got the message. If they wanted a “failing” employee, I’d give them exactly what they paid for. I pledged my loyalty to all three leaders, pretending to be their inside man, while I secretly checked out and watched the office burn. It didn’t take long for the vultures to start eating each other. 1 The moment I saw my performance review, it felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. This past year, I had worked myself to the bone. My team’s KPIs were ranked number one in the entire firm. Specifically, the company’s only “Tier-1” core project—the Solid-State Battery Chassis Integration—was hauled over the finish line by me and the technical crew I led. Because of that project, the entire engineering department received a department-wide “Exceeds Expectations” rating. The bonus pool was boosted by 50%. Everyone was looking forward to a fat paycheck. We had just passed the first phase of the client’s audit last week. I never, in my wildest dreams, expected my individual score to be the worst in the company. “Unsatisfactory.” In this company, that was the kiss of death. It meant I was rated lower than the security guards, the janitors, and even the guy who had been on medical leave for six months. Not only would I get zero bonus, but I was also looking at a demotion. I was officially on the “Performance Improvement Plan” (PIP)—the corporate waiting room for being fired. The irony? The intern who had been in the department for a month got a “Satisfactory.” Around me, my colleagues were scrolling through the internal portal. The cheerful chatter about bonuses died instantly. The office became eerily quiet. I didn’t look at anyone’s face, but I could feel the weight of their gazes—some pitying, some mocking, some just confused. A wave of humiliation and bitterness washed over me. For a long time, my mind was a total blank. I wanted to storm into the CEO’s office, slam my fist on the desk, and throw down a resignation letter. I wanted to tell them exactly where they could shove this job. But as I opened a blank document and typed the word “Resignation,” I hesitated. The holidays were coming. I was about to lose my bonus, and if I quit without a backup plan, how would I explain it to my family? My parents were getting older, and my wife had just found out she was pregnant. This wasn’t the time for an ego trip. Besides, quitting now would be letting this parasitic company off too easily. I decided I needed answers first. How could the top performer be ranked dead last? Even if I ended up screaming at someone, I needed to vent. But as I stood up, I saw my direct manager, Mark. He was standing at his office door, frantically gesturing for me to come in. 2 I thought for a second, then quietly turned on the voice recorder on my phone before stepping inside. The moment I entered, Mark slammed the door shut and locked it. Before I could even open my mouth, he sighed and patted my shoulder. “Ethan, I saw the results… honestly, I’m as gutted as you are.” I kept my face expressionless and didn’t say a word. Mark continued: “You’re my best engineer. I’ve always treated you like a younger brother. I fought for you during the review meeting until I was blue in the face. But the CEO and Sarah in HR? They have some ideas about you. They insisted on a low score to ‘keep you humble.’ You know I don’t have much sway with the board. My hands were tied.” I looked up sharply, my voice dripping with disbelief. “Keep me humble? What ‘ideas’ could they possibly have? No one has ever said a word to me about my performance.” Mark stammered. “Well, your solid-state chassis design passed the audit… but the execs think the tech is too conservative. It doesn’t align with their ‘growth at all costs’ strategy for mass production.” My temper flared. I shot back immediately: “The solid-state tech isn’t mature yet! Mass-producing it now is just throwing money into a black hole. The safety risks are massive!” Mark held up his hands, playing the role of the helpless middle manager. “Look, I agree with you, but that’s ‘engineering thinking.’ You have to think like a leader—macro-strategy, Ethan.” “Whatever. Let’s not get sidetracked. Leadership has their reasons. But listen, you and I are good. I absolutely gave you an ‘A.’ Don’t let this get to your head.” Hearing him say that, my anger softened slightly. We had been in the trenches together. In a room of five executives, his one ‘A’ wouldn’t have been enough to change the outcome. I nodded, my voice raspy. “Thanks, Mark. I’m just… I’m struggling to process this.” Mark’s gaze shifted, becoming unreadable. He whispered, “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a while.” “You need to network more with the higher-ups. I know you’re Ivy League, you’ve got the skills, you’ve got the ego—and you have the right to it. But ‘corporate politics’ is how you survive. Do you get it?” Corporate politics? His words hit me like a slap to the face. I let out a self-deprecating laugh. So, it didn’t matter how much I contributed; it mattered how much I sucked up to the right people. I wasn’t ignorant of politics; I just found it exhausting. I wanted to be an engineer. I wanted to get paid for my technical expertise. Was that really such a crime? I had nothing left to say. As I turned to leave his office, he added one more “consolation”: “Don’t take it too hard. Next year, for the Phase 2 launch, I’m stepping back. I’ll be backing you to be the Lead Project Director. Keep that between us, though. We take care of our own.” I didn’t say anything. I just nodded and walked out. I had just worked a whole year for zero bonus. Why would I care about next year? All I felt was a burning resentment toward the CEO and the HR Director. I had no idea how I had offended them. Or maybe, by not playing the game, I had already “offended” them? What a joke. I had worked the hardest, taken the most difficult tasks, and put in the most overtime. And in the end, I was worse off than the people who spent their days hovering around the water cooler, brown-nosing the bosses. I felt suffocated. I needed some air on the terrace. But as I passed the breakroom, someone blocked my path. 3 It was Sarah, the HR Director. She was a veteran at the firm, known for having a massive network and significant influence over the board. We rarely crossed paths, and I couldn’t think of a single reason why I’d be on her bad side. I certainly didn’t expect her to seek me out. In the breakroom, Sarah poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. She looked at me with an expression that was almost maternal. “Ethan, I know you’re hurting.” “To be honest, your performance is undeniable. As an HR professional, I see the metrics. I know who really does the work here.” I blinked, confused. Sarah lowered her voice. “But… did you have a falling out with your department head? With Mark?” “I’ll be straight with you: that comment in your review—the one about your ‘arrogant attitude’ and ‘lack of team spirit’? That was Mark. He insisted on adding it.” She let out a small, cynical laugh. “Anyone can see what he’s doing. He’s intimidated by you. He’s afraid you’ll take his job.” “For the record, I gave you a top rating. If it wasn’t for Mark’s sabotage, you would have cleared at least a $30,000 bonus. It’s a shame.” My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. The information Sarah just gave me was the polar opposite of what Mark had said. For a moment, I didn’t know who to believe. I tested the waters. “Sarah, are you sure? Mark and I have always been close. Why would he do that?” Sarah scoffed. She pulled out her phone and showed me a scanned copy of the final review document. “This is your official file. Look at the handwriting on the comments section.” I zoomed in. There it was, in Mark’s unmistakable, loopy script: “Arrogant attitude. Not a team player.” The blood rushed to my head. My vision tunneled. That bastard. I had treated him like a mentor, and he had treated me like a threat to be neutralized. I slammed my coffee cup down on the counter. I wanted to go back and rip Mark’s head off. Sarah saw my rage and grabbed my arm. “Don’t be reckless. I’m telling you this because I hate seeing talent wasted. But don’t out me—my position is sensitive enough as it is.” “Just hang in there. Next year, when the director-level positions open up for internal bidding, I’ll put my full weight behind you.” I forced myself to breathe. She was doing me a favor; I couldn’t sell her out. But I didn’t want to talk anymore. I thanked her and left. As for “hanging in there” or “internal bidding”? Pure garbage. From this day forward, if I don’t see a dime, this company isn’t getting a single ounce of “dedication” from me. I cursed Mark’s name ten thousand times in my head. But as I sat back down at my desk, a cold thought began to take root. Sarah said Mark was the one holding me down. Mark said it was Sarah and the CEO. Both of them looked incredibly sincere. But one of them—or both—was lying. Who was playing me? Or were they both in on it? As I sat there, the office gradually emptied out. Everyone had clocked out, leaving me alone in the dim light. Suddenly, someone tapped on my desk. I jumped. It was the CEO, David Sterling. 4 Now I knew something was wrong. High-level execs like David didn’t even work on the same floor as us commoners. They almost never spoke to individual contributors one-on-one. And yet, in a single afternoon, I had been approached by the three most powerful people in the building. David didn’t waste time. He invited me into his office and got straight to the point. “Ethan, you’re a rising star.” “In terms of technical ability, there isn’t a single person in this company who touches you. Truly. In my heart, I’ve always considered you my top technical lieutenant.” The alarm bells in my head were screaming now. Here we go again. Seeing that I wasn’t reacting to his “heart-to-heart,” David cleared his throat. “I’m deeply sorry about the review. I wanted to authorize a special bonus for you, but there was too much resistance in the meeting.” “Sarah from HR mentioned your attendance—apparently you’ve been ‘clocking in late.’ And Mark, your boss, complained that you’re ‘dictatorial’ in project meetings. That you don’t play well with others…” “Look, even as a CEO, I have to manage the board’s perception. I can’t just override everyone, or I look like a tyrant. It’s bad for morale.” I was vibrating with rage. I could barely stay in my seat. Clocking in late? HR only saw that I arrived at 9:15, but they ignored the fact that I left at midnight every single day. Dictatorial? Not a team player? Mark was only saying that because his technical skills were trash and he hated when I corrected his disastrous directions. If I hadn’t pushed back, this company would have gone under months ago. Both of them were snakes. Thankfully, I had already sat through two of these “confessions” and had my recorder running. Otherwise, I might have actually committed a felony right then and there. “I understand,” I said, my voice eerily calm. David seemed surprised by my composure. He looked a little awkward. After a beat, he continued his script. “Of course, regardless of what the others thought, I personally gave you an ‘Exceeds Expectations.’ That’s my stance as the owner. I don’t want the people who actually build this company to feel unappreciated.” He looked at me expectantly, waiting for a “thank you.” Inside, I was screaming. They all had the same script. Five people rated us. Three of them claimed they gave me an “A.” Mathematically, it was impossible for me to end up with a failing grade. They were all playing me for a fool. Unsurprisingly, David moved on to the “dangling carrot” phase. “You’re young. It’s normal to have some feelings about this. But don’t let personal frustration affect your work.” “Trust me, I know what’s going on. Hang in there this year. Next year, for Phase 2, I’m putting you in charge of all critical testing. I’m giving you a stage to prove yourself to everyone.” “To be honest, I don’t think much of the rest of the engineering team. You’re the one I’m grooming. So, wipe your eyes, and let’s kill it next year!”

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The ninety-ninth time I bought the paparazzi video of my wife cheating on me in a car, I dug out the promise note she’d written in high school. Briar Rhodes had gotten caught holding my hand in the hallway—a scandal that had her called before the headmaster. In that note, she’d meticulously penned the words that would become my gospel: “I know they say high school love is wrong, but I believe our love can conquer everything.” “Before I turn thirty, I will give Fitch Elliott a home—with babies and a cat.” I’m twenty-nine now. No babies. No cat. But she’d given another man—her secretary, Logan Miller—and a pair of boy-girl twins, the complete family she’d promised me. I pressed a heavy, frantic line onto the yellowed paper, then drove the scissor blade into my neck: “You were wrong. You didn’t make him happy. You only drove him to die.” … The blood streamed freely from my throat, and the cold was seeping into my limbs. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. I only felt relief. Just as my consciousness began to drift, the bathroom door slammed open. Briar charged in, her pupils dilating into pinpricks when she saw the crimson wash in the tub. She staggered, practically tackling the porcelain to grab a thick towel, which she pressed savagely against my wound. “Fitch Elliott, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you insane?” I looked at her panicked, ravaged face, and a cynical smile touched my lips. Was she afraid I was dead, or just afraid my messy, ignominious death would finally wreck her reputation? “Don’t touch me, Briar. Let go.” She tried to pull me out, but my struggles sent a spray of icy water over her. Her expensive custom dress clung to her body, leaving her looking utterly exposed and defeated. “You’re throwing a fit over that? Seriously, Fitch? When did you get so damn dramatic?” she asked, her voice tight with fury and exhaustion. I closed my eyes, too tired to argue. Years ago, when I was hysterical and demanded she get rid of the first baby, I’d threatened her with a razor. She lied to me then, claiming she’d gone abroad to a private clinic where the procedure wouldn’t hurt her or our chances for the future. It wasn’t until she reappeared, cradling a pair of infants, that I became so enraged I nearly threw myself off the balcony. After a cycle of self-harm and desperate pleas, Briar’s initial agony and guilt had curdled into a cold, dull indifference. “Fitch, you just can’t bring yourself to follow through,” she sneered. “You’re using this as a pathetic lever, a way to force my hand. Otherwise, how do you keep surviving every single time?” The car sped toward the hospital. The doctors worked quickly. Once I was settled in a private room, Briar finally lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around her agitated face. “Logan wasn’t old when he came to me. He’s worked hard for the company and with the kids for three years now,” she explained, her voice flat. “That night, I was drunk. Yes, I was wrong, but the children are innocent!” She stood over me, her expression a mix of incomprehension and weariness. “The title of ‘husband’ is permanently yours. Why can’t you just be the bigger person?” “Is it so hard to accept two children? They are mine!” I stared up at the woman I had once loved to the bone. She was demanding I be “the bigger person” and embrace the children she’d birthed with another man. The place where my heart used to be no longer ached. It was just an empty, cold, suffocating void. “Briar,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Let’s get the divorce papers tomorrow.” Her brow furrowed. “How long are you going to keep this act up? It was just a stupid paparazzi video!” She then added, with chilling casualness, “You won’t touch me, and I have needs. You expect me not to find relief elsewhere?” I managed a self-mocking twist of my mouth. “You once promised that if you ever messed up, you’d let me go.” Her breath hitched. She looked at me with a complicated expression. “Fitchy, childish promises don’t count in the real world.” I closed my eyes, utterly exhausted. “Let the past stay in the past, then. Your home has already been given to someone else. I don’t want it anymore.” The room fell silent for a long time. She reached out and brushed my hair back from my forehead. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.” I instinctively flinched, pulling my head away. She slammed the door in frustration. “You rest. The doctor says you’re unstable and need quiet. We’ll talk about the divorce later. Don’t do anything stupid again.” In her eyes, my hysteria and utter breakdown were nothing more than childish stupidity. My pain was simply an inconvenience, disrupting her calm, privileged life. Just then, my eye caught the old high school note in my hand. New ink was floating up on the blank space! “Who are you? Why are you writing on my promise note?!” My heart skipped a beat. I stared, transfixed, at the words appearing from nowhere. I picked up the pen the nurse had left, my hand trembling uncontrollably. “Briar Rhodes, I am your guardian angel, here to protect you. Don’t be with Fitch Elliott.” I held my breath, waiting for a response. A few seconds later, the familiar, youthful handwriting, full of teenage pique and impatience, reappeared: “That’s BS! Why would I listen to you? I love Fitchy, and I’m going to be with him! What kind of sick prank is this?!” It was her. The eighteen-year-old Briar Rhodes. The girl who still believed that love could conquer everything, the girl who had vowed to build me a home. The girl she was then and the calm, controlled woman she was now were two completely different people. When I was a teenager, my mother had an affair, and my father murdered her and her lover before being sent to prison. Everyone had scorned me as the trash of a killer and a tramp. Only eighteen-year-old Briar held me, repeating endlessly how good I was. When I once wished out loud to see snow, she secretly saved up bus fare and took me a thousand miles north. She stood proudly in front of the entire student body during her public reprimand and declared, “I haven’t done anything wrong. I love Fitch Elliott, and I will marry him someday.” We squeezed into a tiny, rundown apartment, blowing out candles over cheap, leftover slices of cake from her after-school job. Even when she became the ruthless, shrewd businesswoman she is now, her eyes were still full of me. To give me a sense of security, she even let me choose her personal assistants and secretaries. Logan Miller’s resume was mediocre, and his English still carried a heavy, rustic accent. But he reminded me of my young self—the same hunger, the same fight to prove himself. I treated Logan like a younger brother, bought him nice clothes, taught him social etiquette. I even invited him to our holiday dinners. He would grin, throw his arm around my shoulder, and joke: “Fitchy, my man, I’ll make sure to watch out for the boss and keep all those sleazy guys away from her!” Yet, he was the one who betrayed me the deepest. The door to my room opened, and Logan walked in, looking slick and expensive. No trace of the boy who grew up in the mountains. “Briar’s tied up with company stuff, so she sent me to check on you.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Look, man, don’t hurt yourself. I know you’re angry. But her husband will always be you. We’re not trying to take your place.” I closed my eyes, refusing to watch his performance. “Don’t make me say it again. Get out.” Logan hadn’t expected the direct rejection, and his face soured. “Look, man, your sperm count is low. You couldn’t hold up your end of the deal. Briar got tired of it a long time ago.” He stood up, his voice dripping with condescension. “You’re a broken thing. Briar already got tired of you.” He left with a satisfied look. Who needs the empty title of “husband”? I wanted the girl whose eyes were only for me, the partner who promised me a home. Since Briar had personally shattered all of that, I didn’t want this relationship—drenched in betrayal and lies—anymore. With a cold, final resolve, I picked up the pen and wrote: “If you don’t listen, you will cause Fitch Elliott to attempt suicide countless times. You will destroy his will to live.” “If you truly love him, stay away. It is the only thing you can do to save him.” I leaned back, utterly drained, waiting for her reply. Time ticked by. Just as I thought the communication had stopped, new words slowly emerged on the paper. The youthful handwriting was no longer frantic, but hesitant. “You’re lying. Fitchy is so good. How could I ever hurt him? I’ll be good to him forever!” “Why should I believe you? You don’t have any proof.” My life was the bloody proof. But how could I tell the teenager from eleven years ago? Should I tell her she would get drunk after a business dinner and end up in bed with the adoring male secretary? That she would get pregnant and successfully give birth to a pair of twins? And that the boy she once held so dear would descend into depression from years of betrayal, repeatedly attempting to violently end his own life to escape the world? The truth was too cruel for the eighteen-year-old version of her. I thought for a moment, then added a line: “Just above your tailbone, near your hip, you have a small, star-shaped birthmark. Only the orphanage director and I know about it.” Briar had told me that. “Are you really my guardian angel?” I smiled faintly. The teenage girl was so easy to manipulate. “If you truly want to save Fitch Elliott, pull away from him. Treat him coldly. Let him live a life without you.” A long pause followed. Then, the words that appeared carried a tone of reluctant, pained compromise: “I’ll listen to you for now. But if I find out you’re lying, I swear I won’t let you get away with it.” The threat was fierce, yet childish. But I felt a deep sense of relief, a smile touching my lips for the first time in what felt like forever. Eighteen-year-old Briar. Please be ruthless. Be crueler. Push the boy who loves you with all his heart away—as far away as you possibly can. On the day I was discharged, Briar came to pick me up. She glanced at the dressing on my neck, her eyes darkening. “The passenger seat is a mess. You should sit in the back.” I looked at the seat, which she hadn’t bothered to clean, scattered with a few wadded-up, cheap tissues and a discarded, torn nylon stocking. My heart clenched into a cold fist. But this time, I had no sharp questions. I got in the back seat in silence. Briar stiffened, clearly surprised by my unusual calmness. The driver, understanding the tension, raised the privacy divider. She tried to make conversation, her tone laced with confusion. “Fitch, how did we end up like this?” I felt numb. “Before, your eyes were only for me. Now, I’m just the least remarkable thing in your life.” She bristled, her voice rising in automatic protest. “That’s not true! You know you’re still the most important!” I gave her a look of faint mockery. “Briar, I can’t live up to that claim.” Briar’s face hardened. “Fitch, do you have to be so relentless?” “I am trying to make amends! I haven’t even officially made them co-heirs, for God’s sake! What more do you want?” She always had a reason. Did my suffering mean nothing? I suddenly felt utterly weary, lacking the strength to even argue. “Let’s go to the courthouse tomorrow.” Briar grabbed my shoulder fiercely, forcing me to face her. “I said no. Divorce is not happening. You are my husband for life!” I looked at her beautiful face, twisted now by agitation, and felt an intense sense of unfamiliarity. “Briar, the thing that trapped me before was my love for you.” “I don’t love you anymore. You can’t keep me here.” Her pupils constricted. She slumped back into her seat, then let out a cold, strained laugh. “Your manipulation tactics have certainly improved. I underestimated you.” As soon as we walked into the house, I heard the sound of children laughing, followed by Logan’s gentle cooing. “Not so fast, you two. Mommy will be back in a minute.” Toys were scattered across the living room rug. The boy and girl were wrestling on the floor, and Logan, wearing a casual t-shirt and sweats, watched them with a fond smile. The scene was sickeningly cozy. Hearing the commotion, Logan naturally took Briar’s discarded jacket and smiled at me. “Fitchy, let me know if you need anything at all, okay?” He looked every bit the man of the house. The boy, seeing me, kicked my shin. “Jerk! Don’t you dare break up our family!” The girl pouted. “Mommy, why did you let the bad man back in our house?” Briar didn’t reprimand their insolence. Her face was full of doting affection. “Mommy loves you two the most, always.” I stood there, an outsider looking in at a happy, complete family of four. I dug my nails into my palm, using the pain to anchor myself. “I’ll take the guest room.” Briar followed me, her voice exasperated. “Are you really going to hold a grudge against the children? I was just trying to soothe them.” I suddenly smiled. “What do your children have to do with me? Why should I care about their feelings?” She choked on her words, her face turning ashen. “Fitch Elliott, I don’t even recognize you anymore!” I nodded, my tone light and hollow. “You have yourself to thank for that.” I placed the promise note gently on the nightstand. Just then, new writing began to form on the paper. “Future Me, you are a pathetic bastard!” “I see what you’re doing now. How dare you let another woman and those wild brats into my house?!” “How the hell could you let Fitchy suffer like this? I’m going to kill you!” The handwriting was frenzied and desperate. My heart hammered against my ribs. Briar, standing in the doorway, must have sensed the shift in the air. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the paper in my hand, her voice icy. “Fitch, what the hell is that you’re holding?” She snatched the note from my grasp. “Stop your mystical nonsense, Fitch. You’re clearly having a breakdown!” I watched her, instantly alert, and hissed, “Don’t touch it!” The sheer disgust in my eyes seemed to ignite her rage. Her gaze turned vicious. “This is my house, and you are my husband! What am I not allowed to touch?” “Fitch, have I been too lenient lately? Is this a love letter from your latest mistress?” So, forcing me to accept her betrayal, her bastard children, and ignoring my agony—that was lenience? A profound, chilling despair gripped me. I shoved her hard, locked the door, and sank against the frame. All I could do now was pray that the Briar from eleven years ago would listen and change my fate. But the next few days passed, and everything stayed the same. My hope plummeted to rock bottom. Perhaps to punish me for my defiance, Briar organized a lavish ceremony to officially introduce the twins to society. Invitations went out to almost every major figure in the business community. Logan, wearing a bespoke suit, walked through the room, holding the hands of the twins, accepting the compliments and blessings of the guests. His gaze caught mine, and his eyes were full of triumphant spite. He seemed to be saying: This is only the beginning. Next time, you’ll be attending our wedding. Midway through the banquet, the massive screen lit up to show a documentary of the children’s early life. Briar was there, picnicking with Logan and the kids, taking them to water parks—a painfully idyllic life. Suddenly, the children’s smiling faces vanished. They were replaced by a vile, grainy video. The footage of my mother’s affair with her lover, the same one that had been leaked online years ago, flashed across the screen! The resemblance between my mother and me was impossible to miss. Hundreds of guests’ looks of contempt immediately skewered me. Briar screamed at them to shut it down. But the control panel was unresponsive. My mother’s desperate moans echoed through the banquet hall. My body turned to ice. My blood seemed to solidify in my veins. Logan stood there, a cruel smirk on his face, silently mouthing the words: “How do you like my gift, Cal?” I lunged forward, hitting him with every ounce of strength I had left. Logan stumbled backward, conveniently crashing into the little boy, who’d run over to watch the spectacle. The child fell hard, bursting into tears. Briar’s furious roar tore through the room: “Logan! Jayson!” Before I could react, I was kicked away like a discarded rag doll. A blinding pain exploded at the back of my skull. Warm liquid instantly gushed out. I curled up on the cold floor. The back of my head was wet, and when I hesitantly reached a trembling hand to touch it, it came back covered in bright, thick red. As my consciousness faded, a figure in a school uniform frantically ran toward me. “Fitchy, don’t be afraid. I’m here…” Her face was younger, her brows still held a childish innocence, but I knew those features. I would never be mistaken. It was eighteen-year-old Briar. Had she really come?

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Chapter 1 It was getting late, and I had finally decided to give myself to Carter. I had just changed into a short skirt when I saw him standing by his Porsche, same as always. He was smiling lazily at the dorm manager. “Just let me in, ma’am. Otherwise, my girlfriend will worry seeing me stand in the cold wind for so long.” My heart pounded like a drum. I solemnly handed the gift to my best friend. “Chloe, thank you for dealing with Carter’s pursuit for so long… “You won’t need to anymore. I’m ready to…” The words “say yes to him” hadn’t even left my mouth. I bumped into a hard, warm chest— Carter glanced at me indifferently, took a step back, his expression cold and distant. “Hey, call Chloe for me. “I’m picking her up for a date.” Chapter 1 Carter stood tall, looking down at me. The look in his eyes was like looking at a stranger he’d met by chance. I opened my mouth, about to ask. But I was interrupted by Chloe behind me. “Summer, your ID~” She held the gift I had just given her, her voice sweet and thoughtful. “Didn’t you say you weren’t coming back tonight? It’s more convenient to check into a hotel with an ID. “By the way, Summer, you look beautiful in that short skirt~ But it’s cold today, aren’t you afraid of catching a cold?” The gaze above my head was burning. I didn’t dare look up, only feeling the short skirt on my body prickling my skin. My exposed legs were also chilled by the biting wind. “Alright.” Carter leaned lazily against the doorframe, raising an eyebrow with a slight smile. “For our first date, you’re already an hour late.” He didn’t give me a single glance. Looking at the gift box in Chloe’s hand, he paused. His face, which had just softened, turned cold again. “What is this?” Chloe smiled frankly. “A gift Summer gave me. She said—” She looked at me, blinking her eyes with an innocent look. “Why did you give me a gift again? “I was putting on makeup just now, I didn’t listen carefully.” My heart felt sour, and I bit my lip to stop the tears from falling. In the few seconds I hesitated on how to answer. Carter reached out, took the gift box, and deftly threw it into the trash can. He withdrew his gaze nonchalantly, wrapped his arm around Chloe’s waist, and chuckled low. “Keeping this kind of trash is just a waste of space. “You’re my girlfriend, you have to remember—you deserve the best of everything in the world.” Finished. Carter leaned down slightly and planted a kiss on Chloe’s cheek. Seeing her blush, he took the opportunity to pull her closer into his arms. I subconsciously turned my head away, not wanting to look. I felt like I shouldn’t be here, but I didn’t know what I should do. This weird awkwardness lasted until Carter softly called my name. “Summer Vance.” Two words spilled from his lips, just like before, lingering and ambiguous. At this moment. I remembered what Carter had said before: “As long as I can catch you, I’ll use every trick in the book.” Could it be… He was playing hard to get? Was all this just an act for me? Thinking of this, I looked up and met his gaze. “Summer?” He repeated. Immediately after, Carter’s face was calm, word by word: “We’re going camping tonight, so— “No need to leave the door unlocked for Chloe tonight.” Chapter 2 Night fell. The dorm was completely empty. The remaining two roommates hadn’t returned from their hometowns after the New Year. After picking up my takeout, I locked the door tight. When Carter’s number jumped on the screen, I was packing the love letters he had given me— “Are you asleep?” Carter’s voice sounded hollow on the other end, with faint wind noise, his voice slightly hoarse. “Sorry, I know you hate me calling at this time.” Listening to his gentle voice, my hand gripping the beer bottle paused. “Haven’t slept yet” was just out of my mouth. When I heard Carter clear his throat and say in a deliberately relaxed tone: “I have a favor to ask you. “Chloe posted a photo on Instagram two hours ago… You haven’t liked it, she feels pretty bad, she’s been crying for a while.” Finished. He took a deep breath, as if mentally preparing himself, with a flattering tone: “I know you don’t like me, but—for the sake of me chasing you for two years, help me out with this. “Chloe says you’re her best friend, she hopes to get your blessing.” After his voice fell. Time seemed to stand still. I could hear the slightly nervous and rapid breathing of Carter, who had always been cynical. I stared somewhat numbly at Chloe’s bed, confused in my heart: I didn’t agree to Carter’s pursuit because I felt a bit inferior. I felt our family backgrounds didn’t match… Even though Carter always said, the person he liked was me. I had told Chloe about those contradictory and bitter teenage girl thoughts countless times. … “You wouldn’t be like what they say, keeping me hanging without agreeing, and not wanting me to be happy, right?” Seeing I remained silent, Carter’s voice turned cold. “Summer, you can’t be that selfish.” Tears blurred my vision. Wet the box of thick stationery in my hand. Falling on Carter’s powerful and elegant handwriting, blurring “I really like you” into a black mist. Afraid he would hear my choking, my voice was very light, and my speech was very slow: “I know.” Chapter 3 After hanging up the phone, I picked up the beer bottles on the floor and stuffed them into the trash bag. I opened Chloe’s Instagram. What came into view was the flashy Porsche full of roses. And Carter’s hands full of luxury shopping bags. The caption was: Love nourishes you like a flower. The person who loves you always fears they aren’t giving you enough. Carter in the photo was still handsome and unruly. Only, the love in his eyes was no longer for me. I felt a bit stung. Hastily liked it. And replied in the comments below: Wishing you happiness. After putting away the phone. I stuck a french fry, pretending it was a candle… My parents always said: Your birthday is the day your mother suffered. So I never celebrated my birthday. This was the first time I wanted to open my heart to Carter. I even used the money I saved from a month of part-time jobs to buy a gift for Chloe. … Forget it. I closed my eyes and made a wish. Happy birthday. Summer. Chapter 4 I put away that beautiful short skirt. And a letter. A full page I had written seriously. The letter I didn’t have time to give to Carter. Chapter 5 To avoid Carter, I started keeping my distance from Chloe. I became a loner. Becoming the “outcast” in everyone’s eyes again. Life seemed to have returned to two years ago. The only difference was, although I lost contact with Carter, his good friend still liked to provoke me. Every time we met by chance, he would shove food into my arms with a dark face. Then without waiting for me to say a word, turn and leave. I gritted my teeth and accepted those expensive snacks. Then worked hard at my part-time job to calculate the value of those snacks into men’s gifts and return them to his friend. After Carter and Chloe went official, it got even worse. He directly sent me a brand-name down jacket. Looking at the price, I almost blacked out. When I was ready to return it, I found that this scheming man had customized my name inside the cuff. No choice. I could only give a fake smile and say to him, “Thanks a lot.” Then after class, immediately went to my part-time job. That night. Finally preparing to end my second shift. The door was pushed open. “Hello, we’re getting ready to close.” “But Carter, I really want to eat here~” Chloe’s coquettish voice came, “What should we do?” I lowered my head, pressing the brim of my hat down again and again. Praying they would leave quickly. But things went contrary to my wishes. Carter just rubbed her hair dotingly and whispered “Okay”. After his slender fingers flipped through a few times, I received a call from the store manager, saying that both the back kitchen and I would get off work late. I exhaled, put on a fake and decent smile, and walked forward: “Hello, would you like to order now?”

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I hated Roman Sterling. I hated that two-faced, arrogant jerk. It wasn’t enough that he stole my projects, poached my clients, and blocked my promotion. He actually! Dared to take my most precious possession! The moment the bed frame snapped, my soul felt like it left my body. I was bleeding in two places at once. My voice was gone, my vision blurred by steam and sweat. My last memory of that night was Roman gripping my neck, panting heavily into my ear, and chuckling: “You’re amazing, babe.” The next morning, I woke up with my hands around his throat, threatening him: “If a third person finds out about this, you are dead meat!” A few months later, looking at my slightly protruding belly. Roman scratched his head, looking pained. “I didn’t think biology worked that way for us.” “Can you maybe spare the baby daddy’s life?” 01 I hated Roman Sterling. He was a world-class jerk. Usually, I could tolerate him stealing my thunder at work. But sleeping with me? That was a bridge too far. When the bed collapsed, I think my dignity went with it. I have a secret. A medical anomaly. And that night, Roman discovered it in the most invasive way possible. 02 I learned a valuable lesson freshman year of college: Roman is a menace. Day one of orientation, we ended up in the same dorm room. We both wanted the bottom bunk. After arguing for twenty minutes, he suddenly smirked lazily. “If you want to be under me that badly, I’ll allow it.” Our other two roommates burst out laughing. I was furious. I threw my suitcase onto the top bunk and glared at him. “Fine. I’m taking the top. Deal with it.” Roman just smiled and happily made his bed. Later that night at the dorm mixer, Roman sat next to me. He leaned in, whispering with a grin: “Cam, top or bottom doesn’t matter.” “It’s what’s inside that counts.” It took me ten full seconds to realize what this pervert was implying. My face went nuclear red. When a roommate asked what was wrong, Roman casually picked up a cream puff and held it to my mouth. “He ate something spicy. Here, have something sweet to neutralize it.” I was so mad I bit down on the puff—pretending it was Roman’s finger. Filling exploded everywhere, all over my face. Roman took a wet wipe and cleaned me up, spot by spot. Some genius took a photo. Because of the angle, it looked… suggestive. Roman’s knuckles, my red face, the white cream. That photo hit the campus social app instantly. The thread got three thousand comments overnight. My reputation as a straight man took a critical hit. For the first semester, everywhere I went, people teased: “Cameron, where’s your boyfriend?” I reported the thread for harassment every day for a month until it was taken down. I thought graduation meant freedom. I thought tossing my cap meant tossing Roman Sterling out of my life. Day one at the new firm. I looked up from my cubicle and nearly passed out. Roman was sitting right across from me, flashing that same devilish grin. 03 I opened my eyes and felt like my face was buried in a cloud. I moved my head groggily, my lips brushing against something warm. The person next to me groaned. Once my vision cleared, I froze. My body ached in places it shouldn’t. I realized my head was buried in Roman’s chest. And judging by the red marks, I’d been there a while. Just as I was about to knock myself out and pretend this was a nightmare, he opened his eyes. We locked gazes. He smirked. “Morning, babe.” Babe? This trash. The first thing he does is flirt. I swung a fist at his face. He caught it effortlessly with his palm, using the momentum to flip us over so he was hovering above me. “Whoa there. Why so aggressive?” His tone wasn’t accusing. It was soft. Almost… pitiful. Like he was pouting. Flashes of last night hit me. My throat felt dry. Roman lowered his head. The moment our noses touched, I sobered up. I grabbed his neck and flipped us again, pinning him down. I squeezed, watching his face turn slightly red. “I’m warning you. If you tell anyone that I’m…” I couldn’t say the word. Intersex. “I will end you.” He didn’t speak. Once I had my pants on, Roman lit a cigarette. He blew a smoke ring toward me, smiling through the haze. “Then be gentle with me, husband. I’m sensitive.” 04 I scrubbed my skin raw in the shower, trying to wash off the scent of Roman Sterling. But whenever I closed my eyes, I could hear him. His voice, whispering in my ear. Calling me “babe.” It made me sick. I didn’t sleep until 3 AM. I dragged myself to the office Monday morning looking like a zombie. The moment I hit my desk, I smelled cologne. Cedar and spice. Roman was walking toward me in a crisp white shirt, top button undone, looking annoyingly fresh. “What do you want?” I snapped. “You look tired. I made you coffee.” “Damn it, are you stalking me? Are you sick? Did you poison this so I’d miss the morning meeting? I’m telling you, that project is mine!” I felt smug, thinking I’d seen through his plot. A female colleague nearby giggled. “You guys are too much.” Roman’s eyes darkened. He set the coffee down and walked away. I suddenly remembered college. He used to do this too. He’d buy breakfast for the whole room. Save seats. He even did my laundry once when I left it in the basket too long. Was he actually… nice? Ha. Believe Roman is a nice guy? Or believe I’m actually gay? He probably put bleach in my laundry. At the meeting, Roman told the boss that my plan was better suited for the new client. He voluntarily stepped back. I was confused. Was he compensating me for that night? The thought made me shudder. Can’t we just get partial amnesia? We are both grown men. There’s nothing to compensate! I decided to confront him. During lunch, I dragged him into the break room like a thief. 05 “Look, Roman. We have some… history. But we’re bros, right? Don’t…” I stammered, my face heating up. “Anyway, I’m not a girl. You don’t need to compensate me. Let’s just go back to normal. We argue, we compete.” “We stay enemies.” Roman laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “So, I hit a home run, and now you want to send me back to the dugout?” “What home run? What…” Before I could finish, Roman stepped in. He kneed my legs apart, pinned my wrists against the wall, and loomed over me. The scent of cedar was overwhelming. “Who said it was unpleasant? That night, I enjoyed it… thoroughly.” My face exploded with heat. “Get the hell away from me!” Roman chuckled. “Cam, people have been spreading rumors about us for years. Why don’t we just make it real?” “My father raised a straight man! Straighter than a steel beam!” I roared. Just then, the break room door swung open. Some colleagues walked in on us in a very compromising position. One of the girls gasped, covered her mouth, and frantically flashed us an ‘OK’ sign. “We didn’t see anything!” “Door’s closed! Carry on! Don’t let us ruin the mood!” I watched them flee in despair. I could predict my reputation for the next ten years—the closeted office romance king. 06 That afternoon, I went to Sarah at the next desk. “Sarah, switch seats with me? I’ll buy you lunch.” I couldn’t look at Roman’s resentful face anymore. Avoiding him was cowardly, but effective. Sarah looked at me, then at Roman, and smiled knowingly. “Couple’s quarrel? No way am I moving. Look at his handsome face, you’ll forgive him eventually.” Not only did I fail to move, but I also got humiliated. Why does everyone assume he’s the top? The world has a serious misunderstanding about me! It rained, and then it poured. The boss announced a bonus. A trip for two to Hawaii. “You two worked hard this half. Go relax. Come back refreshed.” I felt dead inside. Roman took the tickets and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry. I won’t ruin your mood.” “You find a friend to go with. I’ll just stay in the hotel and sleep.” Was he that nice? I debated internally. I wanted to go, but it felt like a trap. But then my brain short-circuited. “You… don’t want to go with me?” I wanted to slap myself. Why did that sound like an invitation? Roman looked up slowly. He smiled, a look I couldn’t decipher. 07 How did it end up like this? I was hiding in the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Is the company going bankrupt? Why only one room? And why a King bed? The boss is a cheapskate. Roman knocked. “You done? I need to go.” You’re in a rush? I’m not mentally prepared! “Yeah… okay.” I walked out awkwardly. Roman didn’t even look at me. He went in and locked the door. He really just needed the toilet. I felt stupid for worrying. When I got dressed, I saw he had built a pillow fort down the middle of the bed. I paused. Right. We are enemies. This is normal. So why was I annoyed? That night, we lay back to back. Roman fell asleep instantly. I couldn’t sleep. Fragments of memories floated up. Sophomore year track meet. I sprained my ankle. Roman ran the 1500m for me, then collapsed by my wheelchair. The time my scholarship was delayed. He dragged me to the admin office and yelled at them until they fixed it. There were so many quiet moments buried under the noise of our rivalry. “Roman Sterling, you jerk,” I whispered into the dark. He sighed. He moved the pillow barrier. “Go to sleep, idiot.” “I can’t.” “Your breathing is too loud.” Roman laughed low in his throat. “Stupid. That’s your heartbeat.” In the silence, my ears burned.

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After I died saving Holden Blackwood, he didn’t behave like a grieving widower in some tragic romance novel. Three days after he’d rushed through my funeral—a perfunctory, cold affair—he married his assistant, Bonnie Shaw. Their wedding was lavish, a spectacle of gilded excess. Meanwhile, my photo from the mantelpiece was tossed into the kitchen trash, and no one in the Blackwood estate dared speak my name again. Our four-year-old son, Ford, rushed his father, clutching his leg, only to be roughly kicked away. “Elma is dead!” Holden roared, his face a mask of cold fury. “You will start calling Bonnie ‘Mama’ immediately, or you’ll be out of this house!” “Furthermore, you’re starting boarding school next month. You won’t interfere with Bonnie’s pregnancy.” Ford ran away that afternoon, clutching my portrait. He was hit by a car and died alone on the side of the road. Holden used the priceless collection of artwork I’d inherited from my father—my dowry—to leverage his company’s recovery. He became the city’s wealthiest magnate and lived to the age of ninety. It turned out, the tidy moral structure of justice in novels was a comforting lie. Then, I woke up. I was back on the morning Holden Blackwood fell into the sea. And I understood. It wasn’t an accident at all. My death in the last life was the result of a cruel, desperate gamble they’d orchestrated. This time, I decided to watch the game from the sidelines. “Mommy!” The small, whiny voice, thick with injustice, jolted me fully awake. Ford, all four years of him, tumbled into my embrace, his body soft and warm. The flash of my past life—him lying broken by the road, hugging my framed photo, crying for his mother—stabbed into my mind. I had been a frantic ghost, circling uselessly above him, unable to stop his fate. My arms tightened around him now. “Mommy, I want to go on the boat with you and Daddy,” Ford pleaded, looking up with wide, beseeching eyes. The boat. I froze. Holden’s voice, sharp and impatient, cut in from behind me. “Move it, Elma. What are you waiting for?” I turned slowly. The man I’d loved with a lifetime’s devotion was walking toward me. His face was still devastatingly handsome, but my heart felt like a frozen, hollow space in my chest. “If we’re late for the summit, I’m holding you responsible!” It all clicked into place. Today was the Lakehurst Commercial Summit. And today was the anniversary of my death. “Perhaps you shouldn’t go.” Bonnie, immaculate in a silk dress, floated down the sweeping staircase and naturally looped her arm through Holden’s. “The little guy is sensitive. The sea air will make him sick again.” She shot me a glance, a tiny, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. In the previous life, I would have lunged, tearing her off him. But this time, when Ford shrieked, “Bad woman! Let go of my Daddy!” I held him back with a voice that was suddenly, terrifyingly calm. “Ford, come back.” I scooped him up, rising to my feet. “Bonnie’s right. He should stay home with the nanny.” A flicker of surprise crossed Holden’s face. Three months ago, when I first discovered their affair, I’d trashed his office, made a public scene, and begged him on my knees not to leave me. This composure must seem deeply, unnervingly abnormal to him. “Elma, you’re…” He paused, assessing me. “You’re being sensible.” I didn’t reply. I simply turned and walked up the stairs. I wouldn’t go to the yacht, not yet. In the past, Ford had witnessed my drowning, a trauma that ultimately broke him. This time, all I cared about was his safety. I quickly changed my clothes and came back down. As Holden reached for my hand, I slipped past him, letting Bonnie take the front seat. I settled into the back. The yacht deck was cold, the water vast and flat. I couldn’t help but remember the morgue in the hospital, my dead body wrapped in plastic, and Holden weeping over me. The grief hadn’t seemed fake. So why, just three days later, did he throw away my photo and marry Bonnie? Even if the love was gone, I had still saved his life. Just then, a faint crash echoed from the cabin. Bonnie poked her head out. Seeing the deck was empty, she nervously retreated. “The private investigator got the proof!” Her voice was low, tight. “She’s been meeting with that man frequently… Holden, she’s cheating on you!” “Enough!” Holden’s voice sounded exhausted. “I told you, you’ll be compensated handsomely. But as long as Elma is alive, there is only one Mrs. Blackwood.” “Don’t you want to know if she cares about you, though?” Bonnie hissed. The man stopped walking. “If she jumps in after you, it proves her loyalty.” “And if she… doesn’t jump?” “Don’t worry, I have a rescue boat standing by.” Bonnie gripped his arm. “It’s just a little drama, a show of desperate love. She won’t be in any real danger.” The silence stretched, long and deadly. Holden finally gave in, a single, decisive nod. I almost laughed out loud. My death in the previous life was born from their stupid, manufactured suspicion. The “other man” was just a rare stamp dealer. Holden was obsessed with collecting, and I’d been trying to buy him a surprise set. He never gave me a chance to explain. A heavy splash echoed from the other end of the deck. “Honey, help me!” Holden was thrashing in the icy water. Last time, I jumped and lost my life. This time, I stood still. I calmly pulled out a small bag of sunflower seeds and began shelling them. Bonnie was stunned. “Mrs. Blackwood, you’re not going to save him? You don’t care about Mr. Blackwood’s safety?” “I have a terrible cold,” I replied with an effortless shrug. “Can’t risk getting worse. You look awfully concerned, though. You should go save him.” With a swift movement, I shoved her backward. Bonnie shrieked as she plummeted into the sea. Her flailing and desperate cries for help instantly merged with Holden’s frantic splashing. I wiped my hands clean and pulled out my phone. I sent two quick messages. One to my lawyer, instructing him to prepare the final divorce documents. The second to my childhood rival and estranged friend in France. Keep an eye on the painter, Theo Moretti, at St. Mary’s Hospital. I’m giving you a massive score. The rescue crew was efficient. Neither of them died. Bonnie woke up quickly. I carried a thermos of hot soup to the hospital room but she wasn’t there. I walked toward the nurses’ station and paused by the utility closet, hearing hushed voices. “The plan is ruined!” It was the crewman’s voice. “Elma didn’t jump. We can’t testify that she was pushing the CEO’s head underwater to inherit his estate…” I held my breath. Was this the whole truth? No wonder Holden hated me so much shortly after my death. “Don’t panic,” Bonnie chuckled lightly. “Her refusal to jump only proves she never cared about Holden.” “I have plenty of ways to make them divorce!” She leaned in close to the man’s ear, dropping her voice further. “Besides, I have a massive kill-switch ready.” I couldn’t make out the rest. Seeing them about to conclude, I swiftly retreated to the room. Holden was awake, his face pale and clammy. He struggled to sit up, grabbing my wrist in a vice grip. “Why… why didn’t you jump in to save me?” I gently pulled my arm away. “I have a cold. I shouldn’t go near the water.” He stared, then loosened his grip. “You… you weren’t like this before.” Yes, before. In the past, I drained my father’s inheritance to help him rebuild, gave up my job as an art buyer to focus on getting pregnant. I sacrificed my life, and still couldn’t save my only son. Just then, Bonnie rushed in. She threw herself into Holden’s arms, clutching him tightly. “Holden, you scared me to death!” “Thank goodness I didn’t hesitate and just jumped straight in…” As she spoke, Bonnie glanced at me triumphantly. I simply smiled, pulling out my phone and pressing record. “That was a rather reluctant jump, wasn’t it, Bonnie?” I hit the play button. The conversation from the yacht deck filled the sterile room. “I have a cold. You go save him.” Bonnie screamed, “He’s your husband! What does this have to do with me?” “You love him desperately, don’t you? Wouldn’t it be romantic to die together if you can’t save him?” She sounded terrified, shaking violently. “I don’t want to die! I have so much left to do!” The recording ended abruptly with the sound of her being shoved into the water. Holden’s face was the color of stone. Bonnie stammered, trying to make excuses, but he pointed a shaky finger toward the door. “Get out.” She rose, tears streaming down her face. Her phone rang as she reached the exit. She returned instantly, a terrifying confidence replacing her panic. She held the phone triumphantly in front of Holden. “I couldn’t figure out why his wife watched him drown… until I saw this.” A paternity test report. The subjects: Holden Blackwood and Ford Blackwood. The conclusion: Zero probability of blood relation. Holden’s hand trembled. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot. He hurled the phone at me, demanding an explanation. I didn’t flinch. “It seems Mrs. Blackwood wanted Holden to die so her bastard son could inherit the Blackwood fortune…” Bonnie helpfully added. “Then she could run off with her lover, is that right?” I remained silent. Holden shot up from the bed, ripping the IV from his arm. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the door. “We’re going for a re-test now! We’ll find out the truth.” Bonnie’s face went white, her sudden anxiety visible. I yanked my arm away. “No.” Holden grew frantic. “If you have nothing to hide, what are you afraid of?” “If the test proves I’ve been wrongly accused…” I pointed at Bonnie’s stomach. “Then you abort her child. Do you dare take that bet?” Holden froze. In my previous life, I never knew Bonnie was pregnant until the end. I had always believed Holden was just playing around, and that if I were humble enough, he’d return to me. “Two months along, right?” I smiled, shifting my gaze to Bonnie’s barely noticeable bump. “About the same stage I was with Ford.” She instantly covered her belly, retreating behind Holden. “Elma! What are you doing? The baby is innocent!” “Nothing at all.” I smiled. “Just reminding you, Bonnie, that you need vitamins for the morning sickness. I can even recommend a good nutritionist.” My sudden generosity only deepened Holden’s confusion. “You’re not angry? Not jealous?” I shook my head. “Bonnie is carrying a Blackwood heir. Why would I be jealous?” “Unless…” He choked, his breathing ragged. “Unless your heart is simply not mine anymore?” I gave him no answer. “Ford is four. You hooked up with your lover four years ago, didn’t you? While I was busy rebuilding my life?” As Holden’s eyes became increasingly bloodshot, I remained completely silent. He could figure it out himself. If I’d truly had a lover, I would have left him ages ago. Why would I pour my father’s entire estate into saving him? He simply chose not to believe me. My phone vibrated. It was the reply from Jasper Reid. Theo Moretti critically ill. His last works expected to double in value. I closed my eyes, recalling the twelve paintings—the St. Christopher Series—I’d left for Holden in the previous life. I pulled a file from my bag and slapped it against his chest. “Let’s get divorced.” Holden stared at the words, DIVORCE AGREEMENT, and swallowed hard. “What did you say?” “Divorce,” I repeated. “When a marriage has no trust, it’s better to go our separate ways.” “Do you really have to do this?” His voice softened, a hint of desperation creeping in. “Just agree to the paternity test, give me an answer…” “And then what?” I cut him off. “Even if I’m proven innocent, will you punish Bonnie for this?” “Dare to subject her to an amniocentesis for DNA testing, or let me use your affair as grounds for a lawsuit?” He was immediately speechless. “Divorce, divorce, that’s all you think about!” He erupted in a sudden rage, snatching the papers and throwing them back. “I know what this is. You want to walk away with more money to give to your lover! Not a chance! I won’t sign this. You leave with nothing!” I picked up the pen without hesitation. And signed it cleanly. Holden tried to stop me but was too late. “You…” His hand shook. “You really want nothing, just to leave me?” “I only want the remaining part of my dowry.” “Those few mediocre paintings?” He tried to find a flicker of doubt in my eyes. “Elma, think clearly…” “Perfectly clear.” “Fine. Very good.” His eyes were red as he nodded. He immediately called the nanny, instructing her to pack my belongings. He insisted we leave the hospital and return home. The moment we walked in the door, he grabbed Ford and ordered my bags to be moved into the guest room. “Until the cooling-off period is over, you will live here.” “Why?” “Because you are still Mrs. Blackwood!” “This is illegal confinement!” The tension was immediate, a standoff. I knew his game: he wanted me here to witness his life with Bonnie, hoping I’d get jealous and beg him to withdraw the divorce papers. Tired of the drama, I grabbed my suitcase and turned to leave. Suddenly, he snatched Ford up and slammed the child’s head onto the corner of the dining table. Thud. A dull sound, followed by the sight of blood. Ford screamed in pain. I rushed over and held him, trembling all over. Holden immediately covered his fleeting moment of panic. “The child is hurt. You can’t drag him around in the cold looking for a place to stay, can you?” I looked up at him, seeing a stranger. I remembered the night Ford was born. I’d had a massive hemorrhage, and Holden stood outside the delivery room, his eyes red, pleading with the doctor to save me. Later, holding his son, he swore he would cherish us both for life. And now, he had deliberately smashed his son’s head just to keep me trapped. “Mr. Blackwood, call a doctor.” I turned, my voice venomous. He carelessly agreed, then wrapped his arm around Bonnie and disappeared into the master suite. For the next few days, Bonnie was the lady of the manor. In the living room, the dining room, on the stairs—I constantly found them entwined. Holden attended every prenatal appointment. When Bonnie wanted a midnight cake, he braved the snow to buy ingredients and baked until dawn. He completely ignored Ford and me. My lawyer called frequently, reminding me of the dwindling countdown to the official end of the cooling-off period. That night, with Ford in my arms, he asked, “Mommy, are you really leaving Daddy?” “Yes.” “When do we go? I don’t want to be here anymore.” I glanced at my phone. Soon. Two more days until the painter, Theo Moretti, died, and Holden’s company would face catastrophe. In the past life, he used my paintings to save himself. This time, I’d strike first. I texted Jasper. Be at the auction the day after tomorrow. If Theo doesn’t die, I’ll work in your gallery for life. You can’t lose. After a moment of silence, he replied with a single word. Deal. On the day of the auction, I dressed to kill and came downstairs. Holden and Bonnie were standing together. He paused, seeing me. “Let’s go, the car is warmed up.” I stepped in front of Bonnie, took Holden’s arm, and squeezed him out of her way. His mouth curved slightly. “Changed your mind about the divorce?” I just smiled, my eyes scanning the trunk of his car where the paintings were stored. I took the passenger seat. In the rearview mirror, Bonnie looked like she wanted to tear me apart. Holden, in a strangely good mood, kept discussing the items he was interested in bidding on. I was distracted, checking my phone and gazing out the window. At the venue, I chose a seat far away from them. Holden looked perplexed. “Sitting so far away? Are you trying to publicly humiliate me in front of the media?” “We’re getting divorced,” I said, shrugging. “Does it matter if we sit together?” His face darkened. He immediately bid aggressively, buying three expensive diamond sets for Bonnie. “A gift for the most important woman in my life,” he announced loudly. The media swarmed. “Mr. Blackwood, is it true your marriage with Mrs. Blackwood has broken down?” He avoided the question, smiling vaguely, looking at me, clearly expecting me to jump up and defend the marriage. I remained silent. I was calm and quiet, like a detached observer. Bonnie was ecstatic, clutching her jewelry boxes. Holden’s face grew darker and darker. Near the end, I stood up. I glanced at the familiar figure in the corner, Jasper Reid, and walked to the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a few paintings to auction today. They are my late father’s private collection.” A murmur rippled through the audience. “Why is Mrs. Blackwood selling her father’s things? Is the rumor of her divorce true?” I took the microphone. “Holden and I are finalizing our divorce.” “Since Mr. Blackwood demands I leave with nothing, I need to sell these for cash.” The media erupted. “Is this because of Bonnie?” Holden’s face was livid, but he forced a cold laugh. “Those worthless pieces? How much could they possibly be worth?” It was true. The painter, Theo Moretti, was completely obscure right now. But after his death, this series of twelve paintings would skyrocket in value. And today, was the day he died. “Don’t cause a scene, Elma,” Holden hissed, suppressing his fury. “If you need money, I’ll increase your allowance. I can even buy them myself at a low price as a charitable act.” “No, thank you.” I waved him off. “Keep your money for Bonnie’s jewelry, Mr. Blackwood. These paintings will find someone who truly appreciates them.” The auction floor went silent. No one bid. Holden raised an eyebrow triumphantly, but a voice from the corner cut him short. “Three million.” It was him. Jasper. Holden recognized him instantly. “Is he your lover?” Holden grabbed my wrist. I pulled away sharply. “Mr. Blackwood, please maintain decorum. If you’re not interested in the next lot, you may leave.” “Holden,” Bonnie tugged his sleeve. “My stomach hurts. Let’s go home.” Holden glared at me, then turned to leave. But as they approached the car, an international news alert popped up on his phone. At the same moment, the distinctive ping of news alerts filled the auction hall. Holden froze. French painter Theo Moretti passed away this morning. The value of his final works is expected to skyrocket. He spun around wildly. By the time he turned back, the bidding had already tripled. “I’ll raise the bid! Five million! I’ll take it!” He was panting, held back by security guards. “Attendees who have left the premises are disqualified from bidding.” I smiled. The auctioneer’s gavel struck the podium. “Sold for thirty million to Mr. Jasper Reid!” Holden was rigid, watching Jasper stand up and offer me a small, confident smile. In thirty minutes, the Blackwood Group would be facing a major crisis. And he had just missed his only chance for survival.

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