Category: English

Eight years ago, my entire family was dismembered and murdered. I was the only survivor. Eight years later, my crime novel, written from the killer’s first-person perspective, became a national bestseller. At a book signing, a talk show host, known for his probing questions, cornered me. “Mr. Vance,” he began, “this novel, written with such chilling intimacy from the perspective of a killer… would you say it’s a form of revenge against the person who murdered your family?” My fans, fearing the question would upset me, started booing, yelling at the host for being so insensitive. But I just held up a hand to quiet them. My eyes held a strange mix of relief and anticipation. “Of course not,” I said with a calm smile. “This isn’t revenge. It’s an autobiography, documenting my own crimes from eight years ago.” “After all,” I added, my voice dropping just enough for the microphone to pick it up, “I was the one who killed them. How could I take revenge on myself?” 1. A stunned silence fell over the room. Then, chaos. “Did I hear him right? What did Asher Vance just say?” “Hahaha, what a jokester. Of course a great writer would have a great sense of humor…” “But look at his face. He’s dead serious.” The crowd was a sea of confusion. I tossed my pen on the table, leaned back in my chair, and crossed my arms, my voice lazy. “There’s nothing to joke about. I’d been wanting to kill them for a long time. The cops, though… they’re pretty useless, aren’t they? Letting me walk free for eight years. If I hadn’t said something myself today, they’d still be scratching their heads over that cold case in another eight years.” Reporters in the audience gasped, a collective intake of breath. They smelled a career-making story. Cameras and microphones surged forward. “Mr. Vance, are you serious? You really murdered your family?!” “Why did you do it? And why confess now?” “Aren’t you afraid of the legal consequences…” My agent, Mark, a burly, perpetually stressed man, threw himself in front of me, trying to hold back the press. “Of course it’s not true!” he yelled. “Asher would never do something like that!” He shot me a look of pure terror, as if he were seeing a madman. “Asher, what the hell are you talking about?” I ignored Mark’s panic, my gaze sweeping over the shocked faces in the crowd. My voice was as calm as if I were describing the plot of my book. “Eight years ago, in our family home, I murdered my parents and my younger sister. Then, piece by piece, I took them apart.” A flicker of something dark and pleasurable crossed my face. I was remembering something I was proud of. “My technique was quite good, I have to say. It took the medical examiner three full days just to reassemble the bodies.” The audience, a mix of fans and reporters, stared in horrified silence. Then, the anger erupted. “Is he a monster?” “He’s proud of killing his own family!” “My uncle was a detective on that case eight years ago! He said the scene was a slaughterhouse! Blood everywhere, body parts scattered all over the house!” “So that’s why Asher, who was away at college, was the only survivor! He was the killer all along!” I tapped the cover of my new book, The Fog. It was a novella I’d spent three years crafting. “So,” I said, a small smile playing on my lips. “I’m sure my fans can now appreciate the stunning authenticity of my work. It’s a shame, really. If I wasn’t worried about the police catching on, I could have made the methods and motives even more true to life.” The crowd went wild. “You’re a monster, Vance! And I used to admire you!” “I own every one of your books! I can’t believe I was a fan of a murderer!” “Your most successful book is a how-to guide for murdering your family? You’re not even human!” If it weren’t for the security guards, they would have stormed the stage and dismembered me right then and there. Mark was sweating profusely, his voice hoarse. “Everyone, please, stay calm! The police will get to the bottom of this!” I saw them blocking the exits. I wasn’t going anywhere. Someone had already called 911. My atonement was about to begin. 2. The police were fast. The Vance family massacre was one of the state’s most infamous unsolved crimes. They had chased their tails for years on that one. In the interrogation room, an older detective hurried in. “Captain Miller, you’re here.” Miller. I looked up at the square-jawed, kind-faced detective. He was the lead investigator on my family’s case all those years ago. The pressure to solve it had been immense, and his failure to do so had stalled his career. “Asher. It’s been a while,” he said, sitting across from me. I gave a weak smile. “It has. Your department’s incompetence is truly remarkable.” Back then, he had been the one to guide me through the initial shock and grief, a steady presence in the chaos. Eight years had not been kind to him. “Asher, why did you kill your family? And why confess now, after all this time?” I adopted a careless, flippant tone. “What’s to understand? We were dirt poor, but they still wanted to blow a fortune sending my sister, Chloe, to art school in New York. The money in that house was for my education. Why should she get to live her dream while I was scraping by on student loans and financial aid?” My voice rose, the calm, collected author disappearing, replaced by a raw, resentful young man. The junior detective taking notes couldn’t help but interject. “But they were your family! Our investigation at the time showed you were all very close!” “Close?” I sneered. “When it comes to your own future, what does ‘close’ even mean? Let’s say you and I were close. If I asked you to give me your pension right now, would you do it?” The young detective’s face turned red. He was speechless. Captain Miller just watched me, his gaze steady. “I reviewed the old case file. The estimated time of death for your family doesn’t line up with the time you were confirmed to be at home.” I gave him a mysterious smile. “Well, you’re the detective. I’m sure you can figure it out. I have my ways of creating an alibi.” 3. Miller left, replaced by another officer who asked for a formal statement. I closed my eyes, letting the memories wash over me. “July 3rd, 2015. I was home from college for the summer. My parents told me their plan to send Chloe to Parsons. I told them no way. I worked my ass off to get into a top university, to win scholarships and grants. Why should she get to piss away our money on an art degree?” “So you argued?” the officer prompted. “Yes. I smashed a glass on my father’s head.” I pictured the wound, the way the blood matted his hair. “I took him down first. My mother and sister were screaming. I went to the kitchen, got a knife, and killed them both.” The officer frowned at my detached tone. “And why did you dismember them?” A slow smile spread across my face. “Misdirection, of course. Everyone knew what a good, loving family we were. What kind of a dutiful son would do something so monstrous to the people he loved?” “You animal,” the officer muttered under his breath. When they left me alone, I just sat there, replaying the plot of The Fog in my head. Before its release, I was a moderately successful writer. The Fog made me a star. And as its fame grew, so did the public’s fascination with the unsolved crime that inspired it. This book signing… it was all part of my plan. Soon, Miller returned. He was sweating, like he’d been running. 4. “You’re lying.” I looked up at him, a half-smile on my face. “What did you find?” “We contacted your old professors. Their stories haven’t changed. On the day of the murders, you were on campus, working on your thesis. We pulled the security footage from that day. You were in the library, the cafeteria, and your dorm. You never left campus. Your university is a thousand miles from your hometown. Without a flight or a train, you couldn’t have made it back in time.” He leaned forward. “So, you weren’t there. You’re lying.” “Is that all you have?” I asked. Miller’s frustration was palpable. “Asher, what are you doing? You’ve incited a public panic, you’re on the verge of destroying your life. All our evidence confirms you weren’t there. You didn’t kill them.” He paused. “Unless you had an accomplice.” I just looked at him, not confirming, not denying. My 24 hours were up. They had nothing. Reluctantly, they had to let me go. As I walked out of the station, I saw a familiar face waiting for me. My uncle. Miller explained, “He’s been here for hours.” My uncle was well-dressed, his hair graying at the temples, a successful businessman. “Asher, what’s gotten into you? Why would you say those things?” He turned to the police. “Officers, please, you have to clear my nephew’s name!” He looked distraught, but his eyes were cold. I turned to Miller with a wry smile. “You want to know who the killer is?” He looked at me, confused. My gaze drifted past him and settled on my uncle. “You don’t have to look far.” 5. The moment I got home, my agent, Mark, was on the phone. “Asher! Do you know what you’ve done? Your book sales have plummeted! Online retailers and bookstores are getting mass returns! The publisher has pulled the book!” He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “I’m sitting on my sofa, watching my name being dragged through the mud on every news channel.” [Why did they let him go? Don’t they have any evidence?] [The book is practically a confession! Who else could it be?] [Don’t let this killer walk free!] [The Author’s Guild needs to blacklist Asher Vance! We can’t have his sick fantasies on the market!] [CancelAsherVance] Mark was shaking me by the shoulders. “It’s the end of the world and you’re just sitting there! Why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut and make your money?” I pushed him away gently. “Mark, I wasn’t crazy. I really did kill them.” Mark just scoffed. “And I’m the King of England. I’d believe that before I’d believe you’re a killer.” After he left, he called back. “Asher, prepare yourself. This is a huge scandal. The publisher’s worried about their reputation. They might drop you.” I just nodded. The hunger for fame and success that had driven me in my twenties had faded. All I cared about now was the truth. As expected, I got another call from the police. “Mr. Vance, we need you to come back to the station.” When I got there, my uncle was already there, his face livid. “Asher, I don’t know what lies you’ve been telling these officers, but I would never, ever harm my own brother’s family!” Miller looked at me. “Asher, are you accusing your uncle, Robert Vance, of the murders?” “Officers, don’t listen to him!” Robert shouted. I ignored him and spoke to Miller. “A month before the murders, I heard him arguing with my father.”

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The first day I returned to the Ashford family as their long-lost daughter, I heard the voice of our family’s guardian spirit: 【Stop your father from investing in the Westwood project. There’s an ancient tomb underneath. He’ll lose every last cent.】 I convinced my father to abandon the project and invest in the Northgate Industrial Park instead. But who could have known that the factory next to Northgate would have a toxic gas leak? Dozens of employees died overnight. My father was wiped out, financially ruined. As despair settled over our home, the guardian spirit spoke again: 【Money is fleeting. But it’s a shame your mother will die in a car crash while going to borrow money from an old friend.】 I immediately stopped my mother from leaving the house. But she dodged the car crash only to die from a sudden heart attack. My father, weeping, told me she had been feeling chest pains for days. She couldn’t bear it any longer and had decided that morning to go to the hospital. The blood in my veins ran cold. By stopping her from leaving, I had sealed her fate. Overcome with grief, my father swallowed poison and died on the spot. Overnight, the only ones left were me and the adopted daughter, Bella Ashford. To pay off the debts, Bella worked three jobs a day, just so I could stay in school. Then the guardian spirit warned me again: 【Your sister is being dragged into an alley. You must save her.】 I ran as fast as I could to the location it described, but I was too late. My sister lay in a pool of her own blood, her last breath gone. 【Clara, this is all your fault. You are a harbinger of doom. You should be the one to die…】 In my despair, I leaped from a high-rise, ending my tragic life. But even as I fell, I couldn’t understand. It was supposed to be the Ashford family’s guardian spirit. Why had every one of its warnings pushed my family toward utter destruction? When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day I first heard the guardian spirit’s voice. 【You are the true heir of the Ashford family. Your birth parents are coming to take you home.】 My hands, halfway through hauling out a bag of kitchen waste, froze. My heart hammered against my ribs. I had been reborn. In my last life, I was working my way through college in the campus cafeteria when I first heard this voice. It claimed to be the Ashford family’s guardian spirit and correctly predicted several small events. That’s why I trusted it when it warned me about my father’s project. But it was this same spirit that led my family to ruin. This time, I didn’t glance around in confusion, asking who was there. I pretended I heard nothing and quickened my pace. 【Clara, you have the Ashford blood. I know you can hear me.】 【You may not believe me now, but you will soon learn the truth…】 Before it could finish, the screech of tires cut through the air. “My daughter, my daughter—” A regal, elegantly dressed woman threw herself at me, her face streaked with tears as she pulled me into a tight embrace. “I’ve finally found you. My child, you’ve suffered so much.” 【See? Now do you believe me? I am the true guardian of the Ashfords.】 I felt the warmth of my mother’s hug, a gentle current flowing through my heart, and I hugged her back. Just like last time, she didn’t care that my clothes were dirty or that I smelled of garbage. I made a silent vow: this time, I would protect my family. I went home with my parents. On the way, the guardian spirit spoke again. 【There is an adopted daughter at home, but do not worry. She is a good person.】 【She knows she has been occupying your place all these years and is preparing to leave.】 Hearing these familiar words, I studied my parents’ faces, but saw no hint of anything unusual. My mother felt my intense gaze and gently stroked my hair. “What is it, sweetheart?” “Mom,” I asked, “do you hear someone talking?” She looked at me, then at my father, a bewildered expression on her face. She slowly shook her head. “No one is talking, dear.” It was just like my past life. I was the only one who could hear the voice. The moment I stepped through the front door, I saw a girl my age, suitcase in hand, her eyes brimming with tears. “Sister, you’ve suffered so much,” she said, her voice trembling. “For all these years, it was I who stole the beautiful life that should have been yours. Don’t worry, now that you’re back, I’ll get out of your way immediately.” She made a move to leave with her suitcase. My parents’ eyes held a trace of reluctance, but they didn’t stop her. Having lived this once before, I knew Bella wasn’t just putting on a show. Her suitcase contained nothing but a few cheap sets of clothes. She genuinely felt she owed me everything. And in my previous life, after my parents died because of my trust in the spirit, it was Bella who worked three jobs to keep me in school. The memory of her brutal death flashed through my mind. I grabbed her hand, my voice filled with sincerity. “You don’t have to go. You will always be Mom and Dad’s daughter, and my sister.” My mother wiped her eyes and pulled us both into her arms. “Clara, you are my only biological daughter. But Bella was never a replacement for you. After you were lost, we searched desperately, but we couldn’t find you. Bella is the abandoned daughter of a distant relative. We only brought her home because we pitied her.” I nodded. This all matched what the guardian spirit had told me. In my last life, I was skeptical at first, until it correctly predicted a few more minor events. That evening at dinner, the spirit made another prediction. 【Your father is about to spill his water glass. He will then change into his blue pajamas.】 A minute later, my father knocked over his glass. The spirit’s voice was laced with regret. 【If only you had stopped him from picking up the glass, he wouldn’t have been scalded.】 It was this very sentence that convinced me last time to start using its predictions to avert disaster for my parents. But in the end, my father went bankrupt, my mother died of a heart attack, and my sister was murdered… This time, I swore I would change our fate. The next morning, I used the hundred thousand dollars my father gave me as pocket money to hire a private investigator to thoroughly look into the Westwood project. Our city wasn’t a historical landmark; no dynasty had ever made it their capital. The investigator reported back: “We had a history professor survey the site. He confirmed it’s virtually impossible for any ancient tombs to be there.” I finally breathed a sigh of relief. A few days later, my father was beaming at the dinner table. “The Westwood deal is sealed,” he announced joyfully. “The guaranteed profit is at least a hundred million.” He looked at me, his eyes shining. “My daughter Clara will get seventy million, and Bella will get thirty. I won’t favor one over the other.” Bella immediately waved her hands. “I’ve already enjoyed so many years of the good life that should have been my sister’s. Please, give my share to her.” My mother watched us with a gentle smile, and my father roared with laughter. A warmth spread through my chest. This time, I had finally protected my family, hadn’t I? The next morning, the headline of the news screamed: Major Ancient Tombs Discovered at Westwood Site; All Development Halted Indefinitely. An icy chill shot through me, plunging me into a frozen abyss. Why? Why were there suddenly tombs at Westwood in this life? There was nothing there last time. I had defied the guardian spirit, so why was my father… bankrupt again? At that moment, a scream came from the living room. “Dad! What’s wrong? Are you okay?” The news had hit my father so hard he’d collapsed, the shock so great he coughed up blood. My mother and Bella frantically rushed him to the hospital. My mother cried until she fainted, and Bella stayed by his bedside for days. When my father returned, his hair had turned white overnight, but he didn’t say a single word of blame to me. My chest felt tight, as if something was lodged in my throat, and I couldn’t breathe. Just then, the haunting voice returned. 【Your mother is going out to borrow money tomorrow. You must not let her leave, or she will be in a car accident.】 I clenched my fists so tightly my nails dug into my palms. Last time, I stopped her from leaving, and her heart gave out. This time, I would not make the same mistake. I had to save her. I knocked on her door. “Mom,” I asked directly, “is your heart bothering you?” Her face was pale, but she shook her head. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me… cough cough… The most important thing now is to figure out how to pay back your father’s debts. The house is already mortgaged, but I worry about you and Bella…” Her eyes welled up as she took my hand. “My poor child. You just came home, and our family is ruined. I haven’t been able to give you a single good day.” Tears blurred my vision. “Don’t say that, Mom. Just being back with you is all that matters to me. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.” I immediately took out my phone and dialed for an ambulance. The spirit said the accident would happen tomorrow. If I got her to the hospital tonight, she would be safe. My mother insisted she was fine, but I was firm. “Mom, your health is the most important thing. Don’t worry about the money. My… my boyfriend’s family is very wealthy. I can borrow from him. You’re going to be okay.” She looked at me, a grateful smile on her face as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Clara, you are such a blessing. Having you back is the best thing that’s ever happened to me…” To be safe, I rode in the ambulance with her. The entire way, my palms were slick with nervous sweat. But the journey was smooth. Nothing happened. As the hospital came into view, I finally allowed myself to relax. Suddenly, a deafening BANG! rocked the vehicle. The world spun violently. It happened again. The car crash. Before I lost consciousness, only one thought screamed in my mind: Why… why is it happening again… I tried to crawl towards my mother, but my body wouldn’t obey. With a heart full of despair, I succumbed to the darkness. When I woke again, it was to the sound of my father’s and sister’s suppressed sobs. I forced my eyes open and turned my head. On the bed next to mine, a figure was covered by a white sheet. Mom… was gone. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Was the guardian spirit telling the truth all along? My eyes shot to my father, terrified he would do what he did in my last life. I’ve already lost my mother; I couldn’t lose him too. Just then, he noticed I was awake. The love in his eyes was gone, replaced by bloodshot despair. “Why?” he rasped, his voice raw. “Why did you have to kill your mother?! You hate us, don’t you? You hate us for losing you, so you came back for revenge! You want to destroy our family, don’t you?!” Tears streamed down my face as I tried to tell him about the guardian spirit. But as the words “guardian spirit” formed on my lips, nothing came out. My father just saw my mouth moving silently. “Clara, what are you trying to do?” he demanded. “This is no time for games…” Desperate, I turned to Bella and tried to say the words again. She just stared at me, confused, and said she couldn’t hear anything. “Enough!” my father roared. He lunged at me, his eyes crimson, his hands closing around my neck. “You curse! You’re still lying! Once you’re dead, our family will finally have peace!” A crushing pressure on my windpipe made me choke, my vision turning black at the edges. Just as I was about to pass out, Bella threw herself at him. “Dad, calm down! She’s your daughter! Sister was just worried about Mom’s health, that’s why she sent her to the hospital! The crash was an accident!” My father’s grip loosened. His eyes went vacant. “An accident… it was all an accident… The company is gone, we’re bankrupt, the house, the cars, everything… and the debt collectors will be here at the end of the month… It’s not her fault… so whose fault is it? Mine?!” His expression turned blank, and then he burst into a fit of insane laughter. “Yes, it’s my fault! It’s all my fault!” A terrible premonition seized me. I reached out to grab him, but before my fingers could touch his sleeve, he let out a chilling shriek and threw himself headfirst against the wall. My father was dead, too. Bella and I numbly went through the motions of arranging their funerals. Afterwards, she held me tight. “Sister, I’ll earn the money for your tuition. You have to finish your degree.” I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. “No. I’m the one who destroyed our family. I should be the one to work and atone for my sins.” Bella gently stroked my hair, forcing a smile. “Sister, your grades are better than mine, and you have a rich boyfriend. Only with a degree can you marry into a powerful family and change your future… Then you can restore the Ashford name. Mom and Dad would be so proud.” After much hesitation, I agreed to continue my studies. But a persistent, gnawing anxiety wouldn’t leave me. Remembering Bella’s fate from my past life, I swallowed my pride and asked my boyfriend, Julian, to hire a bodyguard to secretly protect her. I had always been aware of the class difference between us and never asked for anything, but this time, I had no choice. The bodyguard reported to me daily. Bella’s routine was simple: work and home. As I slowly started to feel at ease, the guardian spirit spoke one last time. 【Your sister will be cornered by thugs tonight. She will be killed.】 Panic seized me. I frantically dialed the bodyguard’s number, but it wouldn’t go through. I had no choice but to run towards Bella’s workplace myself. And once again, I arrived to a scene of utter despair. Bella was lying in a pool of blood. With her last ounce of strength, she gasped, “Sister… run…”

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It was day three of freshman orientation, and the August heat was brutal. I paid a few of the guys from our orientation group to help me haul the Starbucks order from the campus cafe. “Dismissed!” the orientation leader finally yelled. The sun was beating down, and a couple of kids had already tapped out with heatstroke. I figured a round of Frappuccinos was in order. Honestly, I was mostly just craving one myself, but drinking alone felt kind of lame. Plus, my older brother, Evan, had been on my case about “making connections” and “building a network,” so this was a perfect excuse. It also didn’t hurt that the Starbucks on campus was technically one of my brother’s investments. He’s a total health nut and got paranoid about the syrups and additives at other coffee shops, so he had his executive assistant, Jessica, arrange for a high-end, organic-focused franchise right on campus. At least this way, he knew the stuff I was drinking wasn’t complete poison. After the guys helped me set down the cardboard trays, I started handing out the drinks, giving the first few to them as a thank-you. As I moved on to the rest of our group, a sharp scoff cut through the chatter. “Wow, can’t even hand out coffee without sucking up to the guys first. Pathetic.” I frowned, trying to pinpoint where the voice came from, but everyone was crowding around, grabbing for the icy drinks. It was impossible to see who’d said it. I sighed. Whatever. Haters gonna hate, right? I kept passing out the Frappuccinos, and everyone who got one was ecstatic. “Zoe, you’re the best!” “All hail Queen Zoe! You have my undying loyalty for the next four years!” I laughed, joking back with them. But then, that same snide voice piped up again. “College students, and you’re all bought for the price of a sugary drink. What a bunch of short-sighted sheep.” This time, before I could even react, other people jumped in. “Says the person hiding in the back and whispering insults. Got something to say? Say it to her face!” another girl shot back. “Seriously! Zoe’s just being nice because we’re all melting out here. What’s your problem? Don’t like it, don’t drink it. God, what a jerk.” I stood there, feeling awkward with the last tray of drinks in my hands. I suddenly remembered what Evan had told me before I left for school. “Zo, be friendly, but don’t be too flashy. You never know who you’re dealing with, and sometimes people get jealous. You can do something nice and still get burned for it.” Maybe this is what he was talking about. It takes all kinds, I guess. Trying to de-escalate, I spoke to the anonymous voice in the crowd. “Hey, I’m not trying to buy anyone’s friendship. I just genuinely wanted to do something nice since it’s so hot. I really do want to be friends with everyone.” My explanation was met with a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Genuinely?” the voice sneered. “You call showing off with your brother’s hard-earned money ‘genuine’?” A skinny girl with a severe haircut pushed her way out of the crowd. She marched right up to me and, without a word, slapped the Frappuccino right out of my hand. The plastic cup hit the track, splitting open on impact. Caramel-colored slush splattered all over the rubberized surface, a good amount of it soaking into the cuff of my orientation-issued sweatpants. It was sticky and gross, and I was so stunned I just stood there frozen. “Zoe, I know your family has money,” she spat, her voice trembling with rage. “But that’s your brother’s money, earned through his hard work! What gives you the right to just throw it away like this?” “I can’t stand entitled princesses like you who’ve never worked a day in their lives!” she continued, her voice rising. “Orientation is supposed to build character, to teach us discipline! And what do you do? You disrupt everything, encouraging everyone to indulge in lazy consumerism. Don’t you see how desperate you look for attention?” “You call it genuine? I call it flexing. You just wanted to show off!” Before I could process what was happening, she kicked the cardboard tray, sending the remaining dozen Frappuccinos flying. Then, she pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. “Our orientation leader is out sick, so she appointed me as the temporary group leader.” She held up the paper, which had some scribbled handwriting on it. “From now on, everyone in this group listens to me. Nobody is allowed to drink the coffee Zoe bought! Anyone who does, I’m reporting you for disorderly conduct during orientation.” The group went silent. Everyone stared, wide-eyed and heartbroken, at the sugary puddles on the ground. The girl, however, seemed to be high on her own power trip. She even started introducing herself. Her name was Sarah Jenkins, she said. She was a scholarship student from a poor town in Appalachia. She’d known real hardship, which is why she couldn’t stand to see people like us squandering our privilege. “You people can’t handle a little heat? The men in my town work in factories in hundred-degree weather, and you don’t see them whining for five-dollar coffees!” she lectured. “If our universities are just churning out spoiled brats like you, what’s the future of this country? I may not be able to change everyone, but as long as I’m in charge here, I will not let this culture of extravagance take root in our group!” She turned back to me, her eyes burning. “Zoe, you started this. After today’s session, you will write a five-thousand-word apology. And whatever you spent on these drinks, you will deposit that same amount into a group fund. You love showing off your money? Fine. That money will now be used to buy bottled water for everyone for the rest of the week. I will be the one to distribute it. Frugally.” Her speech left everyone speechless. She’d taken my simple gesture of buying coffee and twisted it into a national crisis. The moral high ground she’d claimed was so extreme, no one knew how to argue. The few guys who’d already started their drinks quietly put them down. Everyone shuffled back to their spots on the field. I started to walk back, too. As I passed her, our eyes met for a split second. And in that moment, I remembered a photo. It was a headshot on a file in my brother’s office, under a stack of papers for his foundation’s scholarship program. He had even mentioned her to me. “Zo, this girl is going to the same university as you, same major and everything. The foundation is sponsoring her. When you get to campus, maybe she can show you the ropes, help you out.” So, this was Sarah. The girl my brother was paying to go to college. At lunch, my new roommate, Riley, was still fuming about the morning’s disaster as we sat in the dining hall. “I still can’t believe that girl! You do something nice for everyone, and Sarah just goes completely psycho,” she complained, stabbing a French fry with her fork. “And what’s with the ‘temporary leader’ power trip? Acting like she’s a drill sergeant. Ugh, I was so looking forward to that Frappuccino!” Riley threw her head back and pretended to cry. I pushed a piece of my fried chicken onto her plate. “Here, have this. I’ll get you another one later, I promise.” “Maybe she’s just… intense,” I offered, trying to be charitable. “Different backgrounds, you know? We can’t really relate, so maybe we should just steer clear.” As I spoke, I accidentally nudged Riley’s arm, and the piece of chicken I’d just given her tumbled onto the table. We looked at each other, and then both said at the same time: “Five-second rule!” Riley was just about to snatch it up and rinse it off when Sarah appeared at our table. She slammed her tray down with a loud bang that made half the dining hall look over. Riley and I just stared at her, completely confused. Here we go again. “Zoe, was I not clear enough on the field this morning?” she began, her voice dripping with condescension. “You think because you’re rich, you can just be wasteful? Do you have any idea what it takes to raise a chicken, the labor that goes into getting this food on our plates? People work their fingers to the bone so we can eat, and you just toss a perfectly good piece of chicken away because it touched the table for a second? Are you even human? Do you deserve to be in college?” I officially retracted my earlier statement about her being “intense.” She was just a straight-up lunatic who loved to hear herself talk. I was done being nice. I stood up. “First of all,” I said, my voice sharp and clear. “We didn’t throw it away. We were about to apply the five-second rule and eat it before you showed up and started your unhinged rant. Secondly, while I may not know the ins and outs of poultry farming, I do know not to waste food. Unlike you, who kicked over an entire box of perfectly good drinks that people worked to make. What, in your mind, the labor of a barista doesn’t count as ‘real work’? Is it okay to trample on their efforts?” I leaned in closer. “And finally, when you slammed your tray down, you spilled rice all over the floor. Since you’re such an expert on thrift and appreciating every grain, why don’t you pick it up and eat it?” Riley, catching on, quickly grabbed the piece of chicken, ran it under the water fountain, and popped it in her mouth. She chewed dramatically, swallowed, and then pointed to the grains of rice on the floor by Sarah’s feet, raising an eyebrow. “See? I ate it. No food wasted here,” Riley said with a smirk. “Your turn.” Sarah’s eyes instantly welled up with tears. With a furious scream, she swept everything off our table—trays, plates, cups—sending a shower of food and soda across the floor. My white sneakers and Riley’s jeans were instantly splattered with greasy, sticky stains. She stood there, glaring at our ruined clothes, a triumphant smirk flashing across her face before it melted back into a mask of victimhood. “Zoe! Riley! You are going too far!” she cried, her voice cracking. “I was just trying to make a point about not wasting food, and you—you publicly humiliate me like this! I know you rich people look down on us, but do you have to be so cruel?” I almost laughed. We had no intention of actually making her eat rice off the floor; we were just trying to get her to back off. But she had to escalate, had to turn everything into some grand class struggle. We’re all just college students here. Nobody cares where you came from until you make it your entire personality. Was I supposed to feel guilty for being born into a good family? My patience was completely gone. “How did we humiliate you?” I shot back. “You’re the one who preaches about waste. Riley ate the chicken. She practiced what you preached. But when it’s your turn, suddenly all your high-and-mighty principles don’t apply?” “You know what, Sarah? I was going to let the whole Frappuccino thing go, but you just had to keep pushing. So, let’s settle this. This morning, you destroyed thirty-five drinks. At seven dollars a pop, that’s two hundred and forty-five dollars. Then there are my shoes.” I pointed to my ruined designer sneakers. “These are fifteen hundred dollars. They’re covered in your mess. I won’t even make you replace them. Just pay for the specialty cleaning. The place I go charges fifty bucks. So that’s… let’s call it an even three hundred dollars you owe me. Pay up.” If she wanted me to be the spoiled rich girl, fine. I could play that part. Riley chimed in. “Oh, yeah, me too. My jeans aren’t as expensive as Zoe’s shoes, but they’re not cheap. The cleaning fee will be twenty bucks.” If I remembered correctly, my brother had only transferred one month of living expenses to Sarah so far—about five hundred dollars. Given how frugal she claimed to be, she should have more than enough left to cover this. And honestly, this was just my way of getting my family’s money back. If she was so high and mighty, so in love with the struggle, she didn’t need our charity. I have a soft spot for helping people achieve their goals, and Sarah’s goal was clearly to suffer. Who was I to stand in her way? I looked her dead in the eye and used her own favorite weapon against her. “A group leader should lead by example. You’re not going to skip out on your debt, are you?” The other students in the dining hall started chiming in. “Yeah, leaders should be responsible!” “I thought the whole point was ‘poor but proud.’ Is that only for show?” “Seriously, Zoe and Riley’s money didn’t just appear out of thin air. You wrecked their stuff. If you don’t pay, they should just call campus security.” Cornered and outnumbered, Sarah had no choice. She pulled out her phone and, with a pained expression, Venmoed me and Riley the money. I watched the notification pop up on my screen and smiled. Then I held up my phone for everyone to see. “This afternoon,” I announced, “the Frappuccinos are on me again!” During the afternoon orientation session, I went up to our leader and explained the situation. He was surprisingly cool about it and gave me permission to get more drinks for the group, even assigning a few people to help me carry them. When we got back, I started handing them out. To my surprise, Sarah was standing in line. I was looking down as I passed out the cups, so I didn’t see her until it was her turn. When I looked up, she had the same condescending expression on her face. “I’m not here because I want one of your drinks,” she said haughtily. “I just think since you already bought them, it would be wasteful not to take one. So I’m queuing up. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even bother.” She sniffed. “After all, I’m not like you people, always chasing cheap thrills.” I nodded slowly, a small smile playing on my lips. Then I snatched the Frappuccino back out of her hand. “Oh, in that case, I wouldn’t want to force you to indulge with the rest of us hedonists,” I said sweetly. “I only bought thirty-four this time anyway, so I didn’t have one for you to begin with. Could you please step aside? You’re holding up the line.” The guy behind her didn’t even wait for her to move. He just hip-checked her out of the way and took the drink I offered him. He happened to be one of the guys who’d helped me that morning and gotten cheated out of his coffee, so he shot Sarah a nasty look. He walked right up to her, took a long, exaggerated sip, and sighed with pleasure. “Mmm, delicious. What’s wrong, Sarah? Don’t like Frappuccinos? Or just can’t afford one?” Sarah’s face turned beet red. She clenched her fists, glared at me for a long moment, and then finally yelled, “You’ll regret this, Zoe! Don’t you dare underestimate me!” That evening, Riley and I were in our dorm room, binging a new show on Netflix, when she suddenly shot up from her chair. “OMG, OMG, OMG!” she shrieked. “What is it?” I asked, startled. She swallowed hard. “I was just scrolling through the campus Yik Yak, and there’s a huge rumor going around that Evan Holt’s secret fiancée is a freshman here at our school!” “Zoe, you know who Evan Holt is, right? The CEO of Holt Holdings?” She shoved her phone in my face, showing me the anonymous message board. “Look, people are saying she’s in the class of ’29! Holy crap, can you imagine? Who is that lucky? I heard he’s ridiculously hot.” She paused, looking at me. “Wait, why are you so calm? Don’t tell me you don’t know who Evan Holt is.” Riley shook my shoulder. I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling a little awkward. How was I supposed to tell her that not only did I know who Evan Holt was, but he was also my brother? But that wasn’t the main issue. The main issue was, since when did my brother have a fiancée? Wasn’t he… gay? I grabbed Riley’s arm to stop her from vibrating with excitement. “Riley, calm down. Evan Holt… he’s my brother.” “Holt Holdings is named after him, and my name, Zoe Holt, is where the ‘Z.H.’ in the logo comes from.” Riley just stared at me. She grabbed me, spun me around three times like she was inspecting me for alien markings. “Are you serious? Evan Holt is your brother? But your last name isn’t Holt.” “I use my mom’s last name,” I explained. “But he’s like, six-foot-three, and you’re… five-foot-three.” Ugh, why does everyone always bring up my height? It’s not my fault I didn’t win the genetic lottery in that department. Just then, my phone buzzed with a video call from Evan. I answered, and his handsome face filled the screen. Oh, wait. Two handsome faces. My brother, and his movie-star boyfriend, Leo Vance. The moment they both said “Hey, Zo!” Riley let out a squeal that could shatter glass. “NO WAY! Zoe, you really are Evan Holt’s sister!” she whisper-shouted. “Wait a minute… why is he with Leo Vance? The Leo Vance? Isn’t he, like, super private about his dating life?” I nodded awkwardly. “Yeah. My brother’s even more private.” Riley’s eyes went wide. “So the whole fiancée rumor on Yik Yak is fake?” “One hundred percent.” Hearing the word “fiancée,” Evan immediately turned to Leo and dropped to his knees on the floor of their hotel room. “Babe, I swear on my life, you’re the only one for me.” Leo just laughed. “Zoe, you’d better screenshot this. You can use it to blackmail him for money later.” “Done and done!” I said, snapping a picture. After a few more jokes, Evan got serious. “So, how’s school, Zo? You look like you’ve lost weight. Is the food in the dining hall that bad?” He scanned my dorm room through the camera. “And what is with this room? It’s so… basic. Are you sure you’re okay here? I told you, you could pick any condo you wanted near campus. Why did you insist on living in a dorm? Look at this hardship you’re enduring.” I glanced around our room. Sure, it was a far cry from my bedroom at home, but it was a pretty standard dorm. Maybe even a little nicer than average. Plus, didn’t he tell me to “integrate with my peers” before I left? Now he was second-guessing. Besides, I really liked Riley. If I moved out, I’d be all alone again. Unless she wanted to move with me, but that was a conversation for after orientation week. “I’m fine, Evan. It’s totally fine,” I said, waving my hand dismissively. “Look, we have AC and our own washing machine. I heard from friends at other schools that they have to use a communal laundry room for the whole building. This is practically luxury. Besides, someone already gave us a lecture today about how spoiled we are and how we need to embrace hardship to prepare for the ‘real world.’” Leo immediately jumped in. “Who says everyone has to suffer? If you have the means to be comfortable, choosing to suffer is just stupid. It’s called manufacturing misery. And besides, you have two older brothers. Who would dare give you a hard time?” As Leo was talking, I panned the camera around to give them the full tour. When the lens passed over our bunk beds, both of them frowned. “Wait, are those bunk beds? Is that what college dorms are like now?” Evan asked, horrified. “How is anyone supposed to sleep on a bed that narrow? You know what? If you’re really determined to stay on campus and not get ‘special treatment,’ then fine. Tomorrow, I’ll have the foundation’s finance department wire a donation to the university to renovate all the freshman dorms.” And just like that, it was decided. A corporate donation, in the company’s name. It was actually a smart move—good PR, and it might even attract some top graduates to work for Holt Holdings. I just never imagined that my brother’s act of generosity would end up making the girl pretending to be his fiancée look like the real deal. My brother moves fast. The very next day, during our morning session on the field, we saw a fleet of trucks with the Holt Holdings logo pulling up to the freshman dorms. Swarms of construction workers followed, ready to begin the renovations. The project was being overseen by Evan’s assistant, Jessica. If there’s one thing I can say about my brother, it’s that he absolutely spoils me. Growing up, anything I wanted, he made sure I got it. If I’d asked for the moon, he would’ve found a way to build a ladder. So, in a way, Sarah wasn’t entirely wrong. I’d never really known hardship. Man, I was suddenly missing my brother a lot. My thoughts were interrupted by a chorus of whispers from the girls next to me. “Oh my God, it must be true! The rumor about Evan Holt’s fiancée being here? It was posted yesterday, and today Holt Holdings is renovating the dorms! He’s totally doing it for her. He can’t stand to see his queen suffer in a crappy dorm room.” “I’m so jealous! When will it be my turn to be that lucky?” It was our break time, so the whole group was gossiping. Riley and I just sat and listened. Last night, I’d asked her to keep my connection to Evan a secret for now. I wanted to see who was behind this ridiculous rumor. Just then, Sarah stood up. She had a strange, smug look on her face as she addressed the gossiping girls with disdain. “You’re all so pathetic. Have you never seen real money before?” Then, she stalked over to where Riley and I were sitting on the grass, looming over us. “Zoe, I thought your family was rich. How come they aren’t donating money to renovate the dorms? All you know how to do is buy cheap coffee to win people over. Such a tacky, new-money move.” She smirked. “See? People with real wealth are discreet. They don’t need to flash their cash around like you do.” Her gaze swept over Riley and the others. “And you people,” she sneered, “are just as pathetic. Bought for the price of a Frappuccino. I bet you all feel pretty stupid right now.” Riley, who never backs down from a fight, jumped to her feet. “Stop calling people pathetic! And what’s wrong with a Frappuccino? At least Zoe was being nice, trying to help us cool down. Unlike some people, who are just bitter because they can’t have any.” Someone else chimed in. “Yeah, with the way you’re acting, anyone would think you’re Evan Holt’s fiancée.” Sarah let out a cold, knowing laugh. “Whether I am or not is none of your business. All you need to know is that it could never be any of you.” Riley was about to fire back, but I pulled her down. Her temper was a short fuse, and I was afraid she’d blow our cover. “Riley, not yet,” I whispered. “Don’t scare the snake out of its hole.” And I had a feeling this particular snake was about to make its move.

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The girl who murdered three people had my face. So, they arrested me. They extracted my memories for a global live stream. Turns out, my brain is full of things that need a censor bar to be shown. The judge, red-faced with anger, demanded, “What on earth do you spend your time watching?” I feigned surprise. “Why? You want the links?” The internet audience: LMAO. They let me go, admitting they’d arrested the wrong person. But did they really? 1 In the courtroom, the judge’s voice boomed. “Defendant, the surveillance footage is crystal clear. Are you still going to deny it?” I licked my dry lips, repeating the same words I’d said a thousand times over the past few days. “I didn’t kill anyone. That wasn’t me!” But the evidence was right there. A wave of murmurs rippled through the gallery. “Tch, three lives lost. If it wasn’t her, who was it?” “The nerve of her. The Smiths were such decent, hardworking people, and she just butchered them!” “And that poor girl, Jessica. Same age as her. Such a tragedy…” The judge slammed his gavel, and the room fell silent. I delivered my final statement. “Memories don’t lie. I will submit to a Memory Trial to prove my innocence.” In this age of advanced technology, the memories of the most heinous criminals were extracted and broadcast live as a warning to the world. It was a brutal process. The subject endured not only excruciating physical pain but also the complete annihilation of their private self under the public gaze. For humanitarian reasons, the Memory Trial was reserved only for those already sentenced to death. I was the first person in history to demand it for myself during a trial. 2 The courtroom, which had just quieted down, erupted again. The judge stared at me, his eyes unblinking. I met his gaze, my jaw set, my intention clear. The case of a fragile-looking eighteen-year-old girl accused of murdering three people, boiling their remains, and feeding them to dogs was too sensational to ignore. The public, driven by a morbid curiosity, craved the gruesome details more than the truth itself. The judge was only human. He was no exception. After he gave his consent, I was led into a massive, sterile chamber. The only sounds in the white room were the steady beeps of machinery. Orderlies and technicians strapped me onto a bed. In a few minutes, my entire life, my every thought, would be on display for the world to see. I felt a strange thrill, like opening a mystery box. I was actually a little excited to see what they would find. A rainbow of wires was attached to my body, and a searing pain shot through my skull. Within seconds, my body started convulsing uncontrollably. Then, an image flickered to life on the massive screen, accompanied by text transcribing my thoughts. These were my memories. 3 In a dimly lit room, I was burrowed under my covers, the sound of rain tapping against the window. The faint glow of my phone illuminated my face, revealing a sly, almost perverted grin. Whispers broke out in the gallery. “Creepy. Is she researching murder techniques?” “Look at that smile. She has to be!” Before they could finish their sentence, the contents of my screen filled the broadcast. Android x Female CEO, Multiple Scenarios… What I was browsing made jaws drop, both in the courtroom and in homes across the world. Well, damn. Everyone sat up straighter, their faces flushing as they continued to watch, utterly captivated. Hours passed. My memories consisted of nothing but browsing websites, binge-watching anime, and reading web fiction. The judge was gritting his teeth, his face a thundercloud. Incest tropes, silver-haired love interests, groveling exes, gender-bender, male suffering… Where were the details of the murder? 4 Once a live stream starts, it can’t be stopped without a result. If his superiors accused him of incompetence, his career would be over. With that thought, the judge steeled himself and ordered the trial to continue. He had the technicians fast-forward, selecting memories from the days surrounding the murders and playing them at high speed. It was a way to save time, but for me, it multiplied the agony. “She’s only in pain for a little while,” a comment flashed on screen. “Those three people lost their lives.” Everyone had already decided I was a cold-blooded killer. The more I suffered, the more they reveled in it. The hum of the machine intensified, and a picture-in-picture display showed my writhing form alongside my memories. I was screaming, my voice raw with pain. People online were cheering, thoroughly enjoying the show. Their sick pleasure didn’t last long. The selected memories finished playing. There wasn’t a single shred of evidence that I had killed anyone. Not even a passing thought of murder. Aside from the… questionable start, the rest of the broadcast painted a clear picture: I was just a normal high school senior on break. Besides my phone, the places I frequented were the local park and the apartment of my elderly blind neighbor, Mrs. Gable. The time of the murder, according to the security footage, was 6 PM. At that exact moment, my memory showed me walking back from the park and eating dinner at Mrs. Gable’s. “Come on, they seriously got the wrong person.” “If it wasn’t for the Memory Trial, this poor girl would have been wrongfully convicted.” The live chat flooded with questions and outrage. The judge was sweating bullets. The murderer in the footage was a 99.9% match to me. Yet my memories proved I was completely innocent. If I wasn’t the killer, then who was? As he grappled with this, a middle-aged woman burst through the courtroom doors. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Before the judge could speak, she let out a choked cry. “She’s the only daughter I have left! Are you trying to kill her? If Chloe dies, I’ll die with her!” My mother’s voice, broadcast into the chamber. The “Chloe” she was talking about was me. The judge seized on a key phrase. He cut her off. “Wait. What do you mean, ‘the only daughter you have left’?” His career, his reputation—it all hinged on this case. A glint appeared behind his glasses as he frantically shuffled through the papers on his desk. In the section for my family members, there was a note: a twin sister, missing for twelve years. The judge’s voice was grim. “Take her memories back twelve years. I want to see what happened!” 5 The crackle of electricity filled the air. My head felt like it was being split open with an axe. This time, the pain was so intense I couldn’t even scream. A powerful electrical current tore through my consciousness, pulling everyone deep into my past. The screen flickered, showing a grainy, washed-out image. It felt like watching an old, forgotten film. In a crowded, chaotic train station, I was six years old, holding my sister on my lap as we sat on the floor. Not far from us, our parents were locked in a bitter argument. Suddenly, a couple holding their own daughter’s hand walked over to us, their smiles overly friendly. “Hey there, little ones. Where are your mommy and daddy?” The memory had been playing for less than a minute, but the audience was already in shock. The couple was none other than the murder victims, Mr. and Mrs. Smith. And the little girl with them was the third victim, Jessica, as a child. According to the investigation, the Smiths had no connection to Jessica. How did they know each other? Hooked, everyone leaned in closer. In my memory, my sister was always more outgoing than me. She wasn’t shy. She nodded and answered the couple’s questions. They offered her candy, and she chased after their daughter, giggling. As soon as my sister was out of sight, the couple tried to grab me. That’s when I realized they weren’t nice people at all. Terrified, I clung to our luggage and started wailing, my shrill cries finally drawing the attention of the people around us. My oblivious parents finally noticed something was wrong. But it was too late. The traffickers vanished into the crowd, and my sister disappeared with them, like a drop of rain into the ocean. A wave of sympathy and horror washed over the gallery. So, the sister was a kidnapping victim. Those traffickers deserved to die. Wait. The traffickers were dead. This was premeditated murder. The killer was clearly avenging the kidnapping from all those years ago. 6 The scene shifted. My father, unshaven and reeking of stale alcohol, stood over my six-year-old self, screaming. “This is all your fault! You were supposed to watch your sister!” he bellowed. “Why wasn’t it you who got taken? You must have let her go on purpose! You’re a curse, just like your useless mother! Why don’t you just die…” The audience was furious. I glanced at the live chat; it was a stream of question marks and outrage. “He has the nerve to blame a six-year-old child when he’s the one who wasn’t watching them?” “Calling him a moron is an insult to morons.” “I was saving up my daily quota of rage, but I’ll spend it all on this guy.” Their furious comments were almost funny enough to make me forget the pain. My father was a monster, but he was right about one thing. I hadn’t watched her closely enough. If I had been more alert, if I had stopped her from following them, if I had just started crying sooner… That thought had tortured me every single day for twelve years. Not a day went by that I wasn’t drowning in regret. I closed my eyes on the medical bed, unable to watch this soul-crushing memory any longer. My immense emotional distress caused the live feed to flicker and distort. The technician quickly switched to a different time period, and my near-breakdown state began to stabilize. What they had seen was more than enough to prove my innocence. The technician spoke up, his voice piped into the courtroom. “The Memory Trial is extremely damaging to the subject. May I request permission to terminate the procedure?” By now, any sympathy the audience had for the deceased had transformed into a profound sense of guilt and pity for me. They echoed the technician’s sentiment in the chat. “Chloe didn’t kill anyone! Stop the broadcast!” “They should have stopped when they went back twelve years. An innocent person shouldn’t have to endure this.” 7 My voice trembled. “Please, I don’t want to continue.” After all, the more they saw, the more of my private life was exposed. At this rate, I’d never be able to show my face in public again. The judge, however, was high on the thrill of nearing the truth. He ignored everyone. He wanted more, more clues, anything to wrap up this nationally sensationalized case as quickly as possible. Most people would assume that, with a missing twin and a solid alibi, I was simply a case of mistaken identity. The judge didn’t think so. He snorted, speaking deliberately for the audience to hear. “Chloe never mentioned having a twin sister during her interrogation. It’s highly likely she is harboring a fugitive!” It was true. I hadn’t said a word about my sister to the police. He was using that as leverage to keep me here. With no proof that I hadn’t been in contact with my sister, the tide of public opinion turned once more. “What if they’re accomplices? The judge has a point…” “If she’s truly innocent, she has nothing to hide. Let’s see more.” It was all speculation. I had the right to stop the trial. But then a thought crossed my mind. Isn’t the purpose of a Memory Trial to serve as a warning to the world? So, I said nothing. The broadcast now showed my father’s relentless abuse of my mother and me. My younger self was a tiny, wounded kitten, curled in a corner, terrified to move, lest any action trigger another beating. The man was slurring his words. “Give me the money, you bitch! I know you hid it from me…” My mother was sobbing hysterically. “Gambling again! If you hadn’t lost all our money, I wouldn’t have been fighting with you at the station that day! My Diana never would have been lost!” He bent down and slapped her across the face, then kicked her harder. The audience had been feeling sorry for my mother, but when they heard the name “Diana,” that sympathy evaporated. 8 “Anyone with half a brain knows that passing on your genes is what matters, not having a son.” “This man treats her like dirt, and she still won’t leave him?” Seeing the comments, my mother, in the courtroom, lowered her head in shame. Was she regretting not leaving him sooner? No. She was just embarrassed. She’d been brainwashed for too long, always thinking, Men mature late. In a few more years, for the sake of the kids, he’ll change. I just have to endure a little longer. If my father were still alive, she would have endured it for a lifetime, dragging me down into his shadow with her. But thankfully, my father was dead. At that thought, a small, pleased smile touched my lips. The technician gave me a strange look. I quickly snapped out of it, scrunching up my face. “Ow, it hurts so much…” I groaned. The judge scowled impatiently. “Skip this! Find any connection between Chloe and her sister!” He waved his hand dismissively, urging the technician to speed it up. The technician was a tall, handsome man. When I was first brought in, he’d looked at me as if I were a monster. But after seeing my memories, his demeanor had softened completely. Now, his eyes were full of pity. He spoke to me gently. “This next part might be very difficult. You should… brace yourself.” I nodded, trying to give him a reassuring smile. He turned back to the console, his long fingers dancing across the keyboard. My memories began to flash by like a chaotic film reel. Even in the blur, it was clear that some of those memories were the kind you only revisit tucked away under the covers. 9 I caught a glimpse of a smirk on the technician’s face. Then, the judge’s exasperated voice crackled through the speakers. “Chloe, you’re so young! What on earth are you spending all your time looking at?” You’re the ones who insisted on digging through my private life, and now you’re judging me for it? I kept the thought to myself, putting on an innocent expression. “Why? You want the links?” Of course, I said it on purpose. The judge fell silent, shooting a venomous glare at my image on the screen. The live chat went wild. “I came here for a murder investigation, not to look in a mirror.” “Hey, it’s my one hobby. I’m not killing anyone or setting fires. Leave me alone, lol.” Even through the pain, I had to stifle a laugh. But I knew they wouldn’t be laughing for much longer. Because my sister was about to show the entire world what happens to a child who is stolen. The technician hit a key, and the broadcast locked onto a single, clear memory. A girl with my face appeared on screen. She stood before me, her expression calm as she showed me the scars on her body. My hand trembled as I reached out, tracing the dense, raised keloid scars that crisscrossed her skin, a testament to years of untreated wounds. They were hideous. So hideous it shattered me. This wasn’t the body of a normal eighteen-year-old girl. Staring at the horrific marks, tears streamed down my face. My voice was a choked whisper. “Diana… does it hurt?” I’d never liked the name our parents gave her. I always called her Diana.

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I was with his mother, picking out wedding bands, when I saw Aris with another woman. We were at Cartier. Through the reinforced glass, I watched him emerge from a high-end bistro across the promenade. He held the woman’s coat for her; she smiled and nodded. As they reached the main doors, he jogged a step ahead to push the heavy glass door open for her. There was no physical contact. No lingering looks. It was all perfectly polite, standard social etiquette. But a bride-to-be has a particularly sharp sense of danger. I knew, instantly, who she was. Beside me, Aris’s mother, Mrs. Thorne, stiffened. She’d seen my focus shift. She didn’t offer a single word of explanation for her son. Instead, after a long silence, she reached into her purse and pulled out a heavy, vintage gold locket. “Maya,” she said, pressing it into my palm. “Let’s add this to your set. A little something extra.” 1 I looked down. The locket was heavy, easily three ounces of antique gold, intricately carved with filigree. It was a serious, substantial piece. Mrs. Thorne closed her hand over mine, clasping the locket tightly. “Maya, dear. I am so fond of you. I just want you and Aris to be happy.” Mrs. Thorne is a classic academic’s wife—a Vassar woman, elegant, impeccably dressed, and always composed. But now, her voice was strained. Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine, darting instead to the window where Aris had been. A cold, sad feeling settled in my stomach. Was this a bribe? Was she giving me this heavy, beautiful thing to lock me down? The sales associate, oblivious to the undercurrent, beamed. “A locket is such a beautiful choice. To lock in the love, the fortune.” She smiled at Mrs. Thorne. “You have wonderful taste, and you are so generous to your new daughter.” “And it’s your lucky day,” the associate continued. “We have a trunk show event…” I tuned her out. My mind was replaying the scene. We were at the Prudential Center. The restaurant was right across from the jeweler. Aris couldn’t have missed us. He chose not to see us. His attention had been entirely on the woman, Eva. They walked past, laughing, like any other couple, and disappeared into the crowd. They looked perfect together—if only he weren’t my fiancé. By the time I tuned back in, Mrs. Thorne was handing over her credit card. She had the sales associate box the locket separately and pushed it across the glass counter toward me. “Maya,” she said, her voice quiet. “Will you accept this? From me?” I didn’t know how to react. It was a classic, unspoken, high-society contract. Take the gift, and agree to forget what you just saw. I didn’t want to accept it, but I wouldn’t embarrass her in public. I nodded, my voice tight. “Thank you, Mrs. Thorne. It’s beautiful.” 2 Aris got home at 11 PM. I was in the study, organizing my camera equipment. He rushed in, dropped his briefcase, and wrapped me in a hug from behind. “Sorry, Maya. The tenure committee dinner ran forever. They insisted on drinks after.” I leaned back into his chest, but I frowned. Aris always had a specific, intoxicating scent—like old books and clean rain after a storm. It was the reason I loved hugging him. My friends called me a lunatic, said the “professor scent” was just my own pheromonal delusion. But tonight, it was gone. “Where did you eat?” I asked, stepping away. His body went rigid. Oh, that’s right. I never ask about his work. I’m a photographer; I don’t care about academic politics. That disinterest had always been the perfect cover for him. He never expected me to follow up. “Uh, the faculty club. Downtown. It was fine. We’ll go sometime.” He quickly changed the subject. “Did you and Mom find the bands?” He was supposed to come with me. But he’d claimed this “tenure dinner” was mandatory. I nodded. “We went to the Cartier at the Pru. We found them.” I emphasized the name of the mall. The same one he’d been at. A flicker of panic crossed his face. He picked up one of the boxes, fumbling with the ribbon. “Great. They look… great. The color is perfect for you.” I tilted my head. “Gold comes in different colors now, Professor?” He blinked, then forced a laugh, rubbing his temples. “God, I’m tired. I’m talking nonsense.” He put the box down and gave me a light, dry kiss on the forehead. “I’m going to shower. Don’t wait up.” He walked into the bathroom without looking me in the eye. 3 The water started running. I looked at the entryway table. His briefcase, his keys. I looked at the kitchen counter. I looked at the coffee table. No phone. There was only one other place it could be. I looked at the bathroom door. He took his phone into the shower. Aris, who treats his electronics like Fabergé eggs, had just taken his phone into a steam-filled room. I felt a sudden, bitter laugh rise in my throat. This was pathetic. I went back to the bedroom. I was scrolling through Instagram, waiting for sleep, when a post made me stop. It was from a postdoc in Aris’s lab, a guy named Chen I’d met a few times. He’d been at the “tenure dinner.” It was a group photo of seven people, captioned: [So honored to be at this symposium with such brilliant minds!] My finger slowly scrolled down. In the comments, Chen had added: [And great to finally meet the legendary Dr. Eva Cole! Congrats on the new post!] My heart stopped. I zoomed in on the photo. Aris was in the center. To his left was Eva. The woman from the restaurant. She had short, ash-brown hair and a brilliant smile. Her hand was resting, casually and confidently, on Aris’s shoulder. I looked at the “likes” on the post. Aris’s name was at the top. I pressed the heart icon, my thumbprint landing right next to his. I turned off the phone and lay in the dark. Eva Cole. I knew that name. 4 I first saw her name last year, on Aris’s birthday. I was using his phone to take a picture of him with his cake when a notification popped up. Eva Cole: [Happy birthday. Sorry to bother you.] We’d only been together a couple of months. I was in that giddy, teasing phase. “Eva Cole,” I’d said, “sounds beautiful. She remembers your birthday, but she’s so formal. Is she an ex-girlfriend?” I was joking. But Aris didn’t laugh. He was silent for a long moment. “Yes,” he said. My smile vanished. I didn’t want to be that girlfriend, the jealous, insecure one. But I couldn’t stop the tears from welling up. He’d been horrified. He’d unlocked his phone, handed it to me, and told me everything, right there in the private dining room. They were college sweethearts at Harvard. They’d dated through their PhDs. But after graduation, she’d taken a post in California. The long-distance hadn’t worked. She needed more emotional validation than he could give over the phone, and she’d ended it. He said he’d been heartbroken, but he got over it when he heard she was dating someone new. I scrolled through their messages. The last one was from two years prior. Just as he said. A clean break. “If it’s over, why is she still in your contacts?” I’d asked. He’d given me a very Aris-like answer. “Every experience, even a failed relationship, is just data that shapes who we are. Without that data, I wouldn’t be the man you fell in love with.” He saw my tear-streaked face and softened. “If you want, I’ll delete her right now. You’re the only person I care about.” He was always so rational, so academic, that it made my emotional reactions feel stupid. So I’d backed down. I told him not to delete her. I was afraid of making her a martyr. After all, you can’t compete with a ghost. …Lying in bed now, I laughed at my own naiveté. Maybe the moment I’d failed to say “Yes, delete her,” our ending was already written.

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I woke up on the cold marble floor of Hollywood’s “Zen Prince,” Liam Pierce. He handed me my torn silk slip, his voice a low purr. “Put this back on. It looks good.” As I reached for it, a pop-up, like a chat box, flashed in front of my eyes. 【Heiress, drop it! That predator thinks torn silk is trashy. He saves the good stuff for his ‘White Moonlight.’ He’s just tricking you into wearing it.】 【Tomorrow, at your mother’s funeral, he’s going to publicly announce his relationship with her.】 【Seraphina, this dog is only after your company. Ditch him!】 … Liam knelt at my feet, all perfect angles and feigned concern. “What’s wrong? Did I rip it badly?” I smiled. I wrapped the silk slip tightly around his neck. “Are you trying to die?” 1 Liam Pierce’s perfect, camera-ready face instantly turned crimson. I waited until he was about to pass out before I let go. He looked at me, stunned and terrified. I patted his cheek. “You only love me?” Gasping for air, he looked up at me with an expression more devoted than a puppy’s. “Of course.” I was momentarily lost. When I was ten, my mother took me to some ridiculous spiritual retreat in Ojai. I saw him there—Liam, LA’s “Zen Prince.” Years later, when he announced he was entering show business, I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. I chased him 999 times, using every resource at my disposal, before he finally agreed to date me. And now this… I was about to ask who his “White Moonlight” was when my butler, Alfred, called. “Miss Seraphina. It’s… it’s your mother. She’s not going to make it.” I dropped Liam, threw on my clothes, and redlined my McLaren all the way home. I made it. I saw her for one last time. My “biological father,” however, was nowhere to be found. I sat vigil by her bed all night. Around 3 AM, I asked Alfred, “Has Arthur Chen died somewhere?” Alfred, ever respectful, replied, “He is at his usual place, Miss. With Ms. Summers.” I gritted my teeth. “He can join her. Permanently.” Alfred cleared his throat. “Miss Seraphina, please remember your mother’s final instructions.” I took a deep breath. “…Fine.” 2 After the funeral, I was kneeling in front of the casket in my black veil, saying my final goodbye. Arthur Chen—my father—stormed in, dragging a girl with him. He looked down on me. “Seraphina, this is your sister, Isabelle. She’s a year older than you. From now on, she is the eldest Miss Jiang. Understood?” I remained expressionless. “Arthur, a trophy husband should…” “Shut up!” He practically shrieked, terrified of being exposed as the family’s powerless add-on in front of Isabelle. I smirked. “Then take your bastard daughter and get out. Don’t disturb my mother’s peace.” “You insolent girl!” He postured, but he quickly ushered Isabelle out of the chapel. I returned to kneeling. Half an hour later, Alfred appeared at my elbow. “Miss Seraphina, he is currently hosting a ‘welcome’ party for Miss Isabelle. He wasn’t able to get any A-listers, but he has invited several reporters from the tabloids.” “Let him,” I said, my voice flat. Arthur thinks my mother was the tree that sheltered me, and that with her gone, he can finally control me and seize the Jiang family empire. He’s wrong. My mother was the only thing suppressing my worst impulses. 3 Arthur’s announcement that Isabelle was his daughter just became gossip fodder. No one in our circle acknowledged her. Because Alfred ran the house, Isabelle was forced to stay in the servants’ quarters. As a result, she came to bother me at the family mausoleum every single day. On the 49th day, I decided I was bored enough to play along. I let her in. She put on a show of polite concern. “Sister, I know you’re grieving, but Mom has been gone for 49 days. It’s time to move on. I’d like to talk.” I could see her stupidity from a mile away. This was the girl Arthur adored? I walked past her, out of the mausoleum. She followed closely. When we reached the reflecting pool, I stepped up onto the ledge, looking down at her. “Talk.” Isabelle nervously clutched her dress, then stepped up on the ledge opposite me, trying to be my equal. “Sister, Dad only ever loved my mom. He brought me back to the Jiang estate to replace you. You’ve been the heiress for twenty-three years. That’s enough. You need to tell the staff to respect me. Don’t make this difficult, okay?” I laughed. Did she really not know her father was just a kept man? And with that, she thought she could replace me? Her “true strength” was so pathetic it was boring. I was done. I shoved her into the pool. “Splash!” She flailed, shrieking. “Seraphina! How dare you! Dad will kill you for this! Pull me up… ugh! Pull me up right now and I’ll… I’ll forgive you!” I walked away without looking back. While waiting at a red light, I made one international call, then continued on my way to find Liam. He hadn’t contacted me in 49 days. It was time for him to pay. 4 At 7 PM, I arrived at the wrap party for his new movie. The first person I saw was Isabelle, dressed to the nines. She was wearing a Chanel 2025 couture gown, Christian Louboutin heels, and the new Tiffany High Jewelry collection. Not a trace of the drowned rat from this afternoon. And Liam. He was kneeling at her feet, taking off her shoe, gently massaging her ankle. Isabelle looked down, blushing demurely. So. She was his White Moonlight. Two crew members nearby were gossiping. “I always thought Liam Pierce was this cold, untouchable ‘Zen Prince.’ I never knew he could be so sweet to his girlfriend.” “Are you kidding? That’s Isabelle Jiang. The real Jiang heiress. That dress probably costs more than your car, and she’ll wear it once and throw it away.” … I started to walk over. One of the crew members stopped me. “Hey, this is a private wrap party. If you’re not cast or crew, you can’t be here.” I pointed at Liam. “I’m here for him.” The other crew member sneered. “Are you one of his psycho stans? Get lost. We don’t want you here.” “Liam Pierce.” My voice cut through the noise. The entire party went silent. Liam looked up, panicked, and dropped Isabelle’s foot. He stared at me in disbelief. Isabelle quickly put her shoe on and linked her arm through his, forcing him to walk over and face me. Liam looked guilty. He was probably used to obeying me. Isabelle, however, held up her hand, flashing a diamond ring that matched his. “Sister, I forgot to tell you. Liam and I have been together for years. He’s already asked me to marry him. I’m taking him to see Dad next week.” I had to laugh. While I was funding his entire career, I’d asked him to marry me. He said, “Wait. Just wait until I’m a global star. I’ll propose to you on a live global broadcast.” And I actually believed him. Isabelle leaned in, her voice a low, triumphant hiss. “Does that hurt? Seraphina, this is just the beginning. I will make everyone remember that I am the real heiress. You’re not even worthy of carrying my shoes.” “RIIIIIP!” I grabbed the front of her gown and tore it open. She screamed, clutching the fabric to her chest. “My dress! Why did you rip my dress? This is the new season! It’s priceless!” I smiled. “It was a press sample that was delivered to my house this morning. I can rip my own clothes if I want to, can’t I?” She panicked, terrified I’d expose her for stealing my clothes and jewelry. She immediately burst into tears. “Sister, first you pushed me in the pool, and now you embarrass me at my own party… We’re family, not enemies…” She looked so pitiful. I was unmoved. Liam, however, looked heartbroken. He immediately took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her, scowling at me. “Seraphina, are you trying to kill her?” I raised an eyebrow. “It’s her fault, you mean? Did she get that name from my mom’s memorial, or did you find her just to please me?” Liam said, seriously, “Isabelle is not a ‘her.’ She’s not a toy. She’s my girlfriend of three years, the woman I’ve loved for ten.” I smiled. “Then what am I?” Isabelle clutched his hand. He squeezed back, his voice firm. “You were a mistake, Seraphina. We’re over.” My smile faded. “I was a mistake?” He looked scared. But the thought of finally being free of me, of marrying Isabelle, must have given him courage. “Seraphina, I’m grateful for your… love. But as LA’s ‘Zen Prince,’ I need to be pure. Even though you’ve insulted me, I thank you for the money you spent paving my way in Hollywood. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back. Every cent.” “But I can’t give you myself.” “I love Isabelle. I’m going to marry her. Don’t harass me, and stop attacking her. Just let us go.” He seemed to forget: without me, he was nothing.

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For the company retreat, I was in charge of booking the restaurant. To save some money, I chose my family’s place, then posted it in the group chat to get everyone’s approval. Just as the chorus of “looks goods” was rolling in, the new intern, a Gen Z kid named Chloe, dropped a voice memo in the chat. “Hey, Sarah,” her voice dripped with condescending sweetness. “No offense, but I was just wondering… how big of a kickback are you getting for this?” “I mean, it’s our bonus money paying for this retreat. So, that kickback you’re getting? You should probably give it back to us, right?” One by one, my coworkers started liking her message. Fine. I immediately dropped the responsibility and passed the whole task over to her. The day of the retreat, from the senior VPs down to the interns, everyone was either puking their guts out or sprinting to the bathroom. The client we were trying to impress went into anaphylactic shock and ended up in the ER. Just like that, the company lost an eight-figure contract. 1 The task of planning the company retreat had once again landed on my desk. My boss, Mr. Harrison, had been very clear. “The company’s expenses are tight right now, Sarah. Let’s not go overboard.” As the company accountant for the last ten years, I knew exactly what that meant: make it look good, but spend next to nothing. I scrolled through Yelp until my eyes glazed over. Everything was either way too expensive or had questionable reviews about food quality. To cut costs and guarantee freshness, I decided to book my family’s restaurant. It was a nice little Italian place my parents ran. They offered to do it at cost—fresh, delicious, and cheap. After confirming, I dropped the details in the company-wide Slack channel: *【Hey everyone, here’s the plan for the retreat dinner. Let me know if you have any objections.】* A lot of my coworkers had eaten there before and loved it. The channel quickly filled with a sea of 👍 and “Sounds great!” emojis. Just as I was about to finalize the booking, Chloe, the new intern, dropped her little bombshell of a voice memo. “Hey, Sarah, no offense or anything, but I was just wondering, since we’re going to *your* family’s restaurant… how big of a kickback are you getting?” “Because, you know, it’s our bonus money paying for this. That kickback you’re pocketing? I think you should probably give it back to us, don’t you?” … I felt a migraine coming on. Chloe was the new intern in the sales department. She had walked in on her first day and announced she was here to “disrupt the corporate grind.” Any time a late night or extra work was mentioned, she was the first one to pipe up, quoting labor laws and talking about “quiet quitting.” She was a walking HR nightmare. It’s not that people didn’t complain about her. But every complaint sent to management just seemed to vanish into a black hole. The general consensus was that for a rookie to be this bold, she had to have some serious connections. And now, she was accusing me, the accountant, of embezzlement. That was the kind of accusation that could get my CPA license revoked. I quickly typed back in the channel: *【The expenses for the retreat are fully transparent and itemized. No one’s bonus money is being used, and I am not receiving any kickback.】* 2 I thought that would be the end of it. But the next morning, as soon as I walked into the office, all eyes were on me. The second I looked up, everyone immediately averted their gaze. My gut told me something was up. Sure enough, the moment I sat down, the Slack channel started blowing up my notifications. It was Chloe again, spamming the chat. *【@Sarah, you said you’re not getting a kickback, but I found a Groupon for your family’s restaurant. The party menu is $19.99 a person.】* *【I thought Mr. Harrison said the budget was $300 a head?】* *【Still want to say you’re not skimming off the top?】* *【If you don’t want us to report you, you should probably just refund us the difference. Kthxbye!】* She ended it with a cutesy, tongue-out emoji. Combined with the weird vibe in the office, I finally understood. And I was trapped. On paper, the budget was $300 per person. But Mr. Harrison had quietly told me to keep it under $50. The company was struggling, and this whole retreat was a dog-and-pony show for a major potential client. If we landed this contract, the bonuses and raises would come. We had to look impressive without actually spending any money. If the deal fell through, it would be my head on the chopping block. If it succeeded, all the credit would go to the sales team. It was a thankless, impossible task, which is why it always fell to me. I was caught between my boss’s orders and my coworkers’ suspicions. I spent a long time at my desk, trying to figure out a way out of this mess. Finally, I decided the only option was to talk to Chloe in private and tell her the truth. 3 I found her in the breakroom during lunch. I explained the real budget, the client, everything. By the end of it, my throat was dry. “So, you get it now, right?” Chloe’s brow was furrowed, and I thought I had finally gotten through to her. But as I turned to leave, she let out a cold, cynical laugh. “Wow, Sarah. You’ve really put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?” I froze. Her tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Making up some story about the company being broke just to cover up your little scam.” “You don’t really think I’m that naive, do you? I’m not just some dumb intern.” “You accounting types… you might not make a huge salary, but you know all the tricks for lining your own pockets.” She looked at me like she was the smartest person in the room. “Everyone knows the company is about to close an eight-figure deal. And you’re telling me we’re broke?” “Couldn’t you have come up with a more believable lie?” My head was spinning. Chloe stepped closer, stilettos clicking on the linoleum, and looked down her nose at me. “As long as I’m here,” she said, her voice low and menacing, “I won’t let corporate parasites like you get away with anything.” In that moment, something in me snapped. I hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Why was I bothering to explain myself to her? When the lunch break was over, Chloe decided it was time for a public spectacle. 4 She shot up from her desk and shouted, “There are a hundred and twenty people in this company! The budget is three hundred dollars a person!” “That means someone is pocketing over thirty thousand dollars in kickbacks!” “Think about it! With that money, how many lattes could we buy? How many cupcakes? Why should we let one person steal that from us?” A few people, emboldened, started to murmur their agreement. “She has a point. We’re the ones grinding out here, and someone in accounting is making a thirty-grand bonus in one day?” “That’s messed up.” Once one person spoke up, others followed. Fueled by Chloe’s righteous crusade and the rumors of her powerful connections, the office turned into a mob. And of course, Mr. Harrison was out of the office, meeting with the client. There was no one to control them. Or, more likely, no one wanted to get involved. “Sarah, don’t you think you owe us an explanation?” someone called out. Great. Now I wasn’t even “Sarah” anymore. I had already said what I needed to say. If they didn’t believe me, there was nothing more I could do. Mr. Harrison signed my paychecks, not Chloe. I didn’t care what connections she had. “I’ve already explained everything. If you have a problem, take it up with Mr. Harrison,” I said, turning back to my monitor. My dismissal clearly enraged her. She stormed over to my desk and slammed her hands down on it. “What’s wrong? Did you get caught and now you’re scared?” “I can’t stand old-timers like you who think you can just push everyone around because you’ve been here forever!” She was practically vibrating with self-righteous anger, casting herself as the office savior. “I can’t stand people like you!” “Sarah,” she declared, “I am your karma!” 5 I really didn’t get it. I’m an accountant. All I do is crunch numbers. How did I become the office villain? My expression hardened. I’ve been in this business for a long time, and I can be intimidating when I want to be. One of my coworkers finally spoke up for me. “Chloe, I don’t think Sarah is like that. Maybe there’s just been a misunderstanding?” I gave Chloe a look that was anything but friendly. She knew exactly what was going on. Why she was so determined to crucify me was a mystery, but she wasn’t ignorant. Seeing someone defend me, Chloe looked betrayed. “I’m fighting for all of you! Are you really going to stab me in the back?” The coworker who had spoken up immediately fell silent. I was done with this drama. “What is it you want, Chloe?” 6 My question, in Chloe’s mind, was a sign of surrender. She looked down at me, a triumphant smirk on her face. “It’s simple. Give us back the money you were going to steal.” She held up her phone, her Venmo QR code displayed on the screen. She shoved it in my face. “You can start with me.” I pushed her phone away with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Like I said, I didn’t take a single cent from this company. Believe it or not.” With that, I grabbed my purse from my desk and walked out. With Mr. Harrison gone, there was no way I was staying in that toxic environment for another minute. I went to a coffee shop and sent Mr. Harrison a quick email detailing the mutiny that had just occurred. While I waited for his reply, I scrolled through my social media. And there it was. Chloe’s victory post on Instagram. *【Called out the corporate accountant for embezzling funds and she literally ran out of the office. Just another day of being a brave little lamb fighting for justice! 🐑 CorporateLife Disruptor】* I laughed out loud. I immediately changed my profile picture to a wolf. Wolves eat little lambs for breakfast. I didn’t expect that changing my profile picture would be the thing that sent her completely over the edge.

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1 The very first day I met my birth family, I knew my real enemy wasn’t the girl who’d taken my place. It was her sycophantic cousin, standing right beside her. When Sophie, the girl who’d grown up in my stead, was clearing out the master bedroom for me, my cousin Isabelle quietly slipped in and started unpacking her own luggage. She actually thought I would just swallow that. “You’ve just arrived, you’re probably not used to it yet. You can stay in my room for now,” she’d said with a saccharine smile. I walked into the room, grabbed her suitcase, and threw it right out the window. “Now that I’m back,” I announced, my voice calm but cold, “I’m the one who makes the rules in this house.” Behind me, Sophie, who had been bullied and pushed around by Isabelle for more than a decade, started weeping. Tears streamed down her face in two thick, dramatic lines. “I knew you’d come,” she sobbed. “I’m so glad I never gave up hope!” Please. Call me a control freak, I don’t care. If I was going to run the lives of a family I had no blood ties to, you better believe I was going to run this one. … I’ve had this inexplicable urge to control everything around me for as long as I can remember. By the age of three, I was already the tiny, tyrannical matriarch of my household. My adoptive parents and my two older brothers would just scratch their heads in my presence, always repeating the same mantra: “Chloe’s the smartest one in the family. Whatever Chloe says, goes.” I remember when I was a kid, I once stormed into my brothers’ school brandishing two kitchen knives to take care of the punks who were bullying them. The gossip spread through our small town like wildfire. “The Davises are all so quiet and honest,” people would whisper, “but that youngest daughter of theirs is a little terror. You sure she’s really theirs?” Turns out, they were right. The summer I turned nineteen, I was told my birth parents were the Walters family, from the city of Auburndale. Coincidentally, that’s where I was going to college. The Walters family called me repeatedly, making up endless excuses to get me to visit. Curiosity finally got the better of me, and I agreed to go see them. They were well-off, living in a large villa in a gated community, and apparently owned a small company. The day I arrived just so happened to be Mrs. Walters’ birthday, and they were having a small dinner party with relatives. Before the meal, the guests mingled in small groups. Among the younger crowd, one girl, dolled up to an almost painful degree, caught my eye. She was Isabelle, the daughter of Mr. Walters’ younger brother. I couldn’t figure out why a cousin, who was neither the birthday girl nor the host, was dressed like a Christmas tree. She fit my stereotype of a schemer perfectly. And sure enough, it didn’t take long for Isabelle to start showing her true colors. It wasn’t even noon yet, but Sophie had already prepared several hot dishes. She approached me timidly. “Um… I cleaned out the room for you this morning. You can move in whenever you’re ready.” She pointed to the largest bedroom on the second floor. I was surprised; the girl who took my place was more sensible than I’d expected. My gaze shifted from the mountain of plates stacked by the stove to Sophie’s hands, which were covered in small burns. “All this food… did you cook it all by yourself? Didn’t you guys think of going to a restaurant or hiring a caterer?” Sophie managed a shy, awkward smile. “Mom and Dad say homemade food is cleaner. And it shows our sincerity to the relatives.” Sincerity? They were making a young girl cook a three-course meal for a dozen people. If they were so sincere, why didn’t they lift a finger themselves? For the first time, I took a proper look at the girl whose life had been switched with mine. Sophie had her dark hair tied back in a low ponytail. She was thin, with a dark complexion, not very tall, with a pear-shaped figure and a round, plain face. I sighed internally. She was a Davis, through and through; she had our family’s face. Unaware of my thoughts, Sophie said hesitantly, “Chloe… want me to show you to your room?” I smiled and followed her upstairs. The moment we opened the door, the color drained from Sophie’s face. The room was filled with someone else’s luggage. “This isn’t my stuff!” she stammered, her voice trembling. “I swear, I emptied the room for you.” She was on the verge of tears. I just watched her calmly. “So, you’re saying you’ve already given this room to me, which means I can do whatever I want with it, right?” Sophie blinked, then nodded even more vigorously. With her confirmation, I walked in, picked up the duvet and pillows from the bed, and tossed them out the window into the garden below. Then, as Sophie stared in stunned silence, I picked up a laptop from the desk, snapped the screen back until it cracked, and threw it out the window, too. Afterward, I turned to Sophie and smiled. “Don’t worry,” I said, my eyes crinkling. “I know this isn’t your stuff.” “It belongs to your dear cousin, Isabelle.” 2 I’d seen Isabelle sneaking upstairs earlier, dragging her bags into the room. She wanted to claim the best bedroom for herself, thinking she could pull a fast one while I was distracted. I almost laughed out loud. Just how much had the Walters family spoiled this niece of theirs? Did she really think she was so special that I, the actual daughter, would just roll over and accept this insult? Sophie looked at the chaos, then back at me, her eyes shining with pure adoration. I dusted off my hands. “If you really want to thank me, you can help me unpack.” I had only brought a small backpack with some toiletries. The only valuable item was a small aromatherapy diffuser. I have trouble sleeping, and I can’t get a wink without it. Seeing Sophie actually start to reach for my bag, I couldn’t help but pat her on the shoulder. “I’m kidding,” I said, my tone softening. “It was just a joke. You don’t have to act like a maid.” I gently steered her out of the room and downstairs, intending for her to finally sit down and rest. But the girl was pathologically diligent; she scurried right back into the kitchen. The Davis work ethic was clearly hardwired into our genes. Honestly, I had come here with a whole playbook of strategies to deal with the “fake daughter.” I never expected her to be so… disarmingly simple. Luckily, my performative cousin, Isabelle, was still flitting about the party, a big, bright sign on her forehead that practically screamed, “Come at me.” Less than ten minutes after I’d disposed of her luggage, I noticed Isabelle heading back upstairs, probably to bring in more of her things. It was only a matter of time before she discovered her belongings scattered across the lawn. I was curious to see if she would come down and scream at me. That would give me the perfect opening to ask exactly what gave her, a mere cousin, the right to act like the queen of her uncle’s house. But Isabelle was more cunning than that. She decided to give me a taste of my own medicine. A moment later, my things came crashing down from the second-floor window. Then, she came downstairs and sat right across from me without a word. As our eyes met, she shot me a quick, venomous glare. The object she’d thrown was my aromatherapy diffuser. So, later, as she was pouring drinks, she made a point of running her fingers over a glass tumbler and saying to Sophie, “Glass things are just so fragile, aren’t they? Next time you go shopping, you should get the plastic kind. They don’t break, and they last for years.” A command disguised as a suggestion. And Sophie, bless her meek heart, just replied, “Oh, okay. I’ll remember that.” A great-aunt overheard and immediately started fawning over Isabelle. “Isabelle is not only beautiful, but she’s so sensible! Already thinking about being thrifty at her age.” Others chimed in. “I’ve watched this girl grow up. She’s been brilliant since she was a child. Reciting poetry at six, knew her multiplication tables backward and forward at seven.” “I bought her a Lego set once, and she finished it in an afternoon. I knew right then she was going to be successful.” Isabelle’s mother, my Aunt Carol, was a woman whose phoniness was practically an art form. She wrapped an arm around Isabelle’s shoulder and feigned humility. “Well, if she were as smart as you all say, she’d be getting a full scholarship to Auburndale University.” I remembered then—the results for the college entrance exams were being released today. At Aunt Carol’s reminder, everyone started predicting that Isabelle was a shoo-in for A.U. Isabelle smiled demurely. “It’s all thanks to Uncle and Aunt’s guidance. And, of course, the good Walters family genes.” It was a backhanded slap at Sophie—implying she wasn’t smart, wasn’t capable, wasn’t pretty, and now, that her genes were inferior. Sophie sat in silence through it all, her head bowed so low her chin was practically touching her chest. And what were her parents—my parents—doing while this was happening? 3 As the relatives anointed Isabelle the shining star of the family, my own father, Mr. Walters, beamed with pride—at his niece. “That’s just Isabelle being her brilliant self,” he said. “Not like Sophie, who can’t seem to do anything right.” The birthday girl herself, Mrs. Walters, added, “Sophie just isn’t cut out for academics.” Aunt Carol was positively glowing. She raised her glass. “My dear sister-in-law, Isabelle has lived with you for so many years, eaten your food, been shaped by your wisdom… you’ve raised her into such an outstanding young woman. I’m almost ashamed to call myself her mother.” The other relatives piled on. “It’s true! The clothes Isabelle wears, the school supplies she uses—always the best brands.” “Even after my brother’s family made it big, they never forgot about us poor relatives.” “And my sister-in-law is a senior teacher in the district! She treats Isabelle even better than her own daughter, sparing no expense or effort for her education.” An elder of the family nodded sagely. “He’s the head of our generation, after all. He hasn’t forgotten his roots.” My birth parents soaked it all in, sitting at the center of the table, trying and failing to suppress their smug smiles. My suspicions were confirmed. This couple was the type to sacrifice their own child for the sake of appearances, all while patting themselves on the back for their magnanimity. They would bend over backward for a relative just to earn a good reputation. Isabelle knew them inside and out. That’s why she had the audacity to take over my room on the very day I arrived. She knew that even if I made a fuss, they would force me to back down for the sake of their precious public image. And right on cue, my clueless mother opened her mouth. “I treat Isabelle well because she deserves it,” she declared. “Sophie doesn’t look good in anything, unlike her cousin.” Isabelle looked absolutely triumphant. Perhaps tired of picking on the ever-passive Sophie, she decided to set a trap for me. “Chloe has a great figure, too,” she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “You can tell she’s a Walters girl. Now you can wear my old clothes!” I had to stop myself from laughing. She wanted to fight a control freak for territory? I asked her, my voice light and casual, “Why would I wear your hand-me-downs? Do you think you’re worthy?” I was the one who controlled others. No one controlled me. Isabelle froze for a second, then quickly recovered. “Chloe, you just got here, so you don’t know. Sophie could never fit into my clothes, but you’re much thinner than her.” I set down my chopsticks. “What does my being new here have to do with you offering someone your second-hand clothes?” “Or are you saying that Sophie, who was raised as their own daughter for nineteen years, isn’t even worthy of her cousin’s old clothes?” “But me, the daughter who just walked in the door—I’m just barely worthy enough to receive them?” Isabelle started to panic. “Chloe, what are you talking about? You’re their real daughter!” “I’m just a guest here, I don’t have that kind of power.” “Anyone who didn’t know better would think I was bullying my own cousin.” “You’re being too sensitive. You’re probably just not used to things yet. It’s okay, I don’t blame you.” When people know they’re in the wrong, they resort to playing the victim. Too bad for her, we control freaks are masters at spinning the narrative. I folded my hands on the table. “Am I being too sensitive? Or are you, in your own subtle way, trying to lay down the law for me? Telling me that in this house, all the kids have to use your leftovers.” Isabelle shot up from her chair. “Chloe, that’s outrageous! I never meant that at all!” I immediately glanced at the heads of the household, Mr. and Mrs. Walters, whose faces had darkened. They were obsessed with their reputation. The moment they sensed this girl wasn’t as docile as they thought, they would start revoking her privileges. For people like them, their public image was more important than anything. It must be the Walters family’s control-freak gene. As a fellow sufferer, I knew exactly how to treat the symptoms. “Cousin, why are you so angry? Perhaps you should have some soup to cool down.” “We’re celebrating a birthday here. Aren’t you being a little spoiled, raising your voice at someone else’s party? It’s almost like you have no respect for the hosts.” “All the relatives were just saying how sensible you are. Don’t you think you’re making them look bad now?” After a moment of tense silence, my father, Mr. Walters, finally spoke, his voice tinged with displeasure. “Isabelle. Chloe just got home. Some things are for the adults to arrange.” At his words, my cousin froze in place. The rest of the relatives, who had just witnessed my verbal assault, stared in stunned silence. And Sophie… Sophie was looking at me with a newfound reverence. 4 Isabelle didn’t dare say another word. The heads of the Walters household were her patrons, after all. Her parents, my uncle and aunt, worked out of town and only came back for holidays, leaving Isabelle entirely in the care of my parents. Their financial situation was significantly worse than that of my birth family. Originally, Isabelle’s plan was to stir up conflict between me and Sophie, then sit back and reap the benefits. She never imagined I could dismantle her scheme with just a few sentences and leave her completely cornered. My Aunt Carol’s eyes darted around, and she quickly came up with a new tactic. “You’ve misunderstood, brother. Isabelle is just used to being the big sister; she instinctively wants to take care of her younger cousins.” “Isabelle just finished her exams, she’ll be off to college in September. She’s just going to miss Chloe, that’s why she’s being a little overbearing.” This family was certainly good at sweet-talking. No wonder they’d managed to convince my parents to dote on their niece instead of their own daughter. The other relatives quickly jumped in to smooth things over. “If Isabelle gets into A.U., she won’t be able to come home as often.” “Some of her clothes probably won’t be suitable for college anyway, so it makes sense she’d want to leave them for her cousins.” “That’s right, I haven’t even asked yet. Isabelle, what do you think you scored on your exams?” Isabelle casually brushed her hair back. “Well, in all the practice exams, I was scoring over 600.” A few of the male cousins chimed in, “The exams in our district are notoriously hard. Isabelle definitely broke 650, maybe even 700!” Isabelle, sensing another opportunity, turned her attention back to me under the guise of concern. “Sophie and I both took the exams this year. We don’t need to talk about Sophie’s results, but what about you, Chloe? What did you estimate your score to be?” We don’t need to talk about Sophie’s results? Sophie awkwardly stood up. “There are still a few dishes to finish. I’ll just go check on the stove.” No one answered her. No one cared about her feelings. Aunt Carol, however, was fixated on my academic performance. She moved her chair closer to mine. “Don’t be afraid to say, Chloe. No one will blame you if you’re wrong.” One of the cousins added with a smirk, “Yeah, the schools in the countryside don’t have many resources. Just doing your best is enough.” Amid their gleeful, expectant gazes, I answered clearly, “Seven hundred and thirty-five.” The table fell silent for a few seconds, then Isabelle let out a sudden, sharp laugh. She quickly apologized, claiming she’d choked on her water. “I was just so surprised,” she said, feigning innocence. “Chloe, honey, I asked for an estimate. Why did you give such a precise number, down to the single digit?” “Do you have any idea what that score means? You could get into the best program at A.U. with that.” My birth mother, Mrs. Walters, adopted the tone of a seasoned educator. “Don’t the teachers in your town ever analyze the admission scores from previous years?” She was implying my high school teachers were unprofessional, that they couldn’t grasp the exam’s key concepts and gave their students overly simple tests. Aunt Carol seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. She patted my shoulder. “It’s good for young people to have dreams.” Then she started offering “advice.” “If you’re really set on A.U., the Hamiltons’ son next door goes there. You can ask him for some pointers; he’ll give you a reality check.” Mrs. Walters added, “I just ran into Mr. Hamilton yesterday. He said Ethan just got home.” My eyes narrowed slightly. “The Hamiltons? Are you talking about Ethan Hamilton?” The moment I said his name, Isabelle’s face lit up. “He’s a famous e-sports player, on the A.U. team! Do you watch his streams? If you want his autograph, I can get it for you.” I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you two close?” Isabelle exchanged a look with my parents, then lowered her head and bit her lip coyly. “I guess you could say that. If you want to retake the exams next year to get into A.U., I can ask Ethan to help you study.” I couldn’t tell if her little act of blushing modesty was for my benefit or for my parents’. Aunt Carol leaned in, her eyes glinting with cunning. “Ethan and our Isabelle are practically childhood sweethearts,” she whispered conspiratorially. “The Hamiltons are very wealthy, you know. Twenty years ago, they had a chandelier that cost a million dollars. Their son has all the debutantes chasing after him, but he’s always preferred to hang out with our Isabelle.” This was a wealthy neighborhood, home to multi-millionaires. The Walters had snagged this villa, one of the least desirable ones in the corner of the development, purely to network with the upper crust. Their own daughter, Sophie, lacked the charm to do so, but their pretty, tall niece Isabelle was a social asset. A single business deal with the Hamiltons could sustain the Walters’ company for a year. Of course they preferred the niece who could help them. In the end, Aunt Carol’s bragging about exam scores and the boy next door was all about putting me down. She was terrified her daughter would lose her favored status and the perks that came with it. To cement her daughter’s image as an irresistible siren, she continued, her voice full of pride, “Ethan is such a proud boy; he won’t give other girls the time of day. But the moment he sees our Isabelle, it’s ‘Izzy, Izzy’ this and ‘Izzy’ that. He absolutely adores her.” I closed my eyes for a moment, a slow smile spreading across my face. Then I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Ethan Hamilton. Heard you have a lot of little “sisters” throwing themselves at you?

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My mother-in-law was in acute kidney failure and needed dialysis, but my husband, the head of nephrology, let his intern—and mistress—handle the procedure. The intern fumbled with the machine. “Dr. Wright,” she cooed, “there are so many tubes and buttons. I don’t know what to do~” My husband, Toby, patiently spent ten minutes teaching her, ignoring the nurse’s warning about the incorrect parameters. He insisted it was good practice for her. The result? The intern set the flow rate wrong, causing a fatal air embolism. My mother-in-law convulsed and died on the spot. To comfort his crying mistress, Toby wrapped his arms around her and walked out of the ER. He shot me a cold, dismissive glance. “Go,” he ordered, “get your mother’s body out of here. And sign this waiver. It was an equipment malfunction.” “Your mother didn’t have much time left anyway,” he added, his voice devoid of emotion. “Maggie is just starting her career. We can’t let some old woman ruin her future.” I froze. He actually thought the woman lying in that room, the one he had just used as a teaching tool, was my mother. A cold smile spread across my face. “I’m afraid I’m not the right person to sign that.” 1 Toby’s face immediately darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean? You refuse to sign?” His brow furrowed, his impatience palpable. “Audrey, I’m warning you, don’t even think about suing for malpractice. It won’t end well for you.” Maggie peeked out from his arms, her voice a timid whisper. “Audrey, your mother was such a kind woman. I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to make things difficult for Dr. Wright. Just sign it. It’s for the best.” I ignored her saccharine performance and raised my phone, activating the voice recorder. “Of course, I understand,” I said, my voice as calm as if I were discussing the weather. “It was an equipment malfunction. These things happen.” I paused. “But I’m not sure the hospital administration will just take my word for it. Why don’t I record you saying it, too? Just so I have something to show them.” Toby looked at me like I was an idiot. “Are you insane? It’s your mother who died, not mine. What do I care?” Then I remembered. Last month, I had taken my mother-in-law for a check-up. The results showed early signs of kidney failure. She had begged me not to tell Toby, worried it would distract him from his career. But he had found the report. My mother-in-law had been there, her eyes pleading with me. So I had lied. I told him it was my mother’s report. I finally understood the strange, unreadable look in his eyes that day. It was gloating. Seeing me just standing there, holding my phone, Toby’s patience snapped. “Fine, fine! I, Toby Wright, agree that it was an equipment malfunction. Happy now?” he snarled. “Now get lost. Can’t you see Maggie is traumatized?” He shoved past me, his arm around his precious intern, and strode towards his office without a backward glance. Maggie, nestled in his arms, looked back at me, a triumphant, mocking smile playing on her lips. I watched them go, slowly lowering my phone. I sincerely hoped he could maintain that same arrogant swagger in a little while. 2 The hospital’s risk management department soon called me in for a meeting. They looked uncomfortable; Toby was both the doctor involved and a family member of the deceased. It was a messy situation. Before they could even start, I handed them the waiver and the recording. “This is what my husband wants,” I said calmly. “He said that at her age, accidents are bound to happen. We can’t blame the hospital, and we certainly can’t blame the doctors.” The committee members exchanged stunned glances. After the meeting, I went to the morgue to handle the paperwork. And there they were again, Toby and Maggie, hand in hand, looking sickeningly sweet. Toby immediately blocked my path, shoving another piece of paper in my face. “Sign it.” It was an organ donation form. The temperature in the room dropped. “His mother was a devout Buddhist,” I said, my voice cold. “She wanted to leave this world whole, just as she entered it. I will not agree to this.” Maggie let out a snort of laughter. “Audrey, you’re so old-fashioned. What does it matter once she’s ashes?” She smirked. “With a disease like that, she must have done some pretty terrible things in a past life. This is what you call karma. She deserved it.” Toby nodded in agreement. “Audrey, your mother didn’t contribute much in life. Let her do some good in death. Maybe she’ll earn enough good karma for a better reincarnation. It’s like produce at the market; it’s only valuable when it’s fresh. Let it sit too long, and it’s worthless. Understand?” I was trembling with a rage so profound it made me nauseous. Was this man I married a monster in a white coat, or the devil himself? “Toby! That was your mother, too! Have you no soul?” I cried. “I will never agree to this!” I tried to leave, but he grabbed my wrist, his grip like a vice. “You ungrateful bitch. I’ve been too nice to you.” He raised his other hand. I stared him down. “You lay a hand on me, and I swear, my parents will destroy you.” CRACK! The slap was so hard my ears rang, and stars exploded behind my eyes. The stinging pain was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. The humiliation and shock were a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. “Your parents?” he sneered. “What are they going to do? Without them, you’re nothing.” He forced my hand down onto the form, pressing my thumb into the ink pad and then onto the signature line. He shoved me, and I fell to the floor in a heap. I clutched my cheek, staring up at him in disbelief. This was the man who once couldn’t even bear to speak a harsh word to me. 3 Maggie immediately clung to his arm. “Don’t be angry, honey. She’s not worth it. Your hands are too precious.” Toby’s fury melted away as he looked at her. “You’re right, my love. She’s not worth it.” He looked down at me, his eyes like chips of ice. “Let me make this clear, Audrey. If you donate the body, your mother earns some good karma. If you don’t, she’ll be disposed of as medical waste. Your choice.” He turned to leave, but Maggie stopped him. “You must be exhausted after your surgery, Dr. Wright. Why don’t you go rest? I can handle this. It’ll be good practice, right? You always say practice makes perfect.” He tweaked her nose affectionately. “Clever girl. Go on, then. Think of it as a preview for your anatomy class.” The moment he was gone, Maggie’s sweet smile vanished. She walked over to the gurney and ripped off the white sheet. She picked up a scalpel, brandishing it near my mother-in-law’s eyes. “Old bat was half-blind anyway. These corneas are useless.” She then picked up a bone saw, waving it over the corpse’s head. “And her brain is probably so shriveled up, no one would want it for a specimen.” I retched, a silent scream building in my throat. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t protect you. Just a little longer, I told myself. I will make them pay in blood. She began to cut, pulling out organs and tossing them onto the floor with disgust. She even took out her phone, snapping pictures of her gruesome work and sending them to Toby. His voice message came back, full of praise and affection. “My Maggie is so talented and brave. Don’t worry about making a mess on your first dissection. It’s not like Audrey’s mother has any valuable organs anyway. Just think of it as practice. A worthy end for her.” Maggie grinned at me. “Your mother’s body is in worse shape than the cadavers in the lab. What a waste of my time.” I took a deep breath, forcing down the bile and rage. I lunged forward, my fingers trembling, and snatched the phone from her hand. A tear I couldn’t hold back splashed onto the screen. I held the phone to my mouth and said, each word a shard of glass, “Toby. I want a divorce.”

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I am the resident “sentient flower” for Manhattan’s top tycoon. By his side, you’ll also find the helpless ingénue. The saint. And the red rose. Every single one of them is after the man himself. They want the ring and the Vance name. But not me. I’m just in it for the money. 1 I’m the resident “sentient flower” for Manhattan’s top tycoon. It’s as literal a title as it sounds. When the tycoon suffers, I listen. When love leaves him bitter, I find the sweet. I have another, less formal title: the ultimate doormat. My job is to gently absorb and resolve all of the tycoon’s frustrations without ever causing any of my own. I am a flower that only soothes, never pricks. Beyond that, the relationship between me and the tycoon is purely platonic. He never has to worry about me using him to climb the social ladder, and I never have to worry about him pouncing on me. We exist in a perfect, professional harmony. Tonight is a private gala hosted by the tycoon himself, Edward Vance. To put it bluntly, it’s the annual performance review for the various starlets orbiting his sun. As his sentient flower, I naturally have a role that is both official and clandestine: Edward Vance’s executive assistant. The gala is being held at a flagship hotel under the Vance Group umbrella. Crystal chandeliers cast a glittering rain of light, champagne fountains bubble with a golden glow, and the air is thick with a perfume of money and hormones. A quick scan of the room reveals that the competition is already in full swing. At the center of the ballroom is Penelope, the designated “helpless ingénue” in Edward’s life. She’s currently demonstrating her unique expertise. Dressed in a wispy, ethereal white gown, she times a delicate stumble perfectly as she passes Edward, collapsing with flawless precision into his arms. She drapes herself over his arm, a fragile vine. “Oh, Edward,” she breathes, “it hurts so much…” I take a sip of my tea, my expression blank. Honey, is this a gala or an insurance fraud seminar? You deserve an Oscar for that performance. But this is Edward Vance we’re talking about. The most eligible and untouchable bachelor in all of New York. A master player who strolls through a garden of beauties without letting a single petal cling to him. Penelope is far too green to play games with him. Still, a beautiful woman has fallen into his arms, and Edward is not one to be rude. He steadies her with a grip so practiced it looks robotic. But the curve of his lips… it’s the perfectly calibrated smile of a customer service representative. “Alfred,” he says smoothly to his butler, “please escort Ms. Penelope to the lounge to rest.” With a single sentence, he has her gift-wrapped and shipped out. Penelope opens her mouth to protest, but the polite, unwavering smile on Edward’s face silences her. She knows better than to be voted off the island this early in the game. Contestant number one has made an unfortunate exit. But a tycoon’s garden is never home to just one flower. Next up is Isabelle, “the saint,” dressed in a simple yet elegant silk gown. She glides towards him, a glass of red wine in her hand, her posture impeccable. She’s different from Penelope. She doesn’t flirt or play helpless; she discusses ideals. Her conversations are woven with threads of charity work and underprivileged children. To Edward, she projects an image of pure, untouchable goodness. Even I have to give her points for style. “Edward,” she begins, her voice soft, “I was thinking about that orphanage on the west side…” Edward pinches the bridge of his nose—a tell-tale sign of his impatience. He was up until 3 AM last night finalizing a merger. He’s clearly exhausted and in no mood for this topic. For all his cold exterior, he despises being emotionally manipulated. Just then, Scarlett, “the red rose,” clicks towards them on dangerously high heels, wrapped in a fiery red dress. She radiates an aura of pure power. She doesn’t bother with pleasantries and cuts right to the chase. “Edward, that parcel of land downtown. I hear you’re interested?” Look at that. Bringing business negotiations to a party. This woman knows how to kill a conversation. Edward’s patience has clearly run out. He raises his glass to his lips, only to find it empty. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. The second his gaze sweeps in my direction, I stand. I move gracefully through the crowd, retrieve a cup of warm, clear tea from a passing waiter’s tray—a cup I had prepared in advance. Not his usual whiskey, not a pretentious red wine, but a simple tea to cut through the richness of the evening and soothe his fatigue. He’s running on fumes; alcohol would be a mistake. Coffee, while stimulating, wouldn’t offer the same comfort. Tea is perfect. I place the cup in his hand without a word. He takes it, sips, and the hard line of his jaw softens almost imperceptibly. Scarlett is about to press her point. I speak softly, my voice directed at Edward but just loud enough for Scarlett to hear. “Mr. Vance, I reviewed the file on that downtown property. Ms. Scarlett’s company primarily deals in consumer goods. A sudden pivot into a real estate project of this magnitude would likely face resistance from her board. Furthermore, I’ve heard their new European venture has strained their capital chain.” My words are subtle but surgically precise. Scarlett’s expression freezes. Edward sets down his cup and gives me a look. I know that look. It’s the look that says a very, very large bonus is headed my way. He turns to Scarlett and smiles. “Scarlett, in business, knowing your own limits is just as important as knowing your enemy’s.” Her face shifts through several shades of anger before she finally pivots on her heel, shoots me a venomous glare, and storms away. For the entire evening, I haven’t initiated a single conversation with Edward. I haven’t fought to be near him like the others. I simply appeared when he needed me, with the right drink and the right words. As the gala concludes, Edward leans back in the car, his eyes closed. He suddenly tosses a tablet into my lap. “Take a look at this project.” I pick it up. The screen displays a prospectus for a private investment opportunity. The potential returns are astronomical, and the barrier to entry is so high that only those in his innermost circle would ever even hear about it. I know exactly what this is. It’s my reward for being his sentient flower tonight. “Thank you, Mr. Vance,” I say calmly, accepting it. Lesson number one for surviving in Manhattan’s elite circles: the most effective way to win is not to play the game everyone else is playing. Excellent. My startup capital just got a significant boost. My little nest egg is growing quite nicely. 2 I’m an orphan. I never knew my parents, but thanks to the kindness of anonymous benefactors, I had a safe, if unremarkable, upbringing. I was never wealthy, but I was never in want. My childhood was stable, free from the kind of trauma that leaves deep scars. I’m perfectly healthy, both physically and mentally. The only thing I lacked was a parent’s love. As a result, I never developed a deep reliance on familial bonds, let alone romantic ones. It’s as if I were born with a diminished capacity for emotional attachment. After graduation, a chance encounter led me to Edward Vance, and I became his assistant. He once told me I was different from all the other women around him. I didn’t care about that. I cared about the salary and benefits. And God, did he pay well. That’s why I’ve stayed by his side for four years. What’s so great about love? Isn’t making a fortune more satisfying? But in a city like this, gossip travels faster than light. The news that I had earned Edward’s favor was like a torpedo hitting the perfectly curated fish pond of his admirers. For years, they’ve refused to believe that my relationship with him is purely professional. They can’t accept that I just want to take the money and run. They all see me as the enemy. Penelope, naturally, was the first to make a move. It didn’t take long for her to start setting traps, and she aimed right for a project I was managing. It was a small-scale art acquisition, not a lot of money involved, but incredibly detailed. I knew it was a test from Edward to gauge my capabilities. After nearly four years, he was finally starting to delegate real responsibility to me. I had worked too hard to get here. These lovesick fools were not going to ruin my career. Penelope started by whispering in Edward’s ear, her performance complete with crocodile tears. “Edward, that’s not what I meant at all… I just wanted to help Claire out, ease her workload. I didn’t realize she would misunderstand and think I was trying to steal her job… sob…” A true masterclass in manipulation. Edward has a well-known weakness for crying women. He agreed to let her “help” in a heartbeat. And so, she arrived. She enthusiastically forwarded me an artist’s portfolio, making sure to CC the entire project team. The subject line read: “Lightening the load for Claire.” Penelope had an art degree. She used her minor connections in the art world to recommend a young painter with “immense potential.” I didn’t buy her act for a second. When something seems too good to be true, it always is. A quick background check confirmed my suspicions. The artist did indeed have potential—a potential for forgery. Several of his past sales had been mired in plagiarism scandals. His wealthy family had paid a small fortune to scrub his reputation clean, but within the art world, everyone knew the truth. If I acquired his work, I’d be on the front page of every paper. I could already see the headline: Vance Group Scammed in Multi-Million Dollar Art Fraud; Project Manager Claire Dismissed, Faces Massive Lawsuit. I kept my findings to myself. Instead, I replied to Penelope’s email with a cheerful thank you, once again CC’ing the entire department, including Edward. “Penelope, you’re such a lifesaver! Thank you so much for your help.” Then, I got to work. I compiled everything: photos of Penelope meeting with the artist, their text conversations, and proof that she was using her influence to push his paintings onto the acquisition list. I put it all into a crisp PowerPoint presentation, using the official Vance Group template. The title was perfect: Risk Assessment and Background Report on the Artist Recommended by Ms. Penelope Vance. It was professional, meticulous, and irrefutable. To be thorough, I even arranged a meeting with the artist at a discreet tea house, claiming I was sent by Penelope to discuss payment. He let his guard down immediately, his smugness making him careless. He spilled everything, including a direct quote: “Penelope said as long as I get in with Mr. Vance, the price is negotiable.” I recorded the entire conversation. All I had to do was wait. Sure enough, a few days later, Edward summoned both of us to his office. The moment Penelope saw him, her eyes welled up. She spoke first. “Edward, you have to believe me. I had no ill intentions. It’s Claire… she seems to have some sort of prejudice against me.” She looked at me with wounded eyes, as if I were the big bad wolf who had just devoured a lamb. Edward sat behind his massive desk, his face unreadable. He simply looked at me. I didn’t rush to defend myself. Instead, I walked forward and placed a file on his desk. My tone was all business. “Mr. Vance, this is the background check I compiled on the artist Ms. Penelope recommended. I’m sure she was unaware of these details when she so kindly made the suggestion.” I paused, then added, “She is young, after all, and lacks real-world experience. It’s only natural for someone so pure-hearted and trusting to be deceived. We can’t blame her. If anyone is at fault, it’s me, for not advising her properly.” I glanced at Penelope’s face, which had gone deathly pale. I continued, twisting the knife. “A person like Ms. Penelope, someone who could capture your heart under the cherry blossoms, must be fundamentally good. We mustn’t be too harsh on her.” My “magnanimous” defense had backed her into an impossible corner. If she admitted she was naive, she was admitting she was incompetent. If she claimed she knew about the artist’s history, she was admitting she was malicious. Her face flushed red, then white. She sputtered, “That’s not it! I didn’t! I was just trying to help you!” “Help me by recommending a serial plagiarist?” I feigned shock, covering my mouth. “Ms. Penelope, are you being blackmailed? Don’t be afraid. You can tell Mr. Vance. He’ll protect you. You’re a recent graduate, new to all this. If something goes wrong, Mr. Vance has your back, right?” Penelope was an alumna of Edward’s alma mater. They’d met a year ago when he gave a speech on campus. He’d seen her wandering under the blooming cherry trees, a vision in a white dress, and a spark of protective affection had been lit. Coincidentally, she was also the student representative who later toured the Vance Group headquarters. One thing led to another, and after she graduated, she landed a position at his company. With every word of my “defense,” her expression grew more horrified. Edward was no fool. He flipped through the evidence I’d prepared—the photos, the recording, the text messages. The chain of evidence was so complete it could have been a case study for a law school class. Finally, he looked up at Penelope, his expression so cold it could cause frostbite. “Out.” Just one word. Penelope burst into tears and fled the room. Silence descended. I stood there, awaiting my own verdict. “From now on, you have full authority over this project,” Edward said, pushing the file aside. “I’m increasing the budget by fifty percent. And I don’t want to see any more amateurs involved.” The gears in my head were spinning. Excellent. “Of course, Mr. Vance.” I had achieved my goal and was about to leave when Edward let out a heavy sigh. The powerful tycoon, in that moment, slumped forward, resting his head on his desk and staring blankly at a paperweight. When he spoke, his voice trembled slightly. “Claire, tell me… why is it that everyone seems to have an ulterior motive?” “Am I not worthy of being treated with sincerity?” Here we go again. I cleared my throat, my expression turning serious and thoughtful. “Mr. Vance, you absolutely deserve to be treated with sincerity. You just haven’t met the right person yet. Be patient.” He looked at me, his eyes full of earnest vulnerability. Who would have thought that the decisive, domineering Edward Vance had this childish side? My words, as always, soothed him. I am, after all, a professional. I backed out of the room and gently closed the door. I had bigger fish to fry. With the extra funding and full autonomy, I immediately contacted another young artist—one with genuine talent who had been overlooked by the mainstream art world. I signed him to an exclusive five-year contract for a fraction of his market value. The project was a resounding success, and Edward was thrilled. And I, using the opportunity he had given me, not only secured my first major payday in this city but also acquired a future cash cow for myself. It’s just business. Nothing personal. 3 If Penelope was a bronze-level opponent, then Isabelle was silver. She was smarter, more sophisticated, and wouldn’t stoop to sabotaging minor projects. She aimed higher, setting her sights on the hugely influential charitable foundation run by the Vance family. She had a sharp eye. The foundation was Edward’s grandmother’s passion project. Whoever took it over would earn the matriarch’s approval, which was as good as having one foot inside the Vance family’s front door. Isabelle knew her brand: the beautiful, kind-hearted heiress, a benevolent angel floating above the grubby concerns of the world. She was the rare “saint” of her social circle. With Penelope out of the picture, Isabelle ramped up her philanthropic-themed social media presence. One day, she was painting with children at an orphanage; the next, she was donating to a school in a remote mountain village. Every photo was perfectly curated: her makeup flawless, her smile gentle, surrounded by a crowd of adoring, plainly-dressed children. She was the very picture of grace and compassion. Simultaneously, rumors about me began to circulate. “Did you hear about Edward’s assistant, Claire? She looks so plain, but they say her mind is as deep and dark as the Mariana Trench.” “I know, right? She acts like she doesn’t want anything, but she’s the first one to stab you in the back.” “Poor Isabelle, she’s so kind. I heard Claire publicly humiliated her the other day.” …I chose to interpret it all as high praise. But Isabelle wasn’t finished. At a public event, she orchestrated another piece of performance art. She glided towards me, holding a glass of champagne, and then, just a step away… she “tripped,” spilling the entire glass down the front of her own expensive custom gown. The next second, she reached out and grabbed my arm, her face a mask of alarm. “Claire, are you okay? It’s all my fault, I lost my footing.” Eyes from all around us shot in our direction, the unspoken assumption being that I had tripped her. I almost laughed out loud. Honey, your acting skills are on par with Penelope’s. The two of you could start a professional accident business and make a killing. I had her figured out. I knew that for someone as obsessed with her public image as Isabelle, the best way to defeat her was to let her tear down her own carefully constructed stage, with her own hands. I ignored the gossip and spent my time digging into her social circle. It didn’t take long to find something interesting. She had frequent, substantial financial transactions with a notorious tabloid journalist, a man who made his living blackmailing celebrities. It seemed our benevolent saint was buying a lot of her good press with cold, hard cash. That made things easy. My opportunity came at a grand charity gala hosted by the Vance Group. The theme was “Supporting Children with Rare Diseases.” Isabelle, as the most high-profile philanthropist in attendance, was the guest of honor, radiant and in her element. During the media interviews, she deployed her usual tactic, making a pointed statement to the cameras: “I don’t do charity for recognition. I just wish everyone could be a little more sincere and a little less calculating. Unlike some people, who use charity as a stepping stone to climb higher.” Every camera immediately swiveled to face me. I ignored her bait. Instead, I smiled at the host and posed a question. “Tonight’s theme is incredibly moving. I’ve recently been researching Rett syndrome, a condition that causes developmental regression, loss of speech, and purposeful hand use in children. I was wondering if Ms. Isabelle, as such a dedicated advocate, could share her knowledge and insights on this particular rare disease?” The room fell silent. Rett syndrome? What was that? People exchanged confused glances. The vast majority had never even heard of it. All eyes turned to Isabelle. Surely, the kind and knowledgeable saint would know. The smile on Isabelle’s face froze. Her past “charity work” had always focused on well-known, emotionally resonant causes. A highly specific medical term like this was far outside her wheelhouse. She stammered for a moment before deflecting awkwardly, “Every illness… deserves our attention… and compassion has no measure…” “Well said,” I nodded in agreement, then pivoted. “It reminds me of that actress who was recently exposed for her ‘Photoshop philanthropy’—posing for pictures but not donating a dime. It just goes to show that sincerity is always more important than appearances. I wonder, is the journalist who broke that incredible story here tonight? I would love to hear his professional opinion.” My gaze drifted casually towards a shifty-looking man in the corner. It was, of course, the very same tabloid journalist on Isabelle’s payroll. He clearly hadn’t expected to be dragged into the spotlight. The color drained from his face. To save his own skin and distance himself from her immediately, he practically lunged for a nearby reporter’s microphone. “Ms. Claire is absolutely right!” he shouted. “Our duty as journalists is to expose hypocrisy! Like certain so-called ‘saints’ who pay for positive press releases and use charity to build a public persona, when in reality…” He didn’t need to finish. Every eye in the room was now fixed on the deathly pale Isabelle. The message was clear. That night, Isabelle’s persona completely shattered. The hashtag #PhotoshopPhilanthropist went viral, and she became the laughingstock of the city’s elite. Edward had witnessed the entire spectacle. After the gala, he handed me the official seal and authorization documents for the charitable foundation. “From now on, you’re in charge.” He then passed me his phone. “These are the core board members. Add their contacts. If you need anything, go to them directly.” I glanced at the screen. The list was a who’s who of the financial world. Any single one of them could make Wall Street tremble just by clearing their throat. This was a quantum leap. I hadn’t just taken over a foundation; I had inherited Edward’s most exclusive network. Using these top-tier resources, I ran the foundation with ruthless efficiency, building myself an impeccable public reputation while simultaneously using the insider information they occasionally let slip to make my own lucrative investments. My fortune was growing exponentially. The feeling was intoxicating. 4 If Penelope was bronze and Isabelle was silver, then Scarlett was pure platinum. This red rose, with all her thorns, had no time for petty games. She wasn’t playing for Edward’s affection; she was playing for his empire. Her goal was clear: become Mrs. Vance and merge their dynasties. She set her sights on a key subsidiary of the Vance Group. Using her own capital, she began aggressively buying up shares on the open market, attempting a hostile takeover. The Vance Group was in an uproar. Scarlett even approached me directly, her attitude one of supreme confidence. “Claire, you’re a smart woman,” she said, sliding a cup of coffee across the table towards me. Her red lips curled into a smirk. “With Edward, you’ll always be just an assistant. But if you help me, once I take over, your position will be far greater.” She was trying to recruit me, to use me as a pawn in her game. I could barely contain my glee. Lady, you’re literally serving me your head on a platter. I knew Scarlett was ambitious and overconfident, but she had no idea who she was dealing with. Edward Vance was a master strategist. Going head-to-head with her would be foolish. Using her own momentum against her—that was the key. I put on a display of being flattered but conflicted. “Ms. Scarlett, I… I’m just an assistant. I wouldn’t dare…” “Cut the crap,” she snapped. “What’s Edward’s next move? Tell me his strategy for the subsidiary. What’s his contingency plan?” After a long, calculated hesitation, I “reluctantly” shared a piece of top-secret information. “I overheard… that to fight the takeover, Mr. Vance is planning to mortgage the revenue from another major real estate project to raise capital and stabilize the stock price. But that project has a very slow return rate. Right now, he’s overleveraged. His capital chain is stretched to its absolute limit.” It was, of course, a complete lie. This supposed “weakness” was a custom-made trap, designed based on my understanding of Edward’s methods. That old fox loved to feign weakness before delivering the fatal blow. Scarlett took the bait. A person like her, accustomed to being the aggressor, trusts her own intelligence above all else. She immediately doubled down on her acquisition efforts, hoping to force a quick victory while Edward was “financially vulnerable.” She thought she had him by the throat. In reality, she had just stuck her head in a crocodile’s mouth. Edward seemed to be in an unusually good mood over the next few days. He even took me horseback riding at his country estate. Dressed in sharp riding gear, he sat tall and proud on his stallion, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he controlled the powerful animal. He reined in his horse and looked back at me, a bead of sweat tracing the sharp line of his jaw. My God, he was handsome. No wonder women flocked to him. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, still breathless from the exertion. I urged my horse forward to ride alongside him. “I’m thinking that you don’t seem worried at all about Ms. Scarlett’s power play.” He laughed, a playful glint in his eyes. “Why would I be worried about a mad dog that’s voluntarily locked itself in a cage?” He reached out and gently tilted my chin up with the tip of his riding crop. “It’s you, Claire. You always seem to know exactly what I’m thinking.” I didn’t pull away. I met his gaze and said softly, “Because I care about you, Mr. Vance.” The day the trap was sprung was bright and clear. At the subsidiary’s shareholder meeting, Scarlett confidently presented her stake, ready to seize control. Just as she believed victory was hers, an announcement was made. An obscure offshore fund, acting through a series of shell corporations, had secretly acquired a larger stake than hers and was throwing its full support behind the current management. Scarlett was stunned. The massive amount of capital she had poured into the takeover was now trapped, locked into a failing bid and accumulating devastating interest. She had tried to steal the chicken but ended up losing the rice. At that precise moment, I walked into Edward’s office and handed him a file. “Mr. Vance, here is the background information on that offshore fund, along with evidence of its cross-holdings with another one of our overseas projects.” This wasn’t information I had just found. It was the result of months of meticulous digging, using the access and resources Edward himself had given me. I knew about his counter-move all along. I was just waiting for the perfect moment to present it to him, in my role as the all-knowing sentient flower. Edward looked up from the file, his gaze intense. This time, it held more than just approval. There was a deeper, more probing curiosity. He was likely wondering how I could understand him so completely, perhaps even better than he understood himself. Scarlett’s aggressive ambition had utterly repulsed him. Her dream of becoming Mrs. Vance was officially dead. Her defeat was swift and total. She was forced to liquidate her assets and quietly disappear from the New York social scene. And I… I had reached the zenith of my career. Edward’s trust in me was now absolute. He no longer saw me as just a capable assistant, but as a true partner-in-arms. He handed over control of several of the company’s most profitable and promising divisions. “You handle these,” he said, giving me unprecedented authority. I looked at him, my heart perfectly still. I almost wanted to laugh. Dude, you just handed me the keys to the vault. And since you offered, I won’t be polite. I used this golden opportunity to begin the final phase of my plan. Slowly, meticulously, I started restructuring assets, redirecting profits, and funneling everything into a shell corporation I had long ago established overseas—a corporation that was entirely, and untraceably, mine. The process was like ants moving a mountain, grain by grain. Slow, patient, and invisible. Edward Vance thought I was working to secure his legacy. He had no idea I was building my own. The day I could finally set myself free was getting closer and closer.

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