Category: English

It started during rehearsal, when I casually pointed out that Brianna, the undisputed golden girl of our class, was half a beat behind the music. The words had barely left my mouth before her childhood-best-friend-slash-not-so-secret-admirer charged across the room and shoved me down the risers in front of the entire theater company. “What the hell is wrong with you, Gina?” he yelled, pointing a finger an inch from my nose. “The choreographer didn’t say a word. Who do you think you are, picking her apart from the back row?” Before I could answer, he whipped around to face the director. “I say we kick her out of the showcase. She’s just going to drag Brianna down and wreck our pacing.” Right on cue, Brianna turned around, her eyes instantly brimming with glossy, photogenic tears. “Maybe we should just let Gina be the lead dancer,” she told the director, her voice trembling with manufactured grace. Her loyal watchdog practically bent over laughing. “Are you kidding me? I’ve known her since we were kids. The girl trips over her own feet walking down the hallway. If she can lead a dance routine, I’ll eat dirt on a livestream!” A chorus of snickers rippled through the cast. I didn’t say a word. I just slowly picked myself up off the linoleum, dusted off my leggings, and shot him a dead-eyed stare. “Cool. Grab a spoon.” 1 The absolute flatline of my voice sucked the air out of the room. One second, the studio was echoing with laughter; the next, you could hear a pin drop. Connor’s smug grin morphed into ugly, blotchy rage. He vaulted down the wooden steps of the risers, his hand snapping out to grab my upper arm. He leaned in, his jaw ticking. “Gina, can you just drop the attitude for once?” he hissed through his teeth. “I knew you were plotting something. I was wondering why you—of all people—suddenly volunteered for the showcase when you usually don’t give a damn about this stuff. But you had it all figured out, didn’t you? You just wanted to steal Brianna’s spot.” He sneered, his voice rising for the audience. “When did you get so toxic?” Just like that, he slapped a label on my forehead, bold and permanent, right in front of everyone. The entire junior class knew that Connor and I were the ultimate cliché: the inseparable neighbors, the childhood best friends. We practically shared a sandbox. And right now, his words were the hammer driving a completely fabricated narrative straight into my chest. The looks the rest of the cast were giving me shifted from amused to suspicious. “Connor, stop it!” Brianna pushed her way to the front row, her eyes beautifully red-rimmed. She tugged gently at the hem of Connor’s hoodie, playing the role of the wounded martyr perfectly. “Even if Gina was just being petty and spoke out of turn, you shouldn’t yell at her like that. Just apologize to her, and let’s forget the whole thing happened.” She bit her lip, offering him a sad, forgiving little smile. It looked like she was trying to calm him down, but anyone paying attention could see it was gasoline on a fire. “Why the hell should I apologize to her?” Connor flared up, right on cue. “She should be apologizing to you!” He jerked my arm, nearly making me stumble, and barked an order for me to apologize to Brianna in front of the entire room. Apologize? For what? “I stated a fact,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. I used every ounce of strength I had to rip my arm out of his grip. I let my eyes drift over to Brianna, who was still clutching her metaphorical pearls. “Brianna,” I said, the syllables crisp and cold in the quiet room. “Have you suddenly reached a level of artistic divinity where no one is allowed to give you a note? Because if you’re going to break down sobbing over someone telling you that you’re off-tempo, what are you going to do when you actually get on stage? If the audience doesn’t give you a standing ovation, are you going to throw yourself off the balcony?” “And you—” I didn’t wait to watch Brianna’s face flush a furious, humiliating crimson. I turned my attention back to Connor, whose expression had gone rigid. I didn’t know when the boy I grew up with had turned into this defensive, irrational stranger, but I hoped to God he hadn’t forgotten that I held grudges. He wanted to try and humiliate me? Fine. I’d hand it right back to him. I took a slow, deliberate breath. “I know you’re in love with her, Connor. It’s high school. A guy playing the white knight for the girl he’s obsessed with is a tale as old as time. But do me a favor and stop acting like a rabid dog barking at everything that moves. It’s not romantic. It’s pathetic.” A smirk ghosted across my mouth. I didn’t hide the venom in my voice, and the collective gasp from the theater kids was immediate. The gossip mill ignited in real-time. “Wait, Connor likes Brianna? Since when?” “Gina’s known him forever. If she’s saying it, it’s definitely true.” Dozens of eager, drama-starved eyes began ping-ponging between Brianna and Connor. Connor’s face went scarlet, then a deep, furious purple. “Gina! Shut the fuck up!” “Oh,” I said softly, tilting my head. “So you don’t like her, then.” 2 I let the silence stretch, watching Connor choke on his own rage. He was trapped. Brianna looked utterly panicked. The delicate redness around her eyes gave way to genuine alarm. She darted a look around the room, then visibly took a large step away from Connor. “Connor,” she said, her voice high and breathless. “I only see you as a classmate. Please don’t let people spread rumors like this.” Now it was Connor’s turn to panic. “Brie… I—” “Enough!” Ms. Valera, the showcase director, slammed her clipboard against a music stand. The sharp crack killed the murmurs instantly. She surveyed the room, her gaze finally landing heavy on me. “Gina,” she said, her voice strictly professional. “You said you’d be willing to try the lead spot. Fine. Get up here. Show me the sequence where you claim Brianna was off-beat. After that, the class votes. You cast your ballots, and we settle this lead dancer nonsense right now.” It was a brutally fair ultimatum. I didn’t hesitate. Under the weight of thirty whispering teenagers, I walked to the center of the floor, preparing to mirror the choreography Brianna had just butchered. As I brushed past Connor, he leaned in, dropping his voice to a venomous whisper. “I can’t wait to watch you humiliate yourself.” Humiliate myself? My eyes darkened. I ignored him, hit my starting mark, and nodded at Ms. Valera to cue the track. The bass dropped, and I moved. I didn’t have Brianna’s formal training, but my body remembered. I let the music pull me, sweeping my arms, snapping through the turns, mapping the geography of the stage entirely from memory. I mirrored the sequence flawlessly, hitting every single beat right in the pocket. When the music cut out and I froze in the final pose, I caught Connor in my periphery. His smugness had been wiped clean, replaced by blank shock. Brianna was staring at me, her hands clenched at her sides. For the first time, her eyes weren’t just annoyed; they were flooded with a stark, undeniable sense of threat. Ms. Valera’s eyes were shining. She nodded enthusiastically. “Not bad. Not bad at all! You’re a little rough around the edges, Gina, but your musicality—the way you breathe through the transitions—is incredibly grounded. Give you a few weeks of real rehearsal, and you’d be phenomenal.” She clapped her hands, turning to the risers. “Alright, no more drama. We vote now. Who leads the class performance for the Centennial Gala: Gina or Brianna? Raise your hands.” It wasn’t a shock. High school is a hierarchy, not a meritocracy. When Ms. Valera called Brianna’s name, nearly the entire room raised their hands. When my name was called, only two or three sympathetic hands went up in the back. Brianna exhaled a long, shaky breath, the tension leaving her shoulders. The triumphant gleam returned to her eye, masked quickly by a sickly-sweet, apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Gina,” she cooed. “It looks like the class just feels safer with me in the front. After all, the lead represents all of us. If someone messes up out there, it’s not just their own reputation on the line. But really, for an amateur, you did a great job.” A chorus of sycophants instantly chimed in to agree with her. Connor, emboldened by the vote, couldn’t resist a parting shot. “See? I told you. Who cares if you can string a few steps together? Flailing around with your amateur hour moves is just going to embarrass you.” Ms. Valera shot me an apologetic look, a silent plea not to take it to heart, telling me there would be other chances. Honestly, I wasn’t crushed. In a twisted way, Brianna wasn’t wrong. I was an amateur. I knew exactly where my limits were. I opened my mouth, ready to tell Connor exactly where he could shove his opinion, when a voice cut through the noise from the shadowy corner of the room. A voice that was clear, quiet, and impossibly sharp. “Actually, I think Gina danced it better.” Every head in the room snapped toward the sound. Even though I knew exactly who it was, even though my heart recognized the cadence of his voice before my brain did, my breath still caught when he stepped into the light. Kieran. “Kieran, what are you talking about?” Brianna’s smug smile shattered. She looked completely derailed. Kieran was notorious for keeping his head down and staying out of high school politics. He never spoke up. And he certainly never spoke up for me. “I said, Gina dances better than you,” Kieran repeated, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. He stepped out from the shadows of the lighting rig. “Her technique is raw. That means she hasn’t practiced this. She just watched you do it a few times and replicated it purely by sight. Are we really pretending that isn’t incredibly impressive?” He shifted his gaze to Brianna, pinning her in place. “You, on the other hand, have been drilling this exact eight-count for two weeks. Half a month, Brianna. Half a month, and you still can’t find the downbeat. You have absolutely no right to call anyone an amateur.” 3 It was a surgical strike. In two sentences, he systematically dismantled her golden-girl halo in front of everyone. Nobody argued. They couldn’t. Everyone knew Kieran had spent the last decade accumulating national dance titles like spare change. When he was fifteen, he’d received a rare, early-admission invitation from Juilliard—he was a legitimate, undisputed prodigy. But he treated dance like a private religion, refusing to compete for the school or monetize his talent. “Kieran, you don’t know what you’re talking about!” Brianna’s voice cracked, tears welling up again—real ones this time, born of pure humiliation. Seeing the girl he worshipped crumbling, Connor turned his fury on Kieran. He glared at him, practically vibrating with hostility. But Kieran didn’t even flinch. He just looked back at Connor with the mild, detached interest of someone observing a bug. “Just stating facts,” Kieran said smoothly. “Unless you’re questioning my professional critique, Connor?” That was the kill shot. Brianna broke. She let out a choked sob, shot me a look of pure, unadulterated venom, covered her face, and ran out of the studio. “Kieran. Gina.” Connor spat our names like curses. “You’re both unbelievable.” He shot us one last murderous glare before sprinting out into the hallway after his queen. Despite Kieran’s endorsement, Ms. Valera looked torn. Brianna had put the time in, and stripping her of the role now would be a massive blow to her ego. But at the same time, a director knows raw talent when they see it, and she didn’t want to let me slip back into the shadows. Especially not after what Kieran said. It was true—I had never practiced that choreography before today. The dilemma resolved itself the very next morning. Brianna formally resigned as the lead for the class performance. “The administration just got word that the school board and a few local arts scouts are attending the Centennial Gala,” Ms. Valera announced to the room, clapping her hands for attention. “Because of that, they’ve added a special duet slot to the program. They’re hosting an open, school-wide competition to cast it. Brianna, being on the pre-pro track, has decided to focus entirely on auditioning for the duet. So, the class lead is open.” She looked right at me, a hopeful spark in her eye. “Gina? Are you willing to step up?” I had originally provoked the situation out of pure spite, just to knock them down a peg. But now, with the spot practically handed to me on a silver platter? I wasn’t going to turn it down. When I walked into homeroom later that day, the air felt thick. The whispers followed me to my desk. Before I could even drop my backpack, Connor stormed through the classroom door, his face a thundercloud. He planted his hands on my desk, leaning over me. “What the hell did you say to the counselor and the director, Gina?” he demanded, his voice echoing off the cinderblock walls. “Why are you suddenly the lead?” “Have you completely lost your mind?” he continued, not letting me speak. “Do you just get off on stealing things from other people? Look in a mirror! So what if you can memorize a few steps? You’ll never be as trained as Brianna!” He was shouting now. The entire homeroom had gone dead silent, watching the trainwreck. “You’re going to take your little YouTube-tutorial dance moves and embarrass yourself, and you’re going to take the rest of us down with you!” “Yeah, Gina, seriously, it’s pathetic. Stop stealing other people’s spotlight!” “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. Turns out you’re just a thief.” The Greek chorus of Brianna’s orbiters chimed in from the back row, their faces twisted in identical sneers. And right in the center of them sat Brianna herself. She was biting her lip, softly murmuring, “Guys, don’t be mean,” but her eyes betrayed her. They were bright, cold, and triumphant. “Get up,” Connor ordered. “We are going to the principal’s office right now, and you are going to tell them you’re giving the spot back to Brianna.” Before my brain could even register the threat, his hand clamped around my wrist like a vice. He yanked upward, dragging me out of my chair. “Connor, let go!” I scrambled to find my footing. “I said let go of me, do you hear me?!” His grip was bruising. He was literally dragging me down the aisle in front of thirty people. My voice cracked, a humiliating tremor of genuine pain breaking through. “Connor, it hurts!”

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They say I stole twenty years of Delia’s life, so five years in a cage was simply the universe balancing the scales. To ensure I played the part of the sacrificial lamb, my parents stood before the world and piled every sin, every shadow, and every lie onto my shoulders. My own brother, Larry, was the one who forced the caustic lye down my throat, searing my vocal cords so that I couldn’t scream my innocence to the rafters. And Parker—the man who once promised to be my sanctuary—was the most brutal of all. He was the one who broke my spirit and my bones, ensuring I didn’t even have the strength to run. Now, five years later, the gates have opened. I am a hollowed-out shell, moved only by a numb, reflexive obedience. I never expected that the very people who destroyed me would end up on their knees, weeping, begging for a single glance. … 1 “Inmate 15623, you’re clear. Try to stay on the right side of the law this time.” The heavy iron door groaned open. The sunlight was a physical assault, a jagged blade of brightness that forced me to shield my eyes. For nearly two thousand days, the sun had been a myth, something that happened to other people. “Isabel, stop the theatrics and get over here.” The voice hit me like a plunge into ice water. My skin crawled. As I lowered my hand, I saw the one person I hoped never to see again. My brother, Larry. He was the man who once declared to the world that I was his precious little sister, the one who swore to shield me from every storm. Even when the truth came out—that Delia was the biological daughter and I was the “mistake”—he had held my hands and promised nothing would change. But the moment Delia caused the accident that left the Blackwell heir in a coma, Larry didn’t hesitate. He pushed me into the path of the oncoming train of justice. He was the one who held me down, his eyes cold as stone, and forced that burning liquid into my throat. I had been beaten, cursed, and interrogated by the Blackwell family, but all I could produce were pathetic, wet wheezes. Larry marched toward me now. He caught sight of the jagged scar near my hairline and flinched for a micro-second before his face curdled into a mask of disgust. “What, did you carve that yourself just to look pathetic? You really are desperate, aren’t you, Isabel?” Pathetic? I wouldn’t dare hope for pity from the man who stole my voice. Especially since these scars were the “lessons” he had specifically requested the other inmates give me. I opened my mouth. My voice, once clear as a bell, came out like dry leaves skittering over a grave. “No need. I can walk.” Larry’s face registered a flicker of shock. He remembered the girl who used to beg him to drive her two blocks because her heels were too high. Now, I wouldn’t even look at his car. He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Isabel, drop the act. You lived Delia’s life for twenty years. This is the penance you owe. Get in.” He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. I looked at his hand, then at the desolate stretch of road outside the prison. This facility was chosen by the Blackwells specifically for its isolation—a place where the shadows are long and the help is non-existent. If I didn’t go with him, I’d be walking for hours before I saw another living soul. I reached for the car, but instead of the back seat, I pulled open the front passenger door. The driver, Mr. Miller, jumped. “Miss Isabel… maybe you should sit in the back with Mr. Larry?” I stared straight ahead, my voice a jagged rasp. “A person as low as me? I wouldn’t want to ruin the upholstery for a Blackwood.” “Isabel!” Larry’s voice turned lethal. “Get in the back. Stop being a martyr or you can rot on this curb.” I saw the winced expression on Mr. Miller’s face. I didn’t want him to catch the fallout. I gritted my teeth until I tasted copper, then climbed into the back seat. The car moved. Silence settled over us, thick and suffocating. Mr. Miller tried to break it, his voice forced. “Your parents… they’ve missed you, Isabel. Once we get home, we can all be a family again.” Missed me? I remembered the way they testified against me, their voices steady as they told the judge I was a jealous, unstable girl who had tried to kill the Blackwell heir. They didn’t want a daughter. They wanted a ghost. “Mr. Miller,” I said softly, my eyes fixed on the passing gray trees. “Just drop me at the next bus station. I’m not a Blackwood. And that house… it was never my home.” The words weren’t even cold before Larry roared, “Stop the car!” The tires screeched. My head slammed into the back of the driver’s seat. Before I could find my bearings, the door was ripped open. A heavy boot caught me square in the ribs, the force of it launching me out of the car and onto the gravel. “You want to play the stranger? Fine. Rot out here!” Larry stood over me, his shadow looming. “You think we need you? You owe Delia. You owe this family. If you’re going to walk around with that dead-eyed stare, do us all a favor and just finish the job.” The door slammed. The engine roared. I was left alone in the dirt of the outskirts. The pain radiated through my side, but the tears wouldn’t come. I had cried them all away years ago. Now, there was only the dull ache of existence. I dragged myself up, shaking. A car pulled up beside me—a sleek, dark sedan. The window rolled down to reveal a face that still haunted my dreams. Parker. I didn’t stop. I kept walking, my limp heavy and pronounced. “Isabel. Stop.” His voice was like velvet over gravel. “Get in the car.” I stopped and turned, a jagged smile cutting across my face. “Shouldn’t you be with your fiancée, Parker? Or did you come back to check your work?” I pointed to my scarred wrists and the way my leg dragged. “Afraid I might be healing too well? Do you want to break them again?” We had grown up together. He was the one who had seen the real me, or so I thought. I believed our love was the only thing that was real. Then Delia came back. And when I refused to confess to her crime, Parker was the one who systematically crushed my fingers, one by one, so I couldn’t even write a plea for help. “This is for Delia, Izzy. Don’t make it harder by running.” I had begged him. I had crawled on the floor, kissing his shoes, praying for a shred of the man I thought I knew. He had simply handed me over to the Blackwells like a piece of spoiled meat. Parker’s face darkened with a familiar arrogance. “Five years and you’re still unrepentant. If you hadn’t tormented Delia, she never would have been in that position. She never would have been forced to defend herself against the Blackwell boy. People like you deserve to rot.” He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “If it weren’t for your grandmother being on her deathbed and begging to see you, I wouldn’t be within ten miles of a woman as venomous as you.” The world tilted. “What? Nana is sick?” Parker sneered. “She’s dying, Isabel. The stress of what you did five years ago shattered her. She’s been in and out of the hospital ever since, and now she’s insisting on seeing you one last time. God knows why.” I didn’t care about his insults anymore. I lunged for the car door, my heart hammering against my bruised ribs. “Take me to her. Now.” He looked at me with pure loathing but started the engine. The drive was a blur of silence and suppressed rage. He didn’t speak, and I didn’t breathe. When we reached the hospital, I didn’t wait for him. I scrambled out, tripping over my own feet, and ran toward the ward. But as I reached the door to her room, my hand froze on the handle. Five years. Everyone believed I was a monster. Would she even look at me? “Isabel? Is that my girl?” The voice was thin, like parchment, but it was hers. My vision blurred. I pushed the door open and collapsed at her bedside, burying my face in her blankets. “Nana… I’m here.” Her frail, trembling hand found my face. Her touch was the only kindness I had felt in half a decade. “I knew you’d come. I knew. They’ve put you through so much, my poor girl.” I shook my head, unable to speak through the lump in my throat. “Isabel,” she whispered, her eyes searching mine. “Tell me the truth. Did you really do it? Did you hurt that boy?” She was the only one. The only one who wanted to give me a chance. I knew if I said ‘no,’ she would spend her last breath fighting for my justice. “Mom, who else could it have been?” The door swung open. My adoptive parents, Larry, and Delia walked in. The room suddenly felt very small and very cold. “They were the only two in the room,” my mother said, her voice dripping with artificial sorrow. “If it wasn’t Isabel, are you suggesting it was our Delia? Isabel spent twenty years in our home; she couldn’t handle losing her status. She was desperate to latch onto the Blackwells.” Nana’s eyes flashed with a spark of her old fire. “Quiet! Even if she isn’t your blood, she is my granddaughter. I provided for her when I was well, and I will not let her suffer now that I am dying!” My mother threw her designer bag onto the chair. “Mom, listen to yourself! Delia is your flesh and blood. You’re going to leave our legacy to a criminal stranger?” Larry stepped forward, his eyes burning with a terrifying intensity. “Isabel, what kind of spell have you cast on her? You should have stayed in that cell. Why did you have to come back?” The words were like daggers. Delia stood in the corner, a small, triumphant smirk playing on her lips before she hid it behind a handkerchief. “Mom, don’t be hard on her. She just got out of prison. She’s… fragile.” Nana let out a rasping cough that shook her whole frame. “Enough! Did Isabel choose to be switched at birth? The family that raised Delia died saving her life in that car accident. Isabel is alone in this world. If you won’t love her, I will.” She looked at my parents, her gaze icy. “My anniversary gala is in two weeks. I will be attending with Isabel by my side. I want everyone in this city to know that my girl still has someone in her corner.” My parents tried to protest, but Nana roared at them until they retreated. Once they were gone, she stroked my hair. “Don’t be afraid, Isabel. I have you.” To protect me, Nana checked herself out of the hospital and took me straight to her estate. During those days, the messages didn’t stop. My “parents,” Larry, and Parker all sent warnings. Isabel, Nana is old. You wouldn’t want to give her a stroke by telling her lies, would you? Keep your mouth shut. The harassment triggered the memories I had tried to bury. The beatings in the showers. Being forced to eat food that had been stepped on. The nights I spent fighting off hands in the dark. I had spent five years asking what I did wrong. But now, looking at Nana, I realized I wouldn’t tell her the truth. Not because I was scared, but because it would kill her. My parents and Larry would never admit the truth, and the Blackwell heir was still a vegetable. No one would believe me anyway. I decided to let the secret be the price of the twenty years I spent as a “Blackwood.” … The night of the gala arrived. I looked in the mirror. The emerald silk gown was stunning, a masterpiece of draping, but it couldn’t hide the map of trauma on my skin. My shoulders and arms were a tapestry of cigarette burns and jagged scars. I put on a matching bolero jacket to hide the evidence and went downstairs. The party was in full swing. I stayed in the shadows, letting Nana handle the guests. I just wanted to find a quiet corner, but as I turned a hallway, a server “accidentally” collided with me, drenching my dress in wine. I brushed off the apologies and headed upstairs to change. But the moment I stepped into the gallery, Delia was waiting. “Isabel. I have a homecoming gift for you.” I took a step back. Then, a voice from my nightmares spoke from behind me. “Hey there, baby sister. It’s been a long time. Let’s catch up.” My body went rigid. Duke. The man my family had paid to “watch over me” in prison—the man who had made my life a living hell—was standing in Nana’s house. I tried to run, but a hand clamped over my mouth. The smell of cheap tobacco and malice filled my senses. Delia smiled, her eyes bright with cruelty. “You got lucky in prison, Isabel. You survived. But you won’t survive tonight.” I fought like a wild animal, but he slammed me into a side room. As I hit the floor, I heard Larry’s voice in the hallway. “Delia? Is Isabel in there? I thought I saw her.” Hope flared in my chest. But then Duke grabbed me. “What’s the matter, Princess? Think your brother is going to save you? I’ve been waiting five years to finish what I started.” I grabbed a heavy crystal lamp from a side table and smashed it against the door. The crash echoed through the hall. “What was that?” Larry’s voice. “Who’s in there?” I held my breath, praying they would burst in. … But Delia’s voice drifted through the wood, sweet as honey. “It’s just Isabel. I tried to talk to her, but she’s so bitter. She told me I was just ‘lucky’ to be found. She said she deserves to be the Blackwood heiress, not me. She’s locked herself in to throw a tantrum.” I wept, my heart shattering. They had grown up with me. They knew I would never say those things. But the voice that responded was cold enough to freeze my blood. “She’s the one who shouldn’t have come back,” Larry said. “Does she think we don’t know what she did in prison? She’s trash.” “She lived your life, Delia,” Parker added. “She’s a parasite. Her real parents probably died of shame knowing what kind of daughter they raised. She doesn’t belong here.” A parasite. The man I loved was calling me a parasite while I was being hunted by a predator three feet away. “Hear that?” Duke whispered, pinning me down. “They want you gone. Just be a good girl and maybe I’ll make it quick.” The memories flooded back. The hands. The laughter. The feeling of being less than human. As Duke lunged to tear the silk from my body, my hand closed around a jagged shard of the shattered crystal lamp. I didn’t think. I just drove the glass into his neck.

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I grew up in the kind of suffocating Appalachian rust-belt town where people spoke with a heavy, unpolished drawl. Keith Crawford treated me like a ghost he was paying to haunt his own bedroom. “When you’re with me,” he would command, his voice dropping to a glacial whisper, “don’t make a sound.” He hated my voice. The moment I opened my mouth, the illusion shattered. I sounded absolutely nothing like Cecilia, the untouchable golden girl he had spent his entire life pining for. But if I actually managed to stay perfectly silent, he’d find ways to punish me for it. Often, right at the breathless precipice of things, his hands would bite into my hips. “You might be a cheap imitation of her in every other way,” he’d murmur, his breath hot against my skin, “but you definitely know how to pull a man under in bed.” Then he’d ask, “Is this your master plan? F**k me so well I can’t let you go?” I’d just roll my eyes in the dark. I was working three jobs a day. When you hustle that hard, your “technique” naturally gets pretty flawless. 1 I had two other patrons just like Keith. One was Theo Gilbert, the gentle, universally beloved A-list actor. The other was a walking taboo. He shared Keith’s last name but sat a generation above him on the family tree—Keith’s uncle. The man rumored to play the stock market like a grand piano, Gideon Crawford, the youngest guest professor of finance at Kingsley University. All three men were roughly the same age, and all three shared the same agonizing heartbreak: Cecilia DuPont, the award-winning actress who had fled to Europe, leaving a trail of shattered egos in her wake. That was the only reason a girl like me could hold down three lucrative arrangements at once. Among them, Keith was the billionaire CEO, yet somehow the most remarkably stingy. He only required my presence once a month. The compensation? Thirty thousand dollars. A drop in the bucket—barely a tenth of my total monthly income. And for that, I had to jump through hoops. I had to bathe in specific oils, burn a certain incense, and cater to a laundry list of his ridiculous, neurotic demands. If his garbage personality wasn’t bad enough, his performance in bed was… fine, at best. Honestly, if I didn’t have the phantom ache of poverty etched into my bones—if I didn’t treat every dollar like a lifeline—I wouldn’t have bothered with him. I gritted my teeth and viewed it as a character-building exercise. When it was over, I selfishly rolled myself into the Egyptian cotton duvet. Keith, however, refused to let the moment end. He yanked me back against his chest, burying his face in the crook of my neck. “What, are you still sulking about what happened this afternoon?” “Bianca is just a kid. She broke a bracelet. Is it really worth all this attitude?” His tone was dismissive, laced with that lazy, post-coital softness. “I don’t even remember when I bought you that thing. Why are you so hung up on it?” Bianca was Keith’s spoiled younger sister. When she found out her brother was keeping a blue-collar canary in his gilded cage, she made it her personal mission to make my life hell. With my back turned to Keith, I let out a massive, silent eye roll. Keep flattering yourself, buddy. That vintage Cartier emerald tennis bracelet? Gideon had bought it for me at a Sotheby’s auction for three million dollars. If that dark, controlling psychopath found out his gift had been smashed into pieces, I didn’t even want to imagine what kind of psychological torture he’d inflict on me. When the bracelet shattered, I had practically shoved the certificate of authenticity into Bianca’s perfectly contoured face. But Keith, the absolute bastard, had intercepted it. “It’s just a cheap bauble,” he had said, waving it off. “I’ll buy you another one.” Gee, thanks. As long as he was willing to write the check, I didn’t care. It saved me the retainer fee for a lawyer. Sensing my utter lack of enthusiasm, Keith’s mood darkened. “Maeve, have I been spoiling you too much lately? Is that why you’ve forgotten your place?” Me: ??? Psycho. 2 What was my place? I was a nobody. A trailer-park kid who dropped out after middle school to scrape together money so my deadbeat brother could pay off his gambling debts and get married. If I hadn’t gotten lucky and bumped into Keith while picking up extra shifts at an upscale nightclub, I probably would have been married off to the sleaziest mechanic in my hometown by now. When I agreed to be his little secret, he laid down the law. “Don’t harbor delusions about things that don’t belong to you. Be a good girl, do as you’re told, and I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.” I had nodded so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “Don’t worry about it! Knowing our place is a core value where I come from.” I pride myself on my professional ethics. Besides, the man only said I couldn’t fall in love with him. He never explicitly forbade me from finding other investors. Carrying a heart full of gratitude, I held onto Keith even after I secured my two premium upgrades. My master plan was simple: stockpile cash for a few years. Then, use that war chest to finally get my education. “Knowledge changes your destiny.” That phrase is practically grafted onto the DNA of every kid who grew up wearing hand-me-downs. For the past two years, I had been teaching myself the high school curriculum. Even right after getting railed, I didn’t miss a beat. I pulled out my heavy Princeton Review SAT prep book and started running drills. I was staring daggers into a multivariable calculus problem, my brain completely blank. Beside me, Keith let out a condescending scoff. “I don’t understand why a girl with your… limited capacity wastes her energy on this.” I was about to snap back, but he reached over, took my pencil, and slashed a single, elegant auxiliary line across the graph. Instantly, the entire equation unlocked in my head. “I got it!” I looked up at him, a genuine, unguarded smile breaking across my face. Keith blinked, clearly caught off guard by the brightness of it. He turned his head away and cleared his throat. “If you get stuck again, you can ask me.” He had been his prep school’s valedictorian. To him, this was elementary math. He couldn’t fathom what this foolish woman was so thrilled about. Seeing him offer an olive branch, I immediately pushed my luck. I crawled over, draped my arms around his neck, and gave him my best sultry gaze. “Does that mean I can see you more often?” I didn’t care about the romance; I just wanted a free Ivy-league tutor. Private tutors in the city charged eight hundred bucks an hour. Keith’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Whatever he imagined I meant, it made a dark flush creep up his neck. He abruptly shoved me away. “Stop using these cheap, low-class tricks on me.” Fine, be a jerk about it. If he didn’t want to help, I’d just find someone who would. 3 Speaking of my first meeting with Theo Gilbert, I actually had Keith to thank for playing matchmaker. Back when I first became his kept woman, Keith purposely paraded me around high-society galas. The goal? To make the exiled Cecilia insanely jealous. While Keith’s juvenile tactics yielded zero results with his ex, they did allow me to learn that Cecilia had left behind an entire roster of broken-hearted admirers. I smelled a business opportunity. So, at one particular charity gala, I cornered Theo Gilbert while he was standing alone by the terrace. The man was tall, lean, and breathtakingly gorgeous. He possessed this warm, magnetic aura that effortlessly drew the entire room’s gaze. He was a movie star, after all. God, he was beautiful. I marched right up to him and delivered my opening pitch: “Hey handsome. Are you in the market for a stand-in?” Yes, my Appalachian roots made me brutally direct. Theo, clearly having never been propositioned with such bizarre bluntness, froze. I doubled down on the sales pitch. “If you’re not, no worries. I’ve got a list to get through.” Cecilia had plenty of orbiters; I wasn’t going to starve. When he didn’t speak for a solid ten seconds, I pivoted to leave, ready to hunt down my next target. Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my wrist. Theo’s eyes flickered with a dark, unreadable emotion. It took him a long time to finally speak. “Yes,” he said. And just like that, I secured my second job. Compared to Keith, Theo was a dream. Generous, gentle, an absolute saint. Every single transfer was exactly $52,000. He always asked for my consent before coming over, and he treated me with borderline reverent care. In bed, he catered to my every need. If I even shifted uncomfortably, Theo would immediately stop and check on me. There was only one catch: he always tied a black silk ribbon over my eyes. Because the one feature I absolutely didn’t share with Cecilia was her eyes. Hey, the customer is always right. If a guy this generous and considerate has a blindfold kink, who am I to judge? 4 Keith only summoned me once a month. That left me with an abundance of free time, all of which I dedicated to Theo. For convenience’s sake, I started hosting Theo at Keith’s sprawling penthouse. Keith never showed up unannounced, so it was the perfect way to save on hotel fees. I was quite proud of my little logistical triumph. But if you play with fire long enough, you’re bound to get burned. One evening, I had just kissed Theo goodbye at the elevator. Not twenty minutes later, the front door clicked open, revealing a heavily intoxicated Keith. It was the very first time he had ever broken our schedule. The air in the living room still hung heavy with the sweet, damp scent of sex, and I hadn’t even bothered to cover the fresh red marks blooming across my collarbone. Thank God Keith was practically blind-drunk. He didn’t connect the dots. Instead, he just stared at the bruises on my neck, his brow furrowing in irritation as his thumb dragged over the sensitized skin. “Are the mosquitoes getting worse?” He stumbled over to the nightstand, grabbed a bottle of soothing lotion, and began rubbing it into my skin. For a fleeting second, his expression mirrored genuine concern. “You need to be more careful. Why didn’t you plug in the repellant?” The lotion was cool against my flushed skin, but Keith’s fingers were burning hot. The atmosphere suddenly shifted, growing dangerously intimate. I caught his wrist. “Mr. Crawford, are you in a bad mood?” “Is it because of Cecilia?” Reading a patron’s emotional state is the baseline requirement for this line of work. I was terrified he was going to start making a habit of dropping by unannounced. Where I come from, getting caught cheating in the very bed your sugar daddy pays for is generally considered bad form. Keith didn’t like the question. He grabbed my chin, his grip tightening. “Don’t try to play mind games with me. Remember what you are.” He squeezed harder, and a small gasp of pain slipped past my lips. A second later, he shoved me back onto the mattress. The red marks on my collarbone made his eyes darken, and he leaned down, biting right over the same spot. “Stop using her face to do these cheap, dirty things.” Keith was urgent and vicious that night. Considering I was now working a double shift, my legs were physically trembling by the time morning rolled around. Seeing the state I was in, Keith actually looked a flicker of guilt. He reached into his tailored suit jacket, pulled out a velvet box, and tossed it onto the blankets. I opened it. A massive, blinding pink diamond stared back at me. I instantly recognized it. It was the ten-million-dollar diamond Keith had won at an auction a few weeks ago—the one he intended to give Cecilia for her birthday. Looked like the gift had been rejected. No wonder he was drinking. But what did I care? It was ten million dollars. Overjoyed, I practically launched myself at him, planting a massive kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Keith! You treat me so well!” Keith sat there, stunned, his fingers brushing the spot I had just kissed. He watched as I treated the diamond like a holy relic, carefully sliding it onto my finger. The corner of his mouth twitched upward before he forcibly yanked it back down into a scowl. “You make a fuss over nothing. So uncultured.” He didn’t buy it for me. But Cecilia didn’t want it, so the scraps fell to me. 5 After that night, Keith didn’t contact me for a long time. I honestly thought the gig was up and was already drafting plans to find a replacement for his time slot. Then, the incident with Bianca and the shattered bracelet happened. I had raised such hell about it that Keith was forced to step in and handle the mess personally. When I saw him, he seemed to be in a surprisingly good mood. His lips were permanently fixed two millimeters higher than usual. In bed that night, he was uncharacteristically gentle, whispering soft, coaxing things into my ear. But the moment a soft, contented sigh escaped my lips—just like it always did—he froze. We both stared at each other, eyes wide in the dark. Wait a minute. Has it even been ten minutes? We laid there in absolute, agonizing silence. I couldn’t tell if the look on Keith’s face was sheer humiliation or violent rage. Whatever it was, he clamped his hand over my mouth. “From now on, when we do this, you don’t make a sound,” he warned, his voice tight. “The second you open your mouth, you ruin her.” Oh. A wave of realization hit me. I was being too loud and it was ruining his concentration. Tears welling in my eyes, I nodded frantically. For the rest of the night, I bit my lip and stayed completely silent, but Keith couldn’t quite shake off the awkwardness of his early misfire. When a man is embarrassed, he tries to look very busy. Keith put in overtime that night, and he was unusually chatty. “You don’t hold a candle to her, but God, you know how to work a man in bed.” “Tell me, is this your grand strategy? F**k me so well I can’t leave you?” … By the time Keith got out of the shower, I had already fallen asleep clutching my SAT prep book. In the hazy space between sleep and waking, I felt someone carefully slide the heavy book out of my arms. I heard Keith whisper against my ear, “Maeve.” “I am never going to fall in love with you.” His words were cold and absolute, yet the way he pulled me flush against his chest was incredibly practiced and natural. I instinctively snuggled deeper into his solid chest and smacked my lips. Whatever you say, buddy. Your pecs are warm. 6 I slept in until noon the next day, long after Keith had left for the office. When I checked my phone, the very first notification was a $520,000 transfer from Theo. It was his bat-signal. I hummed a happy tune as I took my time getting ready, putting extra effort into my makeup. Honestly, out of my three patrons, Keith was the most emotionally taxing and stingy. Gideon was the most generous, but he was a terrifying, unpredictable predator. Only Theo was gentle, empathetic, and took genuine care of me. Out of the three of them, he was easily my favorite. Sure enough, by the time I glided down the stairs of the penthouse, there were four steaming dishes laid out on the dining table. All my favorites. Theo was just walking out of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of soup. The moment he set it down, I practically threw myself into his arms. Theo caught me by the waist, his strong hands stabilizing me so I wouldn’t fall. “Careful, wild thing.” His words were a scolding, but his eyes were melting with absolute adoration. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in the crisp, clean scent of cedarwood. “It smells incredible. I’m starving.” Theo effortlessly lifted me and set me down on a dining chair. “The food is ready. Let me just clean up a bit and we can eat.” He reached back to untie the little pink apron he was wearing, but I hooked my arms around his neck and pulled him down. “Theo,” I whispered. “I’m not talking about the food.”

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As a senior advisor in the field of Artificial Intelligence for the federal government, I had been stationed overseas on a high-level research fellowship for the past year. During that time, security protocols were airtight. My contact with the outside world was sparse, restricted to encrypted check-ins and the occasional brief letter. The moment the program concluded, my first instinct wasn’t to celebrate; it was to call my daughter, Daisy. She had been grinding for two years to pass the Bar Exam, and the results were due any day. I dialed her for a video call, my heart thumping with a mix of pride and nerves. When she picked up, the sight of her shattered me. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot—she had clearly been sobbing for hours. “Sweetie, it’s okay,” I whispered, my voice thick with maternal instinct. “Don’t worry about the results. Mom has plenty of money. We can pay for another prep course, another year—whatever it takes.” As I spoke, I noticed the background. She wasn’t in her sun-drenched bedroom. She was in the cramped, windowless pantry behind the kitchen. Worse, I saw a flash of silver on her ear. A cheap piercing was buried in her lobe, and the skin around it was angry, red, and oozing with infection. I didn’t want to push her while she was so fragile, so I hung up and immediately called her father, Jonathan. Jonathan answered with a huff of impatience, acting as if my concern was a nuisance. “You’ve been gone a year, Catherine. Don’t start micromanaging from across the ocean. Girls like to play dress-up; a piercing is normal.” Then came the sting. “Daisy’s been prep-testing for two years and still can’t cut it. Meanwhile, Marina—my star student—aced her boards on the first try. I swear, sometimes I wonder if Daisy really carries my genes with a brain that slow.” My blood ran cold. After I hung up, a notification pinged on my phone. My secondary credit card—the one Jonathan used—had just been swiped for $28,000 at a boutique in Beverly Hills. A designer handbag. Something was horribly wrong. I didn’t hesitate. I resigned from my seven-figure consultancy role effective immediately and booked the first flight back to the States. 1 The moment I boarded the plane, I pulled up Marina’s Instagram. She had blocked me. Fortunately, I had followed her burner TikTok account months ago out of professional curiosity. I refreshed her feed. There she was, preening in a video, posing from every angle with a brand-new, charcoal-grey Hermès Birkin. “Thank you to my favorite person for the best gift ever. I’m obsessed,” the caption read. $28,000. My money. A sickening dread coiled in my gut. Since I’d been abroad, we had hired a live-in housekeeper, Mrs. Higgins, to take care of Daisy and Jonathan. I called her, hoping for some clarity, but what I heard was worse than I imagined. “Ma’am, I… I was let go. Miss Marina insisted on it.” “Marina? Since when does a guest have the authority to fire my staff?” My voice rose an octave, drawing stares from the first-class cabin. “She told me she’s the lady of the house now. She said I was too old, too slow, and that I didn’t ‘cater’ to the Professor’s needs properly. She said… from now on, she’s the one in charge.” I nearly cracked my phone screen from gripping it so hard. A houseguest—a student Jonathan was supposedly “mentoring”—had staged a coup in my own home? “Ma’am, please,” Mrs. Higgins whispered, her voice trembling. “Just watch your back. Things aren’t what they seem.” She hung up before I could ask more. Trembling, I called our long-time driver, Bill. Bill had been with Jonathan for years, and I didn’t entirely trust his loyalty, so I changed my tactics. I kept my voice casual, maternal. “Bill, I’m a little worried about Daisy’s spending lately. Is she buying all these luxury items because she’s stressed about the Bar?” Bill let out a short, dry chuckle on the other end. “Oh, that? Yeah, she’s been on a bit of a spree. But honestly, ma’am, you’ve got the money. Even the Professor said it’s fine, so I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.” I fell silent. I knew my daughter. Daisy had been raised with a silver spoon, yes, but she was disciplined. She worked summer jobs. She used to say, “Mom, that’s your hard-earned money. I want to build my own empire.” Daisy wouldn’t suddenly become a shallow shopaholic, especially not while failing the exam she’d sacrificed her social life for. Every red flag in my mind was screaming. This had Marina written all over it. I couldn’t wait. I paid the exorbitant fee to move my flight up to a direct red-eye. When the plane touched down, it was 2:00 AM. I didn’t call a car. I didn’t tell Jonathan I was coming. I wanted to see the truth of this house with my own eyes. The mansion was silent when I let myself in. I walked straight toward Daisy’s room, but through the cracked door, I saw a world that didn’t belong to her. The walls were lined with shelves of expensive, limited-edition vinyl toys and designer “blind boxes”—hundreds of them. Daisy hated clutter. I walked to the bed and touched the sheets. Silk. Cold, slippery, charcoal silk. Daisy only ever slept on organic cotton. The room was empty. Daisy wasn’t there. At 2:30 AM, she should have been asleep in her bed. The panic I’d been suppressing flared into a full-blown fire. I remembered the video call—the dark, cramped background. I walked to the hallway and pushed open the door to the small utility mudroom behind the laundry. The smell of dampness hit me first. It was pitch black. “Daisy?” I whispered. “Mom… Mom is that you?” 2 Out of the darkness came a voice so thin and terrified it barely sounded human. I fumbled for the light switch. When the bulb flickered on, the breath left my lungs. The tiny room was overflowing with discarded boxes, old newspapers, and broken appliances. And there, tucked between a rusted water heater and a stack of winter tires, was a thin cot on the floor. My daughter, the girl I had raised to be a queen, was curled into a ball under a moth-eaten blanket. Her face was gaunt, her hair a matted mess. She looked like a trapped animal, blinking at the light with sheer terror in her eyes. The moment she recognized me, the dam broke. She began to sob, great racking heaves that shook her entire frame. “Mom… you finally came back. You’re finally here.” My heart didn’t just break; it turned to ash. I lunged forward, pulling her into my arms, feeling how bony her shoulders had become. Before she could utter a single word of explanation, the door to the utility room slammed open. “Catherine? What on earth are you doing here?” Marina stood in the doorway, her face pale with shock. Behind her stood Jonathan, rubbing sleep from his eyes, looking annoyed rather than happy to see his wife. Daisy’s body went rigid in my arms. She began to shake so violently her teeth chattered. She gripped my forearms, her knuckles white, but she didn’t say a word. I looked at them—the “star student” in her silk pajamas and my husband with his practiced frown—and I felt a cold, murderous clarity. “Jonathan,” I said, my voice vibrating with rage. “Explain this. Now. Why is my daughter sleeping in a closet?” Jonathan sighed, crossing his arms. “Catherine, don’t be dramatic. Daisy’s had a rough go. She failed her exams again, she’s been depressed. She told us she needed a ‘minimalist space’ to reflect on her failures. She chose to move in here. The girl is just being hard on herself.” He said it so casually, as if it were perfectly normal for a girl to move from a master suite to a windowless pantry. “Reflect on her failures?” I stood up, keeping Daisy behind me. “You think I’m an idiot? I know my daughter. She would never choose this. You’re lying through your teeth.” Jonathan’s face darkened. “Catherine, watch your tone. She’s my daughter too.” Marina stepped forward, reaching out a hand as if to comfort me. “Mrs. Archer, please don’t be upset. Professor Hart is right. Daisy’s been very unstable lately. We’ve all been so worried—” I slapped her hand away so hard the crack echoed in the small room. “Shut your mouth. You have no standing in this house.” Marina gasped, stumbling back toward Jonathan. “Get out,” I hissed. “Both of you. Out!” Marina’s face twisted between a fake pout and genuine fear as she looked at Jonathan. He scowled at me, his ego clearly bruised. “Fine. Take her to a room if you want. We’ll deal with your hysterics in the morning.” “To a room? Which room, Jonathan? Because it looks like this girl is living in Daisy’s suite.” Jonathan hesitated. “Well—” “I’m staying there,” Marina whispered, her voice regained its edge. “The Professor said it was a waste for such a large suite to sit empty while Daisy was… ‘reflecting.’” “You’re staying there? On what authority? You are a guest. You are nothing.” “Catherine, enough!” Jonathan shouted. “Marina is my lead researcher. She’s staying here for the project. It’s temporary.” I didn’t answer him. Daisy was trembling so hard she could barely stand. I put my arm around her, guiding her out of that hole. “Don’t be afraid, Daisy. I’m here now. No one is touching you ever again.” I led her to the guest wing. After I got her into a warm bath and tucked her into a clean bed, I sat by her side, watching her sleep. This wasn’t my daughter. Her eyes were sunken, her skin sallow. She looked haunted. I stroked her hair, my mind racing. I was going to burn Marina’s world to the ground, and Jonathan was going to pay for every second of this. The next morning, I sat Daisy down. “Tell me about the Bar Exam, honey.” Daisy kept her head down, picking at her cuticles until they bled. I took her hands in mine and forced her to look at me. The tears started instantly. Brokenly, the story came out. Marina hadn’t just been “mentoring.” She had decided she wanted Daisy’s life. When the exam registration window opened, Marina had used her access to the house to log into Daisy’s account and change her elective modules to subjects Daisy hadn’t studied. “Dad told me I didn’t have the brains for it anyway,” Daisy sobbed. “He said I shouldn’t compete with his ‘star student.’ And on the day of the exam… the pens I brought, the ones Marina ‘checked’ for me… the ink vanished from the paper within an hour. I handed in a blank exam, Mom. I had nothing.” This wasn’t just a rivalry. This was a calculated assassination of my daughter’s future. I didn’t say another word. I stood up and stormed into Daisy’s original bedroom. 3 Marina was standing in front of the walk-in closet, which was now bursting with designer clothes that weren’t hers. “How did you afford all this, Marina?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. “The $28,000 bag? The $5,000 shoes?” Marina looked at Daisy, who was hovering in the doorway. “Daisy, tell your mom. Didn’t you say you were overwhelmed by your things? Didn’t you ask me to take them?” Daisy shrunk back, her spirit so crushed she couldn’t even find her voice. Marina smirked, sensing her victory. I walked over to her and grabbed her wrist, twisting it so the watch she was wearing caught the light. “The Cartier Tank. My graduation gift to Daisy. Why is it on your wrist?” She tried to pull away, but I held her in a vice grip. I was a second away from showing her exactly how an Archer handles a thief when Jonathan appeared, grabbing my shoulder. “Catherine, stop this! What is wrong with you?” “What’s wrong with me? You brought this parasite into our home to gut our daughter! Look at this watch, Jonathan! You gave it to her!” “Catherine, Daisy changed,” Jonathan snapped. “She told me she didn’t care about these ‘material baubles’ anymore because you make ‘too much’ money. I thought it was a waste to let it sit in a drawer, so I gave it to Marina as a reward for her hard work.” Daisy was shaking behind me. I stood my ground, my heart cold as stone. “Now, move,” Jonathan said, trying to push past me. “Marina has her final character and fitness interview for the Bar today. It’s a big day. Don’t ruin it with your delusions. We’ll talk when I get back from the lab.” He tried to shove me aside, but I didn’t budge. “Catherine, don’t be petty,” he hissed. “If word gets out that my doctoral student was harassed in my own home, my reputation is ruined. Is that what you want?” Marina started to squeeze out fake tears, clutching Jonathan’s arm. “Professor, I’m going to be late. What am I going to do?” Jonathan actually pushed me—hard enough that I stumbled back. “Go. I’ll handle her.” He led Marina out, leaving me standing in the wreckage of my family. I forced myself to breathe. To think like the strategist I was. I took Daisy to the kitchen, but the new cook—a woman I didn’t recognize—didn’t even look up. “Breakfast is over. The Professor and Miss Marina ate early. There’s nothing left.” “Excuse me?” I stepped into her space. “This is my house. You will cook for my daughter, the lady of this house, right now.” The woman rolled her eyes. “One meal won’t kill her. I’ll get to it when I’m done cleaning the Professor’s study.” As she turned, I caught a glimpse of her profile. She looked remarkably like an older version of Marina. I immediately texted my assistant, Sarah. “Run a background check on our new cook and Marina Cross. I want to know every blood relation.” After a silent, tense breakfast, I took Daisy to a private clinic. The doctor was a woman I’d known for years. After two hours of tests, she pulled me into her office, her expression grim. “Claire, your daughter is in a bad way. She’s showing clear signs of PTSD, severe clinical depression, and anxiety.” She handed me a folder. “But that’s not all. Her blood work… she has elevated levels of lead and mercury. It’s not enough to kill her quickly, but it’s enough to cause brain fog, memory loss, and extreme fatigue. It’s consistent with long-term, low-dose exposure.” I felt the room tilt. I held onto the desk to stay upright. In the safety of the doctor’s office, Daisy finally opened up. She told me how Marina would hide her textbooks. How she would put sewing needles in Daisy’s chair. How she would “borrow” Daisy’s clothes and return them ruined. And Jonathan? He didn’t just ignore it. He weaponized it. He told Daisy she was a disappointment. He cut off her allowance, telling her she had to “earn her keep” by doing Marina’s laundry and cleaning the house while I was away. But the final blow was what Daisy whispered at the very end. “Mom… I saw her coming out of Dad’s room at night. She was wearing your robes. I tried to call you, but they took my phone. They said they were ‘monitoring my mental health.’ If I fought back, Dad would let her hit me.” The world went white. My husband wasn’t just neglectful. He was a predator, and he had turned our home into a house of horrors. “Daisy,” I said, my voice like tempered steel. “Today is Marina’s final interview for the Bar, right? Come on. We’re going to give her a gift she’ll never forget.”

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During the Memorial Day long weekend, I decided to stay in the presidential suite of one of my own hotels. I had made the reservation a month in advance, intending for this to be a quiet, undercover inspection of our flagship service standards. When I arrived at the front desk, the girl behind the counter didn’t greet me. Instead, she spent a solid three minutes looking me up and down with a gaze that felt like a physical sneer. Finally, she popped her gum and told me flatly that the presidential suite was no longer available. She suggested I leave. I slid my sunglasses down, my brow furrowing. “I booked this room a month ago,” I said, my voice measured. “Are you saying the hotel failed to hold a guaranteed reservation?” She rolled her eyes with an insolence that was almost impressive. “Look, honey, ‘no’ means ‘no.’ If you’re having trouble processing the English language, maybe find someone to translate for you while you wait outside.” The words had barely left her mouth when her face underwent a terrifying transformation. She beamed, a saccharine, practiced smile directed at a man walking up behind me. He was dripping in labels, a gold Rolex gleaming on his wrist. “Mr. Thompson! So good to see you again,” she chirped, her voice dripping with artificial honey. “I made sure to save the last presidential suite just for you.” She slid a key card across the marble counter with a wink. Once he had strutted toward the elevators, she reached into a drawer, pulled out a thick stack of cash, and threw it onto the floor at my feet. “Now the room is officially gone,” she said, her voice dropping back into a cold rasp. “That’s your compensation. Pick it up and get out.” I didn’t look at the money. Instead, I focused on the name engraved on her brass pin: Amber. I pulled out my phone and dialed the regional director. When he picked up, I didn’t bother with a greeting. “Fire the receptionist named Amber. Immediately.” … I cut the call, my face a mask of cold fury. This “undercover visit” had been eye-opening, though not in the way I’d hoped. As the CEO of the Monroe Group—a luxury empire built on the promise of radical hospitality—I was horrified. To think I had a viper like this on my payroll. Amber didn’t look worried. She actually laughed, unpinning her badge and slamming it onto the desk. “Oh, you’re having me fired? Please. Take a good look at the ID number. Go ahead, keep complaining. See if anyone actually gives a damn.” She leaned back, radiating a toxic level of confidence. I narrowed my eyes. “I had a confirmed booking. You gave my room to someone else right in front of me. That’s a massive breach of contract. Where exactly is this arrogance coming from?” She glared at me, exasperated. “I gave you the money, didn’t I? What else do you want, a parade?” She shoved my ID back toward me. As I reached for it, she let go too early. It skipped off my fingertips and landed on the floor. “Pain in the ass,” she muttered. My hand stayed suspended in mid-air for a heartbeat. My expression went deathly still. Another receptionist, a younger girl, came scurrying over. She looked at the cash scattered on the floor, then at my face, and then shot a terrified glance at Amber. “I am so sorry, ma’am,” the newcomer whispered, her forehead beaded with sweat. “Maybe… maybe I can help you find a room at the boutique hotel next door?” She knelt down, frantically picking up the bills Amber had thrown. “Why should I leave?” I asked, my voice low and dangerous. “It’s a holiday weekend. Every decent hotel in the city is booked. My room was given away as a personal favor, I was insulted to my face, and then I was showered with cash like I’m some beggar. You think a referral solves that?” Amber snorted. “Humiliated? Give it a rest, lady. You’re dying to grab that cash, I can see it. You’re just holding out for more.” She leaned over the counter, her eyes flitting over my plain linen blazer. “I checked your history. You’ve never stayed with us before. You’re just some out-of-towner trying to look like a big shot on a budget. Why would I give a suite to a nobody when I can get a massive tip from a regular?” I was momentarily speechless. So that was the game. A secret “tipping” culture where the staff auctioned off rooms to the highest bidder. “Is this the new standard for five-star service?” I managed. “Prejudice based on perceived wealth?” The younger girl, whose badge read Mia, bowed deeply. “I am so, so sorry. We will process your refund immediately. I’ve gathered the compensation money—please, just take it. Don’t be angry.” Mia caught my eye and subtly shook her head. Her lips moved silently: Don’t push her. My suspicion flared. I pushed the money away. “It’s not about the money. It’s about the attitude.” Amber smirked, as if she’d won. She reached under the counter and pulled out more stacks of cash. “Right. It’s never about the money until it’s about the money. Is this enough? How about this?” She began flicking the bills at my face. One after another, the paper snapping against my skin. I didn’t even have time to duck. The sharp edge of a hundred-dollar bill sliced across my cheek, a stinging, hot pain. I reached out and grabbed her wrist to stop her. She yanked herself back with a snarl. “I’ve seen plenty of losers try to play ‘rich’ by booking a suite they can’t afford, but you’re the first one brave enough to lecture me on my job.” Dozens of bills fluttered around me like red autumn leaves. I took a deep breath, smoothing back my hair, and felt a flicker of something beyond just anger. Logic kicked in. That money on the floor was more than her monthly salary. She didn’t care about it. She wasn’t just a receptionist; she was someone who felt untouchable. “You’re an employee,” I said. “You rely on the guests you’re currently insulting. I could call the police for assault.” Mia leaned in, her voice a frantic whisper in my ear. “Ma’am, please, just stop. She isn’t who you think she is. Even the police won’t touch her. Just take the money and go.” I stared at Amber. A receptionist with “protection”? Amber saw the confusion on my face and her lips curled into a sneer of pure triumph. “You want to know why I can do whatever I want? Because in this hotel, I’m the Queen Bee. I am the management.” I almost laughed at the absurdity. “I don’t recognize you. Who gave you that title?” “What’s all this shouting about?” A man in a sharp suit, wearing a ‘General Manager’ tag, strode toward us. “Rick!” Amber pointed at me, her voice turning into a shrill whine. “This woman is making a scene. She’s mad about her room and now she’s threatening to call the cops. She’s just a scammer trying to shake us down.” She looked at me and mouthed a silent, filthy curse. I suppressed my rage, studying this ‘Rick.’ If Amber was the Queen, then I had a feeling I’d found the King of this little rotten mountain. I needed to see how deep this went. “Manager Rick, I assume?” I said. “Your receptionist gave away a pre-paid reservation, threw money at me, and physically assaulted me. I want an explanation.” Rick didn’t offer an apology. He gave a shallow, mocking bow. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Mistakes happen with bookings.” I felt a slight thaw. “And her behavior? How will the hotel handle that?” Mia shot me a look of pure pity. Rick straightened his tie and let out a short, condescending laugh. “Actually, ma’am, this is just how we do things here. If you don’t like it, don’t come back. But while you’re here, you’ll take what we give you. She gave you compensation. It’s on the floor. If you’re too proud to pick it up, that’s your problem.” I froze. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Furthermore,” Rick continued, stepping closer to use his height as a weapon, “you grabbed our employee’s arm and scratched her. If you don’t apologize to her right now, I’ll be the one calling the police.” Amber nodded, looking delighted. “Cousin, give yourself a raise next month.” Rick grinned. He reached out and jabbed a finger into my shoulder. “Apologize. Now.” I clenched my fists, my knuckles turning white. “She threw money in my face. I was defending myself.” “She was giving you a gift!” Amber shrieked. “The Queen gives, and you receive. That’s the way it works.” The sheer madness of it finally clicked. Nepotism. Corruption. “So, because you have a manager covering for you, you think you own the place?” I asked. Rick and Amber shared a laugh. Mia tugged at my sleeve again, her voice trembling. “Ma’am… Rick is only the manager because of her. She’s dating the Regional Director. And the Director is best friends with the CEO, Cynthia Monroe!” Amber’s chest puffed out. She looked like she was expecting me to faint. I felt a wave of cold, dark irony wash over me. She had no idea she was bullying the very person she was claiming as her shield. My “friend,” the Regional Director, had just told me on the phone he’d never heard of her. “I know the Regional Director,” I said quietly. “And he’s married.” Amber’s face went purple. She lunged across the desk and slapped me, hard. “Don’t you dare lie about him! He does whatever I say! He’s not married, you bitch!” I stumbled back, my hand flying to my stinging cheek. Rick, seeing things had gone too far, cleared his throat. “Alright, that’s enough. You don’t have to apologize anymore. Just pick up your money and get the hell out before I have security throw you onto the sidewalk.” My skin was burning. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “You think you can just sweep this under the rug? Think again.” A message flashed on my screen from the Director: Cynthia, I found out the issue. I appointed an acting manager named Jordan Rivers. This receptionist might be his girlfriend. I’m heading there now. “I’ve called the police,” I said aloud. Before I could say another word, Rick snatched the phone out of my hand. “Police? We paid you! You’re done!” “This isn’t about money anymore,” I snapped. “You slapped me. You stole my reservation. You’re not getting away with this.” Amber grabbed my phone from Rick and smashed it onto the marble floor. “If you call the cops, you’ll ruin Jordan’s career! You’re a liar and a scammer, and I’m going to tear that tongue out of your head!” She vaulted over the counter, acting like she owned the damn state, let alone the hotel. She tackled me to the floor, her nails digging into my scalp as she yanked my hair. “Stop it!” A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the chaos from the entrance. I looked up, gasping for air, and felt a surge of relief. But then I looked closer at the man standing there. Jordan Rivers. The name finally clicked. Jordan was the charity case I had sponsored for seven years. Years ago, I’d found him—a brilliant student who couldn’t afford tuition. I paid for his Ivy League education, his living expenses, even his study abroad program in London. On the day he graduated, he had knelt in front of me, crying, swearing he would spend his life repaying my kindness. I had no idea he had ended up working at one of my properties. Jordan’s face was dark with anger. Amber immediately dissolved into a puddle of fake tears, throwing herself into his arms. “Jordan! This woman… I forgot to hold her room and she attacked me! Look at my arm!” She showed him some faint red marks that I’m certain she’d scratched into herself seconds ago. Jordan’s eyes snapped to mine. He didn’t see his benefactor. He saw a woman on the floor, looking disheveled and “ordinary.” I had never shown him the full scale of my empire; I had always kept our meetings humble, wanting him to focus on his studies rather than my wealth. “Cynthia?” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “What are you doing here? Trying to humiliate me at my job? You hurt my girlfriend—do you have any idea that assault is a crime?” He let out an agitated sigh. “Look, I said I’d repay the favor, but you don’t need to show up here acting like a billionaire. Booking a presidential suite? Really? How much did you spend to try and impress me?” I was stunned. The boy I’d raised was looking at me like I was a parasite. “The security cameras will show the truth,” I said, my heart turning to ice. “She’s the one who attacked me. I’m calling the police.” Jordan gripped his tie, pulling it loose. “Police will hurt the hotel’s image. Look, you’re only here because you saw I’m successful and you want to cash in on that ‘charity’ you gave me, right? Just tell me how much. How much to make us even so you’ll leave me alone?” He pulled out his phone, ready to Venmo me. Then he paused. “Actually, no. First, you apologize to Amber.” Amber smirked from the circle of his arm. “I want her on her knees.” Jordan looked down at me, his expression cold and kingly. “You heard her, Cynthia. Do it.” I let out a short, hollow laugh. It all made sense now. My hotels were thriving across the country, except for this one. It was because “King Jordan” was running a kingdom of cronyism and cruelty. “I gave you a future out of the goodness of my heart,” I said. “And this is how you repay me?” “You paid a few tuition bills,” Jordan snapped. “I didn’t even have enough pocket money to keep up with the rich kids. You think you own my life for that? Don’t be greedy.” Amber sneered. “She saw you got a job at the Monroe Group and tried to climb the ladder through you. Pathetic.” The fire in my chest finally roared to life. I dug my nails into my palms. “Fine. Let’s talk money.” “According to the hotel’s own ‘Bill of Rights’ for guests,” I said, stepping forward until I was inches from Amber, “a walk-on cancellation for a guaranteed reservation requires a full refund plus three times the room rate as compensation. Additionally, the hotel must provide a suite in a comparable five-star property, fully paid. My rate tonight was $8,000. That means you owe me exactly $40,000.” I looked her in the eye. “Is the trash you threw on the floor enough, Amber?” Rick and Mia gasped. Jordan’s face flickered with a moment of doubt. “Forty thousand?” Amber shrieked. “You’ve lost your mind!” She looked at Rick for confirmation. Rick looked at the floor, sweating. They were amateurs. They hadn’t even read the employee handbook. Jordan laughed, though it sounded forced. “How would you know the internal policies of a luxury hotel? Unless you’re a professional scammer. Cynthia, was the money you ‘donated’ to me just stolen from other victims?” He looked at me with genuine disgust. “Apologize on your knees, or I’m calling the cops to haul you away.” I laughed—a sharp, clear sound. I reached into my pocket and slammed my business card onto the marble desk. “I’m Cynthia Monroe. I wrote the damn rules. How could I not know them?” Mia picked up the card. Her jaw dropped. “She… she’s the CEO? Cynthia Monroe, the head of the Monroe Group?” Rick and Amber froze. “This was an unannounced inspection,” I began. Jordan made a clicking sound with his tongue, his face twisting into deeper hatred. He grabbed the card and ripped it into pieces. “Same name, that’s all. You think you could be the Cynthia Monroe? She’s worth billions. You barely scraped together a hundred grand for me over seven years. You’re a delusional freak.” The words died in my throat. The boy I’d cried for when he got his first ‘A’ was now looking at me with total contempt. Amber, emboldened by Jordan’s denial, lunged at me again. She shoved me back down to the floor. “Liar! You think a few grand makes you a queen? Get on your knees!” Jordan watched her hit me. He didn’t move. He actually smiled. Rick held me down by my shoulders. I felt the fury threatening to explode out of my skin, but I was outnumbered. “I am your CEO! Look at my phone! The messages are right there!” Mia scrambled to pick up the broken pieces of my phone, tears streaming down her face. But the screen was black. It wouldn’t turn on. A cold pit formed in my stomach. I had a multi-million dollar merger meeting to finalize online tonight. If I couldn’t get into my accounts… the damage would be catastrophic. Amber pulled out her own phone and started a livestream. “I’m going to expose this bitch. Not only is she a scammer, she’s a stalker trying to impersonate our CEO.” She shoved the camera in my face, then grabbed the collar of my blazer and tore it. I gasped, humiliated, as she exposed my torn camisole to the camera. People began to gather at the hotel entrance, peering in. “Look at this home-wrecker!” Amber shouted to the crowd. “Trying to seduce my boyfriend and steal hotel property!” Strangers began to point and whisper. “Disgusting,” an old woman muttered. “She looks like a common tramp. Strip her and show everyone what a liar looks like.” I fought back, but Rick’s grip was like iron. “I am not a mistress! They are assaulting me! Someone call the police!” My pleas were drowned out by the insults. Mia tried to use her phone to call for help, but Amber slapped it out of her hand. Amber laughed, showing me the screen of her livestream. The viewer count was skyrocketing. The comments were a blur of hate. Is that actually Cynthia Monroe? Getting beat up? The host says she’s a scammer who stole her boyfriend’s money. Burn her! I saw comments from people I recognized—employees at partner firms. If this is the CEO, I’m resigning tomorrow. How unprofessional. My company is pulling our contract with Monroe Group. This is a PR nightmare. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I had bitten my lip in the struggle. My eyes were burning red with tears of rage. Jordan, standing with his hands in his pockets, glanced at the comments. Suddenly, his face paled. “Wait… why are people saying she looks like the real CEO?” Just then, the heavy glass doors of the lobby swung open with a bang. A man burst through the crowd, his face ashen. It was Bill, the Regional Director. He took one look at the scene—the money on the floor, my torn clothes, the marks on my face—and he looked like he was about to have a heart attack. “Stop! Every single one of you, GET BACK! What the hell have you done to Ms. Monroe?!”

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My brother’s obsession with cars wasn’t just a hobby; it was a pathology, a twitchy, narrow-minded fever. I was the one who swiped my card to buy that car for him, yet he treated it like a sanctified relic I wasn’t worthy of touching. He never once let me sit in it. I remember the night my mother collapsed, her chest clutching a sudden, violent illness. Instead of grabbing the keys and racing to the ER, my brother pulled out a thick stack of liability waivers. He forced her, gasping for air, to sign every single page. Then, he stood over her with his phone, recording a video of her reciting sixty minutes’ worth of legal disclaimers while her face turned a terrifying shade of grey. My parents were frantic, blowing up my phone, begging for help. I didn’t offer a lifeline. I gave them a mirror. “If anything happens to her in that car, Troy will be held responsible,” I told them, my voice as flat as a dead-end road. “Don’t be so selfish. Start thinking about what’s best for him for once.” The words tasted like copper and old grudges. They should have sounded familiar to them. After all, they were the exact words they used on me the night my water broke six weeks early. My brother refused to let me in the car because he didn’t want the “fluids” ruining his pristine upholstery. My parents had stood by him, shielding his precious metal and leather, and told me: “Life and death are in God’s hands, Clara. If you die in labor in that car, your brother, as the owner, is the one who has to live with the liability. Stop being so entitled. Think about him.” … 1 The day we picked up the car, I paid the bill. While I was still at the dealership counter finalizing the paperwork, Troy took the keys and vanished. He didn’t even leave a cloud of dust. I spent the night huddled on a plastic chair at the Greyhound station, shivering through the fluorescent hum until the once-a-day regional shuttle finally pulled in the next morning. By the time I made it back to our small town, Troy was sprawled on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. My parents were out in the driveway, worshiping at the altar of the new tires with microfiber cloths. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” I demanded, my voice cracking from exhaustion. “You knew the shuttle only runs once a day. I spent the night in a damn bus terminal because of you!” Troy didn’t even look up. “Anyone who gets hurt in my vehicle makes me legally liable, Clara. Don’t you get that? Oh, right—I forgot. You don’t have a license. You wouldn’t understand the responsibility.” The condescension in his voice made my blood boil. The only reason I didn’t have a license was because he had spent years poisoning my parents’ minds against it. One driver is enough for the family, they’d said. Troy had been even more blunt: “Women don’t have the instincts for the road. You’d just be a hazard to yourself and everyone else.” And now, he was using the chains he’d helped forge to mock me. “Yeah, I don’t have a license! But I bought the damn car!” I yelled. “The deal was that we’d use it for the family, for holidays, for getting around. I’m your sister—do you really think I’m going to sue you if I trip getting out of the passenger seat?” My father walked in, his face hardening the moment he heard me. Without a word, he took the greasy, grit-stained rag he’d been using on the rims and hurled it at my face. It caught me across the eyes. I flinched, a sharp sting blooming in my eyelids. As I blinked, grains of sand scraped against my corneas, forcing involuntary tears to track down my cheeks. “Money, money, money! That’s all you talk about,” he spat. “The car is bought, and you’re already hovering over it like a vulture, terrified you won’t get your share. Troy was right about you.” “Look at you,” my mother chimed in, joining the firing squad. “Screaming because you missed one ride. You’re already looking for an excuse to shake your brother down. Imagine if he actually let you in the car—you’d probably claim whiplash at every red light.” “I was stranded!” I cried, my vision blurred. My mother shrugged, unimpressed. “You’re a woman in the city. How hard can it be to find a place to stay? You could have flirted with a clerk or found someone to give you a room for the night. If you’re too stupid to use what God gave you, don’t blame your brother.” A hot, suffocating pressure built in my chest. She kept going, complaining about how I made more money than Troy, as if my hard work was a personal insult to his manhood. She accused me of “hiding” extra cash that should have gone toward an even better car for him. That was the moment the fog cleared. The “family car” had always been a ghost of a dream. They had it all mapped out. I was the bank, working myself to the bone in the city. Troy was the heir, staying local. I was the unlicensed “hazard”; he was the designated driver. The car was never meant for us. it was his private throne, paid for with my life’s savings. I grabbed my bag, walked out the door, and told them I was done. No more money. No more daughter. My mother didn’t even kick me out of the family group chat. Instead, she used it to parade Troy’s “wisdom.” Monday: “Troy refused to give Aunt June a ride to the store. So smart of him to avoid the liability!” Tuesday: “Troy turned down a date because she looked like the type to sue for a stubbed toe. He’s so discerning!” Wednesday: “Troy took us into town on his old, rattling motorcycle to buy socks because he didn’t want us getting car-sick in the new upholstery. Such a devoted son.” I realized then that Troy’s “paranoia” was a universal weapon. He didn’t even give them rides. But they were so blinded by their pride in him that they mistook his selfishness for “protection.” 2 I tried to tell myself it was just ten thousand dollars. A high price for a lesson, but worth it to finally see the rot in the foundation of my family. I moved on. I got married. A year into my new life, I was eight months pregnant. My husband was away on a business trip. When the door pounded, I thought he’d come home early. I opened it without checking. My parents and Troy shoved their way in, pinning me against the hallway wall with the force of the door. I reflexively clutched my stomach, but the edge of the door caught me hard. A white-hot spike of pain shot through my abdomen, radiating down to my thighs. My parents didn’t notice. They were too busy touring my apartment, scoffing at my furniture, calling me heartless for “living in luxury” while they “suffered” back home. “Get out,” I hissed, my teeth gritted against the mounting pain. My father scoffed. “We came all this way to see you, and you’re giving us attitude? Give us the money. Troy’s car is too small; we had to take a Greyhound like peasants. You’re buying us an SUV.” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I felt a sudden, terrifying gush of warmth between my legs. My father grabbed my ponytail, jerking my head back to force me to look at him. “Are you listening to me, you ungrateful—” He stopped. They all looked down. A puddle of clear fluid was spreading across the hardwood floor. They recoiled as if I’d just sprung a leak of toxic waste. “Don’t look at us!” my mother shrieked, backing toward the door. “We just got here! You’re trying to pin this on us, aren’t you? Trying to sue your own parents!” I collapsed into a chair, fumbling for my phone to call 911. The dispatcher told me the ambulances were tied up with a multi-car pileup on the interstate. They told me if I could get halfway there in a private vehicle, a paramedic could meet us to save time. “Troy! Get the car!” I screamed. “The baby is coming! I’m going into labor!” My parents started stuttering excuses. I looked them dead in the eye. “My husband is an MMA coach. If anything happens to me or this baby, he will find you. And he will end you.” That got them moving. They grabbed my arms and hauled me toward the elevator. But Troy was standing by the car in the parking garage, his face a mask of cold resolve. He blocked the door. “No way. Look at her. She’s covered in fluid. She’ll ruin the seats. And what if the kid dies in the backseat? My car will be flagged as a death site. I’ll never be able to resell it.” “Clara,” he said, leaning in with a sickening smirk. “Are you just jealous that I have a car and you don’t? Are you trying to stage a miscarriage in my backseat just to ruin me?” My parents dropped my arms like I was made of fire. “I knew it!” my father yelled. “You’re trying to set us up! You want us to pay for a new kid, don’t you?” I felt the weight in my pelvis shifting. The pressure was unbearable. I couldn’t fight them anymore. I crawled toward a neighbor’s door, pounding on the wood. “Please! Help! I’m in labor! I need a hospital!” A young woman opened the door, her face pale with shock. “Oh my god, yes! I have a car, let’s go!” She started to help me up, but Troy stepped forward, his voice dripping with “concern.” “Hey, lady? I wouldn’t do that if I were you. She’s my sister, and she’s already threatened to have her husband—a pro fighter—kill anyone who helps her if things go wrong. She’s looking for a payout. If she loses that baby in your car, your whole life is over.” I felt the neighbor’s grip loosen. I looked at her, pleading, but Troy kept talking, spinning a web of lies to the gathering crowd in the hallway. “She told us inside that she was going to ‘fix’ her financial problems by suing a neighbor. Don’t be her victim.” The neighbor jumped back as if I were a leper. The hallway, once full of people, became a gauntlet of suspicious stares. I tried to reach for someone, but they all retreated. I dragged myself toward Troy’s car one last time, reaching for the handle. My father shoved me back into the concrete pillar. “Fate is fate, Clara,” my mother said, echoing the words from a year ago. “If you’re meant to lose it, you’ll lose it. If you die, it’s God’s will. But Troy shouldn’t have to lose his car because you’re being selfish. Think about him.” I lay on the cold garage floor, the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears. Troy leaned down, whispering so only I could hear: “Maybe you shouldn’t have married a guy people are afraid of. It makes you a liability nobody wants to touch.” 3 By the time the paramedics reached me, the amniotic sac was empty. My daughter was born silent. The process of delivering a six-month-old stillborn isn’t physically different from a live birth. I thought I knew what pain was, but as I lay on that sterile table, the physical agony was a mercy compared to the hollow, screaming void in my chest. Wyatt made it back that night. We held each other and wept until our lungs burned. The very next morning, he took the money we’d saved for the nursery and bought a brand-new, top-of-the-line SUV. He drove it straight to my parents’ house. When they saw the car pull into the driveway, they practically drooled. They ran out, beaming, Troy already reaching for the door handle. “Now this is more like it!” my father cheered, clapping Wyatt on the shoulder. “If you’d just brought this over sooner, Clara wouldn’t have had her little accident. If she’d just been nicer to us, we could have taken her to the hospital in style!” Wyatt’s jaw tightened. He placed a heavy hand on Troy’s neck. In one swift, sickening motion, there was a crack. Troy’s head slumped to the side at a grotesque angle. “AHHHHH!” Before my parents could even process the scream, Wyatt’s fist connected with my father’s face, then my mother’s. Wyatt was a wall of pure muscle. One hit sent them sprawling, teeth clattering onto the pavement. He didn’t stop. He turned his rage on Troy’s car, using a crowbar to cave in the roof and smash the windows until it was nothing but a pile of jagged metal. “You like cars?” Wyatt roared, his voice like a wounded beast. “You like liability? I’ll give you something to be liable for! I’ll break every bone in your body, and then I’ll melt this piece of trash into scrap!” It took twenty neighbors to pull him off. The police arrived, and after hearing the story—after seeing the medical reports of my dead child—the lead officer looked at me with a profound, weary pity. Wyatt was detained. As the “victim’s family,” I was the one who had to sign the papers. I gave him my full forgiveness and refused to press charges. By the time my parents and Troy were discharged from the hospital, Wyatt and I were gone. We sold everything. We blocked their numbers. We vanished into the vastness of the country. We bought a high-end camper van. We spent our holidays driving to the most beautiful places in America. We had our daughter cremated, and at every mountain peak and every coastal sunrise, we scattered a bit of her ashes. We were taking her on the trip she never got to have. But my parents… they couldn’t let go. They spent their days playing the victims to any relative who would listen. On Thanksgiving, my uncle’s name flashed on my screen. I assumed it was another lecture on “family values,” so I ignored it. Then, he sent a video. In the video, my mother was huddled on the floor of their kitchen, clutching her chest, sobbing. “Troy… please… take me to the hospital. It hurts so bad.” Troy was standing over her, cleaning his ear with a long fingernail. “Look, Mom, it’s not that I don’t want to. But what if it’s serious? If you have a heart attack in my passenger seat, the insurance premium will skyrocket. It’ll be a ‘biohazard’ event.” It was a script I knew by heart. “What are you saying?” she wheezed. “I’m your mother! I’m not going to sue you!” Troy nodded vaguely. “That’s what they all say until the medical bills hit. If you die in here, I’m the one who has to pay for the cleaning. Why don’t you ask Uncle Joe? Or your nephew? He just got that new SUV. I’m sure he’d love to help.” The camera panned to a room full of relatives. Every single one of them looked away. They had watched Troy treat that car like a god for a year. They’d seen him refuse to help anyone. Now that it was a life-or-death emergency, nobody wanted to be the one “stuck” with the responsibility. The village was a dead end. No Uber, no taxis, and it was three in the morning. My uncle called again. This time, I picked up. “Clara! I know you have that new rig! We saw it! You have to come get your mother! She’s dying!”

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I was standing with my wife on her family’s sprawling estate, watching the contractors pour the final layer of concrete for the new ancestral mausoleum, when my stomach dropped. Sammy was gone. I was spinning in circles, my heart hammering against my ribs, scanning the manicured lawns. That was when Ken—my wife’s childhood friend, a twenty-eight-year-old man who claimed to have a “highly sensitive, child-like soul”—strolled over. He was popping a bubblegum bubble, a sly, sickening smirk playing on his lips. He casually mentioned that he’d told my five-year-old son to play hide-and-seek inside the crypt’s foundation. Just until the concrete sets, he laughed. Then he can hide forever. I scrambled to the edge of the pit, dropping to my knees. Staring into a narrow gap in the thick, wet cement, my breath caught in my throat. A tiny, pale finger was sticking out of the gray sludge. My vision went entirely red. I screamed at my wife to call 911, my voice tearing my vocal cords. I told her Ken was a dead man, that he was going to pay for this with his life. But Jill only hesitated for two seconds. Two seconds, before she stepped squarely in front of Ken, shielding him with her body. She told me Ken was young. That his anxiety couldn’t handle prison, that it would ruin his life. She looked at the wet concrete and whispered that if Sammy was already gone, it was an honor for him to be entombed with her ancestors. She told me to stop making a scene. A violent tremor wrecked my body. Before I could process the sheer depravity of her words, I raised my hand and slapped her hard across the face. Right at that second, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I answered it with trembling, cement-stained fingers. Through the speaker, my son’s sweet, unmistakable voice chirped. He told me Uncle David had taken him to the spring carnival in town, that they were eating funnel cake, and not to worry. I froze. The phone nearly slipped from my grip. If my son was at the carnival, safe and sound… then whose child was sealed inside the concrete? 1 The mausoleum foundation was sealed tight, an impenetrable tomb of wet, heavy gray. And beneath it, a child had just been suffocated to death. I stood before the crypt, violently shaking. A few feet away, the murderer, Ken, was cowering behind my wife, loudly chewing his peppermint gum as if he were waiting in line at a grocery store. Jill’s eyes were rimmed with red. She glanced at the cement, then quickly looked away, unable to hold the stare. “Paul, look, I’m devastated about Sammy too,” she said, her voice dropping into that soothing, corporate tone she used in boardrooms. “I promise, we will give him the most beautiful, lavish funeral. But Ken… you know how fragile his mind is. He has the emotional age of a toddler. You hit me, you yelled at him. Can we please just let this go?” The sheer, unadulterated audacity of her words made my ears ring with a deafening pitch. A twenty-eight-year-old man. A married man. And she was treating him like a fragile infant. Summoning every ounce of rage pooling in my gut, I stepped forward and struck her across the face a second time. “Listen to me, Jill,” I snarled, my voice unrecognizable. “My son is a child. The kid Ken just suffocated in that concrete is a child! Not him!” Seeing me step toward them, Ken hiked up the legs of his designer chinos and jogged forward, throwing his arms out wide to protect her. “Don’t you hit Jill!” he whined. But when he met my eyes—feral, bloodshot, and murderous—his shoulders instantly caved. He shrank back, his lip trembling. “If the mean man won’t forgive Ken… then…” He dramatically slapped his hands over his mouth. “Then Ken will just stop breathing too! He’ll suffocate himself!” He shook his head, making muffled, fake sobbing noises through his fingers. “Stop it, please!” Jill panicked. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his head to her chest. “Your heart condition, Ken. You can’t get worked up! What if you go into tachycardia?” I watched them, utterly paralyzed by the grotesque absurdity of the scene. There was a dead child in the ground. And my wife was worried about this giant, overgrown man-child having a panic attack. My hands balled into fists. I took a slow, deliberate step toward them. “Ken is an adult. He knew exactly what he was doing when he lured a child who didn’t understand the danger into a construction pit. That is murder.” My voice was a low, fatal scrape. “He’s going to prison for the rest of his life. There is no escaping this.” All the color drained from Ken’s face. He clutched fistfuls of Jill’s cashmere sweater. “Jill, protect me! I don’t want to go to jail!” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “If I die, I can’t play my video games! I won’t get to eat barbecue anymore!” “Shh, shh, I know, sweetie,” Jill cooed, stroking his hair, her eyes blazing at me with defensive fury. The intimacy between them, the sickening codependency, made bile rise in my throat. I lunged forward, grabbing Ken by the collar of his polo shirt, dragging him toward the crypt. “Tell me!” I roared. “Who is the kid you tricked into the concrete? Who is it?!” “Paul, you’re terrifying him!” Jill shrieked. She slammed her hands into my chest, shoving me with all her strength. My boots slipped on the wet mud. I fell backward, the back of my head cracking hard against a marble headstone. A dull, sickening throb radiated through my skull. Ken peeked out from behind Jill’s shoulder, blinking his large, innocent eyes. “It’s Paul’s little boy in there. I’m a good boy, I always tell the truth. I don’t lie.” Truth? My son was miles away, winning stuffed animals at a ring toss. Whose child had Ken just murdered? I touched my forehead. My fingers came away wet with blood. Seeing the crimson stain, a flicker of guilt finally crossed Jill’s eyes. “Paul, honey,” she softened her voice, taking a tentative step toward me. “I know the shock of losing Sammy is destroying you. I know. But it’s done. Can’t we just keep this quiet? Make this a private family matter?” She offered a small, pleading smile. “You’ve always wanted to go to the Maldives. Once the holiday weekend is over, I’ll book us the best overwater villa. The ocean air will help. Give it a few days, and the grief will pass.” I stared at her. My jaw went slack. A private matter? A human being had just been buried alive. The dam inside me finally broke. Even if the boy in the cement wasn’t my flesh and blood, I was going to tear the world apart to get him justice. I took a deep, ragged breath, standing up tall. I looked down at the woman I had married. “I am done playing this sick, twisted game with you, Jill. We are at the end of the line, and only two things are going to happen.” I wiped the blood from my brow. “One, I am finding out exactly who is in that grave. Two, I am filing for divorce.” 2 “Divorce?!” Jill let out a sharp, mocking laugh, looking at me like I was a beggar who had just demanded the keys to her mansion. “Paul, if you want a payout, just say so. Don’t use the D-word to extort me.” Ken’s eyes suddenly lit up with profound realization. “Oh! I get it now!” He pointed at me. “The mean man isn’t sad about the little boy. He just wants a lot of money!” Jill scoffed, the disdain in her eyes thickening. “God, and here I thought you actually loved Sammy. You’re just trying to cash in on his death. Unbelievable.” She reached into her designer bag, pulled out a checkbook, scribbled something down, and threw the check into the mud at my feet. “Two million dollars. That should cover the loss of a child, right?” Her lips curled into a cruel sneer. “I recall when your dad died, you spent seven years in court just to get a three-hundred-thousand-dollar settlement.” It felt like she had just driven a knife straight into my ribs. How dare she bring up my father. My dad had died pushing Jill out of the way of a drunk driver. The driver had deep pockets and refused to plead guilty. Back then, Jill had held my hand through every agonizing court hearing. She helped me find lawyers, track down witnesses. On the day the driver was finally sentenced, she had looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, Paul, I know you believe in justice above all else. As long as I’m here, no one will ever wrong you again. Now, to protect the pathetic man she was having an emotional—and likely physical—affair with, all her morals had evaporated. She honestly believed two million dollars could buy away the rotting corpse of a child. “Take your blood money and rot!” I screamed, picking up the check and throwing it back in her face. “You want to know what I want? I want a murderer behind bars. I want justice for the kid who died in the dark!” The blood was roaring in my ears. I lunged forward, grabbing Ken by his belt, dragging him violently toward the churning cement mixer. “You think burying people in concrete is a fun little game?” I shouted, my muscles burning. “Let’s see how much you like playing it!” Ken shrieked, his face turning an ashen gray. He scrambled backward, his expensive loafers slipping in the mud, crying hysterically. “Paul, have you lost your mind?! You could kill him!” Jill tackled me from the side, her manicured hand striking my cheek. A stinging heat blossomed across my skin, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. So that was it. Ken’s life mattered. The child he murdered didn’t. By now, Jill’s extended family had gathered. Her aunts, uncles, and cousins stood in a tight circle, whispering and pointing. “Jeez, Jill,” her aunt muttered, arms crossed. “Your husband is completely unhinged. Always screaming about murder. Do you think he’s inherently violent?” Jill’s younger cousin, a sharp-tongued trust-fund kid, shook her head. “I told you, Jill. You give a man who married into the family an inch, he takes a mile. You’ve coddled him for too long. He doesn’t respect who actually runs this estate.” Jill’s face flushed with embarrassment. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my flesh, and dropped her voice to a vicious hiss. “Look, I’m sorry I hit you. Let it go. But you are making a scene in front of my entire family. Do not humiliate me like this.” A deep, bone-chilling cold settled over me. Ever since I married into this wealthy, established family, I had been the outsider. The charity case. Jill had never once defended me against their snide remarks. Her “image” was her religion. But I didn’t care about their petty suburban drama right now. There was a dead kid in the ground. I ripped my arm out of her grip and turned to the crowd of relatives. “The boy in the concrete is not my son!” I yelled, my voice echoing over the manicured lawns. “Check your kids! Which one of you is missing a child?!” Jill’s younger brother stepped up, his face twisted in offense. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? If it’s not your kid, who is it?” He pulled his own son closer by the shoulder. “Every kid in the bloodline is standing right here. Your son is the one who’s dead. Are you trying to curse our children just because yours is gone?” The other relatives immediately murmured in agreement. “Exactly! It’s your kid who was dumb enough to crawl into a foundation!” I ignored their venom. I scanned the faces of the children huddled around their parents. I counted them. One by one. Then, the blood froze in my veins. Wait. Someone was missing. 3 A terrifying chill crept up the base of my neck. If the kid buried in the foundation was who I thought it was… then Ken, Jill, and the entire family empire were about to burn to the ground. I grabbed Jill’s shoulders, shaking her. “We have to break the concrete! Now! You have no idea who is in there!” Jill rubbed her temples, letting out an exhausted sigh. “Paul, your son is dead. Why are you dragging out his trauma? Just let him rest in peace.” I shoved her back, a mixture of profound disappointment and white-hot anger burning in my chest. “Jill, if you truly believed that was your flesh and blood in there, wouldn’t you want to see his face one last time?” “I…” Jill stammered, caught off guard. Her brother sensed her hesitation. He marched forward and grabbed her arm. “Jill, don’t listen to him. The guy is manic. The astrologer gave us the exact hour to seal the crypt for good fortune. You break that concrete now, you curse the entire family’s finances!” Jill stood between us, paralyzed by indecision. I stared at her, holding onto a final, microscopic shred of hope. If she broke the concrete now, if she took accountability and called the police, maybe she wouldn’t lose her soul entirely. But then, Ken tugged on the sleeve of her blouse, his lip quivering. “Jillie… dead things are scary… Ken-Ken doesn’t want to see a dead body.” Those pathetic, crocodile tears were all it took. Jill patted his hand, her face hardening. She looked at me with cold resolution. “I am not going to turn my family’s estate into a crime scene just because you’re having a mental break. And frankly, aren’t you to blame? Where were you when your son wandered off?” She stepped back, her eyes softening as she looked at Ken. “Besides. Ken is sensitive. Digging up a corpse would traumatize him.” She stood in front of him like a human shield, looking at me as if I were the monster in the story. I swallowed the rising nausea. “Fine. I’m calling my brother right now. I’ll let a police officer tell you whether my son is dead or alive.” The second I dialed David’s number, Jill lunged. She slammed into me, knocking the phone from my hand. She scrambled in the mud, grabbed the device, and pressed it to her ear. “David? Hi. No, things are chaotic here at the estate, don’t drive out. I’m bringing Paul back to the city tomorrow, I promise!” Through the receiver, I could faintly hear David’s voice. “Wait, but I have your—” Before he could say the word son, Jill hung up. She glared at me, her chest heaving. “Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Your brother is a cop. You want to dig up that foundation just to find “evidence” to lock Ken away.” She stepped closer, her voice a deadly whisper. “Let me make this perfectly clear. As long as I am breathing, Ken is not going to prison.” I felt entirely untethered from reality. Ken had committed an atrocity, and she honestly believed her money and influence could just erase it. I was done talking. I walked over to the contractor’s equipment truck, grabbed a heavy-duty jackhammer, and marched toward the crypt. Today, by god, I was bringing that child back into the light. “What are you doing?!” Jill screamed. She threw herself at me, wrestling the heavy machinery out of my grip. Because I was exhausted and bleeding, she managed to push me down. She pinned me to the cold earth. She turned to her cousins. “Get the rope from the shed! Tie him up!” “Jill, I don’t want to do this,” she panted as they bound my wrists with rough hemp rope, “but you are completely out of control. Put him in the old greenhouse. You can stay in there until you calm down and we can talk like adults.” Her family hauled me up by my armpits and dragged me across the lawn toward the abandoned glass greenhouse at the edge of the property. My knees scraped against the gravel, leaving a trail of blood. Night fell. The temperature dropped. I was left in the dark, without food or water, the cuts on my face throbbing with a dull, infected heat. In the corner, I saw my phone, which must have slipped from my pocket when they threw me onto the dirt floor. I dragged myself across the room, using my nose to wake the screen. I just needed to hit David’s contact. But my trembling nose tapped the Instagram icon instead. Ken’s story popped up at the top of the feed. Such a scary day for my anxiety. But Jill took me to the farmers market to buy strawberries to make me feel better! Love you! The photo showed Ken holding a rustic woven basket, smiling brightly into the camera. Jill was standing next to him, looking at him with absolute, radiant adoration. My vision blurred. A heavy darkness pressed down on my brain, and I collapsed against the dirt. A child was dead in the cold, wet dark. And his murderer was out picking strawberries. I closed my eyes, a bitter prayer echoing in my mind. I just hoped that when they finally discovered who they had buried, they wouldn’t regret the choices they made today.

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I had just finished my thirty-two-week checkup. The air in the city felt heavy, the kind of humidity that makes your ankles swell and your breath hitch. I decided to stop by a boutique baby store on the way home, just to kill time and look at cribs. I’d barely stepped through the door when I heard a voice that made my blood run cold. It was Gavin. “Let’s take two sets of these bottles,” he was saying, his voice carrying that gentle, authoritative tone he usually reserved for board meetings. “Isabelle has sensitive skin. We need the mildest soaps they have.” I froze. The air in the shop suddenly felt like it was filled with shards of glass. I followed the sound. There she was. Isabelle. She was standing right next to him, her belly a prominent curve beneath a flowing linen maternity dress. Her hand rested on Gavin’s shoulder—a casual, practiced gesture that spoke of years of intimacy. Gavin was half-kneeling on the floor, one hand steadying her calf while the other expertly tied her loose shoelace. He did it with a practiced rhythm, as if he’d performed this small act of service a thousand times before. A sales associate stood nearby, beaming. “Your husband is so attentive,” she chirped. Gavin didn’t correct her. He just offered a faint, acknowledging nod. Isabelle didn’t correct her either. Instead, she looked down at him and smiled, her voice a soft, performative whisper. “Gavin, don’t buy too much. If Dora sees this, she’ll be upset again.” … 1 I stood behind a row of high-end strollers, my knuckles white against the display handle. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. So, they knew. They knew I’d be “upset.” It wasn’t that they lacked a sense of boundaries; it was that they simply didn’t care. I pushed the stroller in front of me aside and walked straight toward them. The wheels squeaked against the polished floor. Gavin looked up, and his face went through a violent transformation—from tenderness to sheer, unadulterated panic. “Dora?” The boutique was quiet, which only made his frantic tone more audible. I looked at him, my voice flat and cold. “Don’t stop on my account. Didn’t you say she needed two sets of bottles?” Isabelle instinctively took a half-step back, her hands shielding her stomach in a “startled” pose. “Dora, please don’t misunderstand. I just—” “You just what? You just happened to be pregnant and happened to need my husband to pick out your breast pumps, tie your shoes, and spend the afternoon at a baby boutique with you?” Gavin frowned, standing up and walking toward me. “Don’t be like this, Dora. You’re making a scene. Isabelle is in a difficult position. Her husband is out of the picture. Is it so wrong for me to help a friend?” “Help a friend?” I glanced at their shopping cart. A hospital bag, organic wipes, a steam sterilizer, a premium crib mattress, a maternity pillow, even a two-hundred-dollar formula kettle. This wasn’t “helping.” This was a lifestyle. I had come here today to buy a crib because I’d reminded him three times last week to come with me. Each time, his response had been a dismissive “later.” I stared him down. “Gavin, do you even remember when my last ultrasound was?” His mouth opened, then clicked shut. His expression stiffened. “You don’t,” I answered for him. “Because that day, you were with her, listening to her baby’s heartbeat.” The sales associate had slunk away. Even the other customers were staring. Gavin’s face darkened. “Do you really have to do this here? In public?” “Do what?” I laughed. “Ask why my husband is using our joint credit card to buy a cart full of baby gear for another woman? Is that the ‘scene’ you’re worried about?” Isabelle’s eyes instantly welled up. “Dora, please don’t blame Gavin. I’ll pay him back. I promise.” “You’ll pay?” My gaze dropped to her stomach. I nodded slowly. “Then tell me who the father is. I’ll send him the invoice.” Gavin’s voice dropped an octave, dangerous and sharp. “Dora! That’s enough.” The way he barked my name made it sound like I was the one who had committed a sin. The last shred of dignity I was holding onto for our marriage finally went cold. “What? Did I ask the wrong question?” Gavin, suppressed rage simmering under his skin, reached out to grab my arm. “We’re going home. Now.” I stepped back, dodging his touch. “Don’t touch me.” His face turned a bruised shade of purple. He looked exhausted by me. “Are you really this sensitive just because you’re pregnant? Isabelle and I grew up together. She has no one to take care of her right now. I’m helping her out. Stop making this a federal case.” I looked at him and realized I didn’t recognize the man standing in front of me. “So, I’m the one being dramatic? Is that it?” He didn’t say a word, but his eyes said, Always. Isabelle stood to the side, lightly tugging at his sleeve. Her voice was thin and tremulous. “Gavin, don’t fight with Dora. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have leaned on you.” The more she played the martyr, the more I looked like the villain. Gavin stepped instinctively into his protector role. “Ignore her. She’s been like this lately. Emotional. Irrational.” Emotional. When I was pregnant with his child and woke up screaming from leg cramps in the middle of the night, he’d roll over and complain that I was disturbing his sleep. When I spent two hours fasting in a waiting room for a glucose test and called him, he said he was in a meeting. When my doctor told him I was anemic and needed more support at home, he stayed glued to his phone, replying to emails without looking up. And yet, I was the one who was “emotional.” I looked at the shopping cart. I reached out, grabbed the expensive hospital bag from the top, and threw it back onto the shelf. “Gavin, if you want to be a saint, use your own money. Don’t play the big-hearted provider with mine.” His brow furrowed. “What do you mean ‘your money’? We’re married.” “I’m glad you finally remembered that.” I turned and walked away. I couldn’t move fast. My belly was heavy, and every step felt like a strain on my hips. But I didn’t look back. As I reached the door, I heard Gavin’s voice, thick with uncontrolled anger. “Dora! Stop being so goddamn unreasonable!” I paused at the threshold, my back still to him. “When you were picking out her bottles, Gavin… did you feel reasonable then?” That night, Gavin didn’t get home until eleven-thirty. When he walked in, I was sitting at the dining table. In front of me was a neatly organized pile of credit card statements and bank records. It looked like a trial. Or an autopsy. The moment Gavin saw the papers, his face fell. “Are you spying on me now?” “Three thousand eight hundred for prenatal supplements. Eight thousand six hundred for a ‘maternity concierge’ deposit. Forty-two thousand for an imported crib and a car seat set.” I looked up at him. “Gavin, are you helping her, or are you supporting her?” He slammed his keys onto the table. The anger he’d been nursing all day finally boiled over. “Are we seriously doing this? I told you, Isabelle is alone. I’m helping her get through this window of time. She’ll pay it back eventually.” “When is ‘eventually’?” “When she’s back on her feet.” “And how exactly is she going to do that? Why is it our responsibility—my responsibility—to fund her recovery?” Gavin tugged at his collar, agitated. “Dora, can you stop being so petty? Isabelle’s life is a mess. Her husband cheated, their divorce is a legal nightmare, her family won’t speak to her. She’s pregnant and has nobody. As a woman, can’t you show a little empathy?” He spoke with such righteous indignation, as if I were a heartless spectator rather than his wife. I watched him for a few seconds. “What about me?” He blinked. “I’m a woman. I’m pregnant. I go to my appointments alone. I pick up my lab results alone. I lie awake at night alone. When you were busy feeling ’empathy’ for her, did you ever spare a thought for me?” Gavin’s shoulders slumped slightly, his tone softening just a fraction. “You have me, Dora.” I looked down at the pile of receipts and let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Do I?” He choked on his next word. After a moment of silence, the impatience returned. “Don’t get stuck in your own head. Isabelle isn’t you.” “How so?” “You have me. You have this house. You have a stable life. She has nothing.” “So you’ve decided to take my husband, my home, and my life, and give them to her piece by piece to fill the holes in hers?” Gavin’s face went cold. “That’s a disgusting way to put it.” “It’s only disgusting because it’s true.” I pushed a signed credit card slip toward him. It was the one from the boutique that afternoon. His signature was clear and sharp—the same one he used to sign multi-million dollar contracts. “This card is a secondary line on my personal account. I set the limits. Did it ever cross your mind, even for a second, that I’m a pregnant woman too?” His eyes flickered with a brief flash of guilt, but he doubled down. “You’re really going to nickel-and-dime me over this?” I looked at him and felt something inside me finally go dark. “Is that what you think this is? Money?” “Isn’t it?” He rubbed his temples. “Dora, you used to be different. Now you’re paranoid, obsessed with every little detail. Honestly, I think you’re just bored. If you weren’t pregnant, you wouldn’t have all this time to sit around and invent problems.” My hand tightened around my water glass. Bored. I had folded my own boutique branding agency—a business I’d built for six years—into his company to help him scale. I was still working as their lead consultant, revising packaging designs between bouts of morning sickness. And he had the nerve to say I was bored. I was about to speak when his phone buzzed. The caller ID read: Isabelle. Gavin stared at the screen, hesitated for a heartbeat, and then answered. “Hello?” I couldn’t hear the other side, but his expression shifted instantly to one of frantic concern. “Stomach pains? Don’t move. Stay right there. I’m coming.” I watched him grab his jacket, not even bothering to change his shoes, and I actually laughed out loud. Gavin paused, finally remembering I was in the room. “Isabelle isn’t feeling well. I need to check on her. I’ll be back soon.” “Go ahead.” My calmness surprised even me. He seemed caught off guard by how easily I let him go. “Dora, don’t overthink this.” I nodded. “I won’t. Go take care of her.” He didn’t say another word before rushing out the door. When the door clicked shut, the silence in the house was absolute. I sat at the table, looking at the receipts, and realized I didn’t want to cry. Once you stop crying, things get a lot clearer. The next morning, I backed up every bank statement, every transaction record, every corporate email, and every piece of equity documentation onto an encrypted hard drive. Then, I sent a message to someone I hadn’t spoken to in a long time. Theodore, do you have a moment? I need to consult with a divorce attorney. The reply came back almost instantly. Three p.m. today. My office. Theodore—Theo—had been a couple of years ahead of me in college. He’d gone to a top-tier firm before becoming a partner at his own practice. We had become close three years ago when I licensed a series of maternity brand trademarks I’d registered to Gavin’s company. Theo had drafted the agreement. Back then, Gavin had held my hand and told me, “Dora, when this company takes off, half of it will always be yours.” I guess “always” has an expiration date. At three o’clock, I sat in Theo’s glass-walled office and pushed the hard drive across the desk. He didn’t start with platitudes. He didn’t ask how I was feeling. He just asked one question. “Are you sure?” I nodded. “I’m sure.” “Do you want out, or do you want to audit him?” “Both.” Theo looked at me, his gaze lingering on my stomach for a second before his expression softened. “At this stage, you can’t afford the emotional or physical toll of a messy war. Tell me the one thing you can’t live with.” I looked down at my belly. My voice was eerily steady. “It’s not that he’s helping her. It’s that he’s crossed every line, and then called me ‘sensitive’ for noticing.” “And?” “He’s using marital assets to build a life for another woman and her child.” “And?” I looked him in the eye. “I’m carrying his child, and I’ve started to feel like a stranger in my own home.” Theo was silent for a few heartbeats. He took the hard drive. “Then this isn’t an argument. It’s damage control.” His words felt like a scalpel, cleanly cutting through the mess of my emotions. He opened his laptop and began scanning the files. “Which core company assets are in your name?” “The trademarks, the visual brand copyrights, the design patents for the two main lines, and the contact list for the core distributors. I handled the early-stage networking.” He looked up, surprised. “You never transferred those to him?” “No. They were licensed. Auto-renewed annually.” “You’re sharper than I gave you credit for.” I offered a grim smile. “I just didn’t think I’d ever actually need to use that leverage.” Theo’s voice was calm and authoritative. “Spending marital funds on a third party, if it’s a significant amount and serves no joint family purpose, can be reclaimed. As for the emotional infidelity, that’s harder to prove in a ‘no-fault’ context, but the financial trail you’ve given me is enough to bury him. Also, since you’re pregnant, he can’t legally initiate a divorce in most jurisdictions, but you can.” I felt a sudden weight lift from my chest. I wasn’t trapped. “How fast can we do this?” “Protect the assets first. Terminate the licenses. Collect more evidence. Then we talk settlement.” He turned the laptop toward me. “Don’t blow your cover yet. His biggest mistake right now is thinking you can’t leave.” I stared at those words. He was right. Gavin’s confidence was built on the fact that I was pregnant. He thought I was anchored. That’s why he felt safe using my card for her bottles. That’s why he felt he had the right to call me hysterical. On the way home, my mother-in-law called. The second I answered, she started in on me. “Dora, honestly, your temper is getting out of hand. Gavin was just being a good person to Isabelle. Did you really have to embarrass him in public like that?” I stood on the sidewalk, the wind biting at my face. “You heard about that quickly.” “Isabelle called me crying her eyes out. She’s worried she’s ruining your marriage. She can’t even eat. You’re about to be a mother, Dora. When are you going to grow up?” I looked up at a billboard across the street. “He’s buying her baby gear with my money, Martha.” She paused, then her tone hardened. “So what? It’s not like you can’t afford it. Gavin and Isabelle grew up together. Their families were close. She’s in a tragic situation. Isn’t it Gavin’s duty to help?” “Duty?” “Yes! A man with a sense of honor helps those in need. What’s wrong with that?” I waited a beat. “Is it also his duty to go to her ultrasounds?” Silence on the other end. After a few seconds, Martha spoke, her voice dry. “I’m sure they were just in the neighborhood.” In that moment, it all clicked. It wasn’t just Gavin who thought I was the problem. His whole family thought my “job” was to be the silent, understanding wife while they played house with someone else. I didn’t argue. I just said, “Martha, if you’re so worried about Isabelle, go take care of her yourself. Stop using my husband’s identity to perform your charity work.” I hung up. That night, Gavin actually came home early. He even brought flowers. White roses. My favorite. He set them on the table with an air of weary benevolence. “Dora, I was harsh yesterday. I’m sorry. Can we just stop the fighting?” I was organizing a nursery checklist, not even looking up. “I’m not fighting.” “Then why the cold shoulder?” I finally looked at him. “Gavin, are you here to apologize, or are you here to critique my facial expressions?” He bristled, tugging at his tie as if trying to restrain his temper. “I told you, the Isabelle thing is temporary. Once she has the baby, things will settle down.” “What does her having a baby have to do with you?” “I told you, she has no one.” “There are millions of women who are alone and pregnant, Gavin. Why aren’t you helping them?” His face darkened. “Can you not be so cynical? I’ve known Isabelle for twenty years. If there was anything between us, don’t you think something would have happened before you came along?” I froze. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. “So what you’re saying is… she’s the ‘one who got away,’ the girl on the pedestal, and I’m just the unlucky woman you actually married?” Gavin’s patience snapped. “Dora, you’re becoming incredibly bitter.” “You made me this way.” “How? You have everything. You don’t have a worry in the world. I work my tail off at the office every day, and I have to come home to this attitude? You’re never satisfied.” I watched him. It’s true what they say: when you’re truly finished with someone, you stop wanting to scream. “Gavin, I’m going to ask you one last time.” I put down my pen. “Starting today, you stay away from Isabelle. Every cent you’ve spent on her gets accounted for and paid back to our joint account. Can you do that?” He stared at me, silent. The answer was written all over his face before he even spoke. “Isabelle needs someone right now,” he said. I nodded. “Understood.” He sensed a shift in the air and narrowed his eyes. “What are you going to do?” I didn’t answer. I just picked up the white roses and dropped them into the trash can. The petals scattered against the plastic liner. Gavin’s face went pale. “Have you lost your mind?” “No,” I said, looking him in the eye. “I’m just done playing my part in this script.” In the days that followed, I began looking at our home through a different lens. The more I looked, the more absurd it became. In our nursery, the crib was still in boxes. Gavin hadn’t offered to help assemble it once. But when I checked his search history on the tablet, it was filled with maternity pillows, postpartum supplies, and high-end breast pumps. I had a folder on my laptop for the luxury maternity retreat I wanted to book for my recovery. I hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. But in our shared email account, I found a confirmation for a premium suite at the same place—booked for Isabelle. Under Emergency Contact, he had listed himself. I stared at that confirmation for a long time, and then I started laughing. I wasn’t “overthinking.” He wasn’t just helping her. He was building her a safety net with my materials. ——– Phoebe came over to see me that afternoon. She was my oldest friend, the only one I’d told the truth to. She saw the stacks of documents on the coffee table and whistled. “Planning a coup?” “Something like that.” I handed her the printed itemized list of expenses. She read it, her face turning a deeper shade of red with every line. “Is Gavin insane? You’re eight months pregnant, and he’s out here playing Daddy to his childhood sweetheart with your money?” “He thinks he’s being noble.” “Noble, my ass,” Phoebe snapped, slamming the paper down. “He wants to be the hero without paying the price, so he’s making your marriage and your bank account pay it for him.” She articulated the exact feeling I’d been struggling to name. “Exactly.” “So, what’s the plan?” “I take back what’s mine. Then I leave.” Phoebe’s eyes widened. She looked relieved. “I was afraid you were going to stay and ‘work on it’.” “I thought I was too,” I said softly, rubbing my belly. “But I realized I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking her mother accepted being second choice.” Phoebe’s eyes softened. “Gavin is a damn fool.” She helped me categorize the documents until late into the evening. As she was leaving, she remembered something. “Didn’t you say you registered the trademarks for the company’s best-sellers yourself?” “Yeah.” “Then what are you waiting for? Pull the plug on the license.” I smiled. “Theo said the same thing.” Phoebe’s eyebrows shot up. “Theo? As in Theodore, the law school heartthrob? You guys are back in touch?” “Professionally, Phoebe.” “Is he still as handsome as he was?” I rolled my eyes. “Can you focus?” “I am focusing! On your future.” She leaned in. “Listen to me, Dora. Not every man is Gavin. Some men make you feel small because they don’t have room for you in their hearts. Others can look at you and know exactly where you’re hurting.” I swatted her with a throw pillow. “Stop it.” She caught the pillow, her expression turning serious. “I’m not joking. Don’t let Gavin convince you that this is all you deserve.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. I already knew. Three days later, I went to the office. I hadn’t been in since the third trimester started, mostly working from home, so when I walked into the conference room, the air shifted. Gavin was mid-meeting with several department heads. When he saw me, his forehead creased. “Dora? What are you doing here?” I set a manila envelope on the table and took a seat. “Business.” “We can talk at home,” he said, clearly embarrassed. “Home isn’t the right venue for this.” The room went dead silent. Our VP of Sales, Jack, looked between us and wisely kept his mouth shut. I pulled a formal notice from the envelope and slid it across the table to Gavin. “Effective next month, the ‘Heirloom,’ ‘PureCotton,’ and ‘Lunar’ trademarks, along with all associated visual copyrights, will no longer be licensed to this company for free. If you wish to continue using them, we need a new contract with market-rate royalties.” Gavin’s face went white. “Dora, what the hell is this?” “It’s a business notice.” “You’re kidding. We have a new product line launching next month. If you pull the license now, the whole project collapses.” “Then I suggest you find a solution.” He stood up abruptly, his voice a low hiss. “You’re bringing our personal issues into the office? Do you know how unprofessional this is?” I looked him straight in the eye. “You used company funds for Isabelle’s personal expenses, Gavin. Tell me more about ‘professionalism’.” Jack nearly dropped his pen. The other managers looked like they wanted to phase through the floor. Gavin stared at me, shocked that I would strip his mask off in front of his team. I slid the second document over. “Also, I’ve audited the ‘Market Research’ and ‘Promotional Samples’ expenses from the marketing budget over the last six months. I have the receipts and the delivery addresses. You might want to start drafting an explanation for the board.” Jack’s face went pale. Gavin’s eyes finally showed a flicker of real fear. “You audited the books?” “I audited the accounts I co-signed.” In the early days, I handled the branding and marketing. Many of the payment authorizations were still synced to my accounts. I’d trusted him, so I’d never looked closely. Now that I was looking, I saw the rot. Gavin gritted his teeth. “You’re really going to burn it all down?” I looked at him and felt a strange sense of pity. “I didn’t light the fire, Gavin.” I stood up, bracing myself against the table. “When you were spending my money on another woman and her child, you should have known this day was coming.” As I walked out of the conference room, chaos erupted behind me. Gavin chased me into the hallway, grabbing my wrist. “What do you want, Dora? Just tell me what you want.” I shook him off. “I want you to understand that I’m not some helpless pregnant woman you can keep in a box while you play house with someone else.” His breathing was heavy, trapped. “Do you realize what you’re doing? The project will stall. We’ll lose the distributors. The whole team will suffer.” “Then you should ask yourself if Isabelle was worth losing your company and your marriage over.” He didn’t have a retort. For the first time, he looked truly cornered. And in that silence, I saw it. It wasn’t that he hadn’t weighed the cost—it was that he’d already chosen her. He just didn’t think I’d have the guts to make him pay. On the way home, I felt a sharp tightening in my belly. I leaned back in the Uber and closed my eyes. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “You okay, ma’am? Do you need a hospital?” I forced a smile. “No, just tired. Pregnancy, you know?” “Where’s your family? You shouldn’t be running around alone this late in the game.” I looked out at the city lights blurring past. “I’m working on that.” That night, Gavin didn’t come home. The next afternoon, my phone rang. It was Isabelle. I stared at the screen for two beats before answering. “What?” Her voice was soft, fragile. “Dora… can we meet?” “I have nothing to say to you.” “Ten minutes,” she pleaded. “About Gavin. I think you deserve to hear the truth.” Half an hour later, I was sitting across from her in a quiet café. She looked delicate in her knit dress, her makeup perfectly natural. She looked like something that needed to be protected. I sat down and cut straight to the chase. “Speak.” Isabelle stirred her tea, her eyes downcast. “Dora, I know you hate me.” “I don’t hate you,” I corrected her. “I find you exhausting.” She winced. I didn’t care. “If you had any respect for boundaries, you wouldn’t have let a married man escort you to your doctor or pay for your maternity suite. Don’t play the innocent with me.” She was silent for a moment, then she looked up. Her eyes were hard. “But Gavin wanted to.” My heart gave a heavy thud. “Dora, have you ever wondered why? Why he’s willing to fight with you for me? Why he spends the money? Why he spends every spare second at my side?” I stared at her. “Because in his heart,” she whispered, “I was always the one.” I actually laughed. “So, is this the part where you tell me you’ve won?” Her hands were shaking, but her gaze was defiant. “I’m not trying to win. I just think you should stop forcing it. Gavin hasn’t been happy for years.” “He wasn’t happy, so he needed a childhood friend carrying someone else’s baby to heal him? That’s your logic?” Isabelle’s face shifted. The words spilled out before she could stop them. “Who said this was someone else’s baby?”

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After living with the broke, impossibly gorgeous campus crush in a cramped shoebox apartment for three months, I wanted out. He was suffocatingly clingy, and behind closed doors, his dominance was relentless. Desperate, I begged my best friend to help me execute an utterly unhinged exit strategy. She marched right up to him, a bank card in hand. “There’s five grand on this,” she told him flatly. “Leave her alone. She’s just a trust-fund kid playing poor for kicks. You are entirely out of her league.” He didn’t say a word. He just quietly took the card. The next morning, the universe played a massive, cruel joke on me. He was leaning casually against a pristine black Maybach, looking utterly in his element. With deadpan sincerity, he looked at me and asked, “So, you were faking it too? Does this mean I’m finally in your league?” I froze, my brain short-circuiting. He was faking being poor? But I was actually broke! … 1 I dodged his kiss. “Can we skip tonight?” Holden arched an eyebrow, his long, elegant fingers already hooking the hem of my slip dress. “Why? Bad timing?” He smiled, a wicked, knowing curve of his lips. He knew exactly where I was in my cycle. Back when my periods were agonizingly irregular, he’d spent weeks babying me, bringing home fancy, nutrient-dense organic broths every single day. I’d asked him back then, “Where are you getting the money for this?” He had paused mid-sip of his water, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he instinctively licked his lips. “One of the girls at the warehouse has the same issue. I just asked her to make an extra batch. She didn’t charge me.” I was curled up under a mountain of blankets at the time, my cramps blinding, my head thick with brain fog. Holden had scooped me up out of the covers, spoon-feeding me the warm broth. “Just eat a little, baby. It’ll make you feel better.” It was his favorite line. Even now. His cheek rested against my thigh. His lips were damp. “Just let me, baby. You’ll feel better.” His knuckles were sharp, his fingers leaving faint, possessive marks against my pale skin. I gasped. He let out a low laugh. “And you said you didn’t want to?” The truth was, my defenses had already crumbled into dust. The bed was a cheap, secondhand nightmare. It squeaked and groaned with every movement. The rhythmic, obnoxious noise finally broke Holden’s concentration. He swore under his breath—a rare occurrence. “I’m throwing out every piece of furniture in this place tomorrow.” My head was spinning, my arms locked tightly around his neck. “With what money?” I breathed. Holden lowered his eyes. “I hit my performance metrics this month. The bonus isn’t bad.” That sobered me up a fraction. “How much?” He blinked, caught off guard. Then he kissed me again, silencing me. “Don’t talk about money in bed. It’s tacky.” I cursed him in my head. I didn’t know what was wrong with him. He was broke, yet he acted like he was slumming it by choice. I really needed to break up with him. 2 I looked around the room. It was a decaying apartment on the edge of the city limits. The paint was peeling, and one corner of the ceiling had a suspicious water stain that looked vaguely like black mold. The internet likes to romanticize this. They call it the “starving lovers” aesthetic—two people with no money and too much chemistry, making it work in a shoebox. I hated it. I checked both boxes. I only went after Holden in the first place because he was breathtakingly beautiful. I still remember the first time we met. We were juniors in college. He was the new hire at the convenience store where I worked the graveyard shift. I already knew who he was. He was the guy—the one every girl on campus openly fantasized about. He walked in wearing a plain white tee, faded Levi’s, black-rimmed glasses, and a pair of scuffed-up sneakers. Even swallowed up by our ugly, neon-blue polyester uniform, he looked like a runway model on his day off. We didn’t talk much that first shift. He messed up the inventory count multiple times. The store manager, a permanently enraged man, dragged him outside. Through the glass storefront, I watched them. Holden was tall; the manager was short. Holden naturally had to look down at him, which probably only made things worse. A customer came to the register. As I scanned their items, my eyes flicked back to the window. Holden was getting ripped apart. He kept rubbing his face, sniffing occasionally. The manager was jabbing a finger at Holden’s uniform, then pointing aggressively at his face. It was humiliating to watch. When I first started, that same manager had chewed me out until I cried in the stockroom. Looking at Holden, my chest tightened with an unexpected pang of empathy. Once the manager finally stormed off, Holden walked back inside. His eyes were rimmed with red. He was swiping a hand roughly over his neck and face. I gave him a look of pure, unadulterated pity. He caught it. His voice was deadpan, completely devoid of emotion. “I’m fine. This polyester is just making me break out in hives.” “It’s okay to cry,” I said, sliding a packet of tissues across the counter. His face flushed crimson. A single, traitorous tear spilled over his lashes. Holden arched a brow and snatched the tissues. “Thanks.” He paused. “But I wasn’t crying.” Stubborn idiot. “Right, sure. You weren’t crying. Better?” “You don’t believe me? I was literally just—” His defense was cut off by the bell above the door. Another customer. 3 Eventually, we became friends. And I quickly realized he was even poorer than I thought. Once, when my favorite celebrity got exposed in a massive scandal, I called my best friend, Bex, sobbing. “I’m so mad I’m not even going to use my DoorDash multiplier code tonight!” Bex laughed. “Whoa, throwing away free money? You really are going through it.” But Holden, who was sitting next to me, just looked confused. “What’s a multiplier code?” “Huh?” I stared at him. Was he doing a bit? “It’s an app promo. It multiplies your discount if you order within a certain time.” “Oh.” For a second, I wondered if he was some rich kid doing a poverty immersion experiment. I harbored a deep, burning resentment for the wealthy. So I tested him. “Do you not order delivery?” He licked his lips. “No.” “Then what do you eat?” “The dining hall. I have a subsidized meal plan. It’s cheap.” Ah. He’s poor. My anti-capitalist heart relaxed. Another time, a guy came into the store and clearly liked what he saw. When he handed Holden his snacks, he traced a slow, deliberate circle over the back of Holden’s hand. “You’re cute,” the guy purred. Holden smiled politely, withdrew his hand, and muttered through gritted teeth, “Not a chance in hell.” He was so broke he couldn’t even afford to buy a clue. But Holden was a walking contradiction. He had the bank account of a peasant, but the sensibilities of a prince. I invited him to split a two-dollar discount pizza combo once. He declined, claiming the last time he ate cheap takeout, his stomach didn’t recover for days. When he worked his second job at the warehouse, he showed up wearing gloves and a mask. “Why?” I asked. “Germaphobe.” Yet the few pairs of shoes he owned were either filthy or yellowing with age. I made fun of them. He told me they were “vintage distressed.” Once, his college roommate dropped by the store while Holden was doubled over, laughing at a terrible joke I’d just made. The roommate shook his head with profound solemnity. “Man, I haven’t seen His Highness smile like that in a long time.” I laughed until my sides hurt. 4 But I really, truly had to break up with him. It wasn’t just the clinginess. It was the fact that we could barely make rent, yet he had zero concept of saving. When summer hit and he decided my rattling box fan was too loud, he bypassed my protests and had a brand-new AC unit installed. I tolerated the financial illiteracy because, well, look at his face. But his physical appetite was insatiable. It was like an addiction. That might have been part of his “prince” syndrome, too. He was used to getting exactly what he wanted. A few times, he absolutely refused to stop. I’d hit him, I’d scratch his beautiful, broad back until it was covered in red half-moons. It only seemed to turn him on more. Finally, I’d break down and cry in sheer frustration, and only then would he let me go. After that, I set a hard limit. Three times a day. Max. So, he just started making each time last twice as long. “Why did you stop?” I sobbed once, completely unspooled. Holden, who was usually so gentle and refined outside the bedroom, was an absolute menace inside it. “Beg me, baby. Tell me I’m yours…” He’d hold me hostage, forcing me to whisper humiliating, desperate things into his ear before he’d finally give me what I wanted. And whatever miracle ointment he bought for those scratches? It worked like magic. By the next morning, his skin would be flawless. No redness, no swelling. It only enabled his bad behavior. I had reached my breaking point. I vented to Bex over coffee. “I literally have to dump him. Please, you have to help me figure out a way out of this.” “We’re adults, Josie,” she said, stirring her latte. “Just tell him it’s over.” “I tried that!” “And?” “I tried to break up with him once, and he cried so hard I thought he was going to warp my hardwood floors!” There was another time we got into a fight. We were giving each other the silent treatment. In a fit of rage, I texted him that we were done. Back then, whenever we fought, my go-to move was a metaphorical slap to the face: I threatened to dump him. Holden had his pride. He texted back a cold, Fine. Less than an hour later, my phone lit up. Where are you? Out finding a rebound, I replied. Are you trying to kill me? I literally do it for free. …You’re acting unhinged. He went quiet. A minute passed. Honestly, I think we can still make this work. The circus is in town. Tell the clown to step down so you can take his place. If you just take me back, I’ll do anything you want. Then we’re going celibate. Absolutely not. … Anything besides that. You can hit me. You can tie me up. I’ll even buy you the whip. Stop rewarding yourself, weirdo. I had dozens of screenshots just like that. When I showed them to Bex, she nearly choked on her coffee laughing. “This is premium content for my TikTok,” she wheezed. Then, her eyes lit up. “Wait. I’ve got it. What if we pretend you’re actually rich? Like, stupid wealthy. Tell him you were just playing poor to see how the other half lives.” She leaned in. “Guys have massive egos. If you humiliate his pride and make him feel inferior, he won’t crawl back.” “Bex,” I said, awe in my voice. “You’re a genius.” 5 The next day. Bex and I showed up to see Holden wearing rented designer power suits. I stayed completely silent. Bex took the lead, fully committing to the bit. “Ms. Lin, your father the CEO insists you stop playing these games. It’s time to return to the board and assume your duties.” I felt so intensely guilty I couldn’t even look Holden in the eye. Bex stepped protectively in front of me. She pulled out a prepaid debit card loaded with five thousand dollars and shoved it toward him. “The PIN is her birthday. Our heiress was just having a little fun. You are completely out of her league.” Holden’s face darkened. The air around him dropped ten degrees. “So this whole time… you were just pretending to be poor? Playing me?” Why do you look so genuinely heartbroken? I screamed internally. “Yes,” I forced myself to say. “Sorry. The socio-economic gap between us is just too vast. It’s over.” Holden’s eyes reddened. “So… if I could prove I was in your league, we wouldn’t have to break up?” I sighed, trying to look suitably tragic. “Perhaps.” Holden let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Don’t count a guy out just because he’s down on his luck.” I patted his shoulder. He was still so naive. Ten years from now, he’d realize he was just middle-aged and still down on his luck. I turned to walk away. But Holden’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a vice. “Wait.” I knew it. He wasn’t going to let it go that easily. Then, a sharp rip echoed in the air. Holden had just torn the tag right off the collar of my blazer.

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Five years ago, a plane crash took my life. Today, my screw-up of a son is clutching my urn, standing on the edge of a jagged cliff, preparing to livestream his own suicide. It turns out he’s been framed by his rivals. They’ve painted him as a talentless hack who slept his way to the top. Now, the entire internet is hunting him down, fueled by a smear campaign that has pushed him to the brink of utter despair. Just as he was about to step off into the abyss, I suddenly “woke up” inside the urn. In a panic, I did the only thing I could: I manifested my consciousness into his livestream chat. [Justin! Baby, don’t do anything stupid! Mom’s back! I’m going to help you burn those bastards to the ground!] He froze instantly. I kept typing, firing off the kind of secrets only a mother and son could ever know. [You were five when you wet the bed and blamed it on the dog. I’m the one who washed those sheets, Justin! They’re still tucked away in the trunk at your grandma’s house!] [And that secret stash of cash you hid in the ceiling panel? You thought no one knew? I’ve been sneakily taking a twenty every month to buy you your favorite ribs since before I died!] [Don’t you dare die! I’ve lit a thousand lanterns for you down here! I’m burning a fortune in ghost-money every day just for you. If you die now, all that family wealth goes down the drain!] 1 My name is Doris, and I died in a national tragedy—a plane crash that shook the country five years ago. When I finally regained consciousness, it was because of a violent, rhythmic shaking. My only son, Justin, was standing on the highest peak of a seaside cliff, his fingers white as he gripped my urn. The ocean wind was howling, whipping against his face, which was as pale as death itself. His phone was mounted on a tripod nearby, the screen a chaotic blur of scrolling hate. “Justin, just crawl away and die already! How does he have the nerve to stream right now?” “Disgusting. Another industry plant who slept his way to a career. Is he trying to play the victim card now?” “What’s he holding? Is that his dead mom’s ashes? God, he’ll even use her corpse for clout.” “Jump already! Stop stalling!” I felt my very soul trembling with rage. Those absolute ghouls. Justin is only twenty-two. He was the youngest Best Actor winner in the country—a career that started at the summit. But overnight, he was buried under a mountain of filth. His rival’s PR firm had bought off every media outlet, leaking “evidence” so perfectly photoshopped it was indistinguishable from the truth. Overnight, the boy I raised to be my pride and joy was being trampled into the mud. His agency dropped him to save their own skin. His fan clubs disbanded, turning into his most vicious hunters. When a wall begins to crack, everyone rushes to give it a push. My son, usually so proud and stoic, had finally been driven to the end of his rope. He hugged my urn and whispered, “Mom, I can’t do this anymore. I’m coming to find you.” I went ballistic. I threw the entire weight of my spirit against the walls of that ceramic jar, but all I could produce were dull, hollow thuds. Then, just as Justin lifted his foot to step into the void, I realized I could tap into the signal of his phone. My thoughts could become words. My consciousness could manifest as text in the chat. Without a second thought, I fired off the first message. [Justin! Baby, don’t do anything stupid! Mom’s back! I’m going to help you burn those bastards to the ground!] Justin’s entire body stiffened. The chat exploded. “Who the hell is this troll? Using a dead person’s name is low, even for the internet.” “Is this Justin’s team trying one last pathetic stunt? Ghost-writing to clear his name?” Seeing him lean forward again, I felt a surge of desperation. I typed the second message. [Don’t you dare die! I’ve lit a thousand lanterns for you down here! I’m burning a fortune in ghost-money every day just for you. If you die now, all that family wealth goes down the drain!] That was our thing. It was a joke we had before the crash. I’d told him that if I died first, I’d set up a luxury estate in the afterlife to keep his star shining bright, and if he ever got lazy, I’d haunt his dreams and kick his ass. Justin froze completely. His eyes went wide, staring at the screen as the comment scrolled past. I knew I had him. I flooded the chat with more. [Justin, you were five when you wet the bed and blamed it on the dog. I’m the one who washed those sheets! They’re still in the trunk at Grandma’s!] [And that secret stash in the ceiling? I’ve been taking a twenty every month to buy you those ribs you love!] His pupils contracted. The veins in his arms bulged as he gripped the urn with renewed strength. These were the tiny, sacred details of our life together—things he had never told a soul. In the livestream, the mocking comments paused for a fraction of a second before a new wave of vitriol hit. “Nice script! He even wrote in the childhood embarrassments.” “I’m dying. Using his dead mom’s ‘ghost’ for a PR save? Justin, you have zero soul.” The rival firm’s bots started to ramp up, filling the screen with filth. But Justin didn’t seem to see them anymore. His lips trembled. He looked down at the urn in his arms and whispered, “…Mom?” 2 I replied instantly. [It’s me, baby! It’s Mom. Now get down from there. It’s dangerous!] Justin’s eyes turned red instantly. Heavy tears began to fall, unbidden and hot. In that moment, he wasn’t a fallen superstar or a disgraced actor. He was just a boy who had lost his mother and been abandoned by the world. “Mom…” he choked out, his voice as fragile as a feather. “Is it really you? Am I dreaming?” [It’s not a dream. My soul is stuck to this urn. I guess it’s because you’re such a good son—hugging me every day finally woke me up.] I used a playful tone to soothe him, even though my heart—or whatever was left of it—was breaking. The viewers were losing their minds. “Holy shit? Is he actually talking to the jar?” “Wait… look at his face. This feels too real. I’m getting goosebumps.” “Don’t be stupid. He’s clearly had a mental break. This is a psychotic episode.” The trolls pounced on that. “Confirmed! Justin’s lost his mind. He’s talking to ashes!” “So sad. He’s gone full psycho. Someone call the asylum.” “Cancel him for good! We can’t have a crazy person as a public figure!” I watched those comments, feeling my spirit nearly flicker out from pure fury. My son was not crazy. [Justin! Listen to me. Right now. Get off those rocks and go home!] [Those bastards want you dead. We aren’t giving them the satisfaction. Mom has a plan. We’re going to flip the script.] Justin looked like he’d finally found an anchor. He took one last look at the dark water below, then at my urn, and nodded fiercely. He didn’t turn off the stream. He kept it running as he carefully climbed down from the slippery rocks, shielding the urn with his own body. A pack of reporters and haters were waiting past the shoreline. As soon as he touched solid ground, they swarmed him. “Justin! Was that performance just now a stunt? How do you justify using your mother’s death to gain views?” “Justin, rumors say your ‘benefactor’ is Victor Blackwood of the Moore Group. Care to comment?” “How do you sleep at night, exploiting your mother’s ashes for clout?” Camera flashes strobed like lightning, and questions cut through the air like knives. Justin said nothing. He wrapped his arms around me, protecting the urn, and shouldered his way through the crowd until he reached his car. He peeled away, leaving the chaos in his rearview mirror. Once he’d driven a few miles and found a quiet shoulder to pull over, he finally let go. He placed my urn in the passenger seat, buckled it in with the seatbelt, and collapsed over the steering wheel, sobbing. He cried for a long time—releasing every ounce of betrayal, hopelessness, and fear he’d been bottling up. I sat there, a silent passenger, my soul aching for him. When the storm finally passed and his breathing evened out, I typed on his phone. [Done crying? Good. Now stand up straight for your mother.] Justin lifted his bloodshot eyes to the screen and nodded hard. “Mom, what do I do? All the evidence points to me. No one believes a word I say.” This wasn’t just a rumor. It was a surgical strike. His rival, a boy named Tyler Banks, had always been in Justin’s shadow. Tyler’s backers had spent millions to bury Justin for good. They’d faked photos of Justin entering hotels with Victor Blackwood, faked bank transfers, and even bribed Justin’s personal assistant to testify against him. The trap was perfect. 3 [Don’t be afraid. Mom’s here,] I typed quickly. [Did you forget what I did before I was just ‘Mom’? I was Doris Caldwell. I was the most feared investigative reporter in this city.] It was true. Before I became a full-time mother, I was the queen of the tabloids. I knew where every body in this industry was buried. I’d only retired to give Justin a normal life. But those instincts? They never die. [If they can build a cage, we can pick the lock.] [First: that assistant of yours, Zack. He has a gambling problem. Check his recent banking history—I bet you’ll find a massive ‘gift’ from a shell company.] [Second: Victor Blackwood. Everyone thinks he’s your ‘sugar daddy.’ But Victor is gay. He has a secret boyfriend, a college student he keeps in London. If we leak photos of them, the rumors about you and Victor vanish instantly.] [And most importantly… Tyler.] I paused, my spectral fingers hovering over the digital interface. [Tyler didn’t get here on his own. He has a backer too. And his backer is the CEO of the very PR firm that’s currently tearing you apart—Howard Richmond.] Justin’s eyes went wide. His jaw dropped. These were industry secrets that even the most seasoned insiders didn’t know. “Mom… how do you know all this?” [Sweetie, I’m dead, not out of the loop!] I bluffed. [The afterlife has a great gossip network. I have friends in low places.] Justin let out a short, wet laugh, his eyes welling up again. He knew I was trying to cheer him up. But he also knew his mother would never let him lose. “Okay, Mom. I’m with you.” Justin restarted the engine, a familiar sharpness returning to his gaze. “Let’s hit back.” Justin was always a fast learner. He immediately contacted the one private investigator he still trusted to dig into Zack and Tyler. Then, following my instructions, he drove to a private, high-end lounge I used to frequent. “Mom, why are we here?” Justin asked, confused. [To find an old friend.] The manager recognized Justin—and me. When he saw Justin walking in clutching an urn, he turned pale as a sheet. Justin ignored the stares and walked straight to the VIP suite at the very back. He pushed the door open. Inside, a woman in a sleek silk dress was pouring tea. She was stunning, with a sharp, dangerous elegance. When she saw Justin and the urn, she froze, then her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “Well, look at what the cat dragged in. If it isn’t our fallen star. What’s the matter, Justin? Did you come here to hide?” Her name was Bea. She owned the club, and she had been my best friend and partner-in-crime during my reporting days. In this city, she was the woman who knew everything. Justin bit his lip, unsure of how to start. I bypassed the drama and typed directly on his phone, then signaled for him to show it to her. [Bea, it’s me. It’s Doris.] The smile on Bea’s face turned to stone. She stared at the screen, then at the urn, then back at the screen. Her hand started to shake. “Justin… what kind of sick joke is this?” her voice wavered. Justin shook his head and quickly explained what had happened at the cliff. Bea listened, her breath hitching, looking at my urn with a mix of awe and a flicker of genuine fear. 4 [Don’t be scared. I’m just a ghost who can’t move on yet,] I typed to calm her down. [Bea, they’re trying to destroy my boy. I need you.] Bea was silent for a long beat. Finally, she let out a long sigh and looked at Justin with fierce, maternal protectiveness. “Doris, you bitch. Even from the grave, you’re making me work. Fine. Your son is my son. Whoever touched him is dead to me.” I felt a weight lift. With Bea’s connections, things would move much faster. The three of us (well, two people and a ghost) spent the next few hours in that suite, mapping out a counter-strike. First, Bea leaked the photos of Victor Blackwood and his London boyfriend to a rival news outlet. The photos were crisp, undeniable, and clearly professional. Within thirty minutes, the hashtags #VictorBlackwood and #SecretLover were trending. Victor’s team scrambled, but Bea followed up with the killing blow: a video of the two of them at a private villa. The evidence was ironclad. Victor Blackwood immediately issued a statement denying any romantic involvement with Justin, even going as far as to hint that he had been used as a pawn by Tyler Banks’ camp to frame a younger actor. For the first time, the tide of public opinion began to turn. “Wait, so the Justin/Blackwood thing was a lie? He was framed?” “I mean, look at Justin’s face. Does he really need a sugar daddy?” “I feel sick. Someone really tried to bury this kid.” Next, Justin’s investigator came back with the goods. Zack, the assistant, had indeed received a wire transfer of five hundred thousand dollars the day before the scandal broke. We even got a photo of him at an underground casino, throwing that money away like it was trash. Justin didn’t post it yet. Following my lead, he sent the evidence directly to Zack. Minutes later, Zack called. He was sobbing, his voice thick with terror. “Justin… please, man, I was desperate! They threatened me!” “Tyler’s manager, Rick, came to me. He gave me the cash and told me what to say. Please don’t go to the police, I’ll take it back! I’ll tell the truth!” Justin hit record. “Tell me exactly what Rick said.” Zack spilled everything. They hadn’t just planned the scandal; they had a contingency. If Justin didn’t break, they were going to release a faked video of him “assaulting” an assistant. And if he committed suicide? They had a headline ready: The Coward’s Way Out: Disgraced Actor Confirms Guilt. They weren’t just trying to ruin him. They were trying to erase him. My soul burned with a white-hot light. [Ask him about the connection between Rick and Howard Richmond.] Justin did. Zack hesitated, then whispered, “Rick is Howard’s nephew. The whole thing was a family business.” There it was. The smoking gun. Justin hung up, his face grim. “Mom, we have everything. I’m posting the statement now.” [No,] I stopped him. [Not yet.] I watched my son, my heart swelling with a cold, calculated pride. I typed out the final phase of the plan. [Justin, remember what I told you when you were little? When a rabid dog bites you, you don’t just kick it away. You make sure it never bites anyone again.]

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