Category: English

Mom bought a new phone. Her lock screen was my older sister, Vanessa, posing in a pink ballet tutu; her home wallpaper was my younger brother, Ted, grinning as he palmed a basketball. There was no trace of me—the middle child wedged invisibly between them. At every family gathering, Mom would smile and nudge me out of the frame: “You’ve got the steadiest hands, Laurel. Take a nice picture of the three of us.” I’d raise my camera and say sure, believing that as long as I was a good, quiet backdrop, there would come a day when I’d finally earn a spot in that frame. Until the night my stomach perforated. I collapsed alone on the floor of my rented apartment, needing an immediate signature from next of kin to go into surgery. Shaking from the white-hot pain, I called Mom. Her end of the line was a wall of deafening scream-singing from a concert stadium: “Hold on a second, Laurel! Vanessa’s favorite artist is coming on stage, I have to record this for her!” I called my dad. He was sitting courtside at Ted’s high school championship game: “You’re a twenty-three-year-old adult. Can’t you just pop some antacids and get yourself to urgent care?” I ended up curled into a tight, shivering ball on a gurney outside the operating room. The ER nurse looked down at me with a heavy, unspoken pity. They didn’t show up until dawn the next morning. Vanessa was busy posting her signed concert merch on Instagram; Ted was replaying his game highlights on his phone. Mom handed them both warm lattes, then turned around to frown down at me in the hospital bed: “What kind of drama do you have to pull in the middle of the night? None of us got a wink of sleep.” Nobody asked about the critical condition consent form I had signed with my own trembling hands hours before. I pulled the IV needle out of the back of my hand, opened my phone, and silently left the group chat named “The Happy Porter Family”. The three of them made a complete family without me anyway. It was time I stepped out and took a solo picture. … I stared at the pale water stain on the hospital ceiling for a long time. The signed consent form was still tucked under my pillow, the paper slightly warm. When the night nurse couldn’t reach any of my emergency contacts, I had signed it myself. My phone screen flickered in the quiet room. A single system notification from the chat app: “Laurel Porter has left the group.” Hours had passed since then. Not a single person had texted to ask why. The last update in the chat was a nine-photo grid posted by Mom. Vanessa had been lifted up near the front row at the stadium, clutching a water bottle thrown by the pop star, laughing like she’d won the lottery. Mom’s caption read: “Big girl’s dream night! I was even more excited than she was!” Underneath, Ted had replied with a thumbs-up emoji and a selfie of himself holding his MVP trophy. Mom had replied instantly: “My two babies are the absolute stars of the night!” That was where the conversation ended. Nobody asked where Laurel was. Nobody asked why Laurel hadn’t responded. Nobody wondered if Laurel was still alive. I flipped the phone over, face down on the nightstand. “Where’s your family, dear?” Mrs. Greg, the elderly woman in the neighboring bed, spoke up again. “When they brought you in last night, I heard the nurse call several numbers. No one picked up. You were out there all alone by the surgical doors. Broke my old heart just watching.” “They’re away on business,” I lied softly. “Out of state. They couldn’t get back in time.” Mrs. Greg gave a soft “oh” and didn’t press further. She poured half a bowl of warm oat porridge from her thermal flask and slowly shuffled over to my bedside. “Can’t take solid food right after abdominal surgery. Have a few sips of this to line your stomach.” I took the bowl. As I took a small sip, a sudden, sharp sting hit the back of my nose. Twenty-three years. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had brought me a bowl of warm soup without me having to ask for it first. At two in the afternoon, the attending physician came in for rounds. He flipped through my chart, his expression solemn. “Your stomach lining is in terrible shape. Severe chronic inflammation, irregular eating habits, extreme stress, plus an underlying infection. You’ve got the digestive tract of a thirty-five-year-old.” He took off his glasses and looked at me. “How old are you?” “Twenty-three.” “Twenty-three, and your stomach looks worse than mine, and I’m forty-five.” He sighed, jotting down a line on my chart. “Where are your guardians or family? I need to go over post-op care instructions.” “I can take notes myself.” “You signed your own critical release form last night. Standard protocol requires us to notify someone.” “Doctor, I’m an adult. I have full legal capacity.” He opened his mouth to say something, but ultimately let it go. He simply scribbled a small note in the margin of my file: [Patient lives alone. No family present. Monitor post-op psychological state.] I pretended not to see it. On my fourth day in the hospital, my family finally called. It was Mom. Her tone was sharp and hurried. “Laurel, Vanessa has a brand sponsorship meeting the day after tomorrow. She needs her personal highlight video compiled. All the raw files are on your desktop computer—edit it real quick and send it over.” “I’m in the hospital.” There was a half-second pause on the line. “What is it this time? Food poisoning from takeout again? How many times have I told you to cook for yourself—” “A stomach perforation. I had surgery.” About three seconds of silence followed. Then Mom’s voice came back, laced with impatience. “Well, can you move around now? Just email the files. This event is huge for your sister, it’s a big-brand endorsement. If she misses it, it’s gone.” I closed my eyes. “The project files are on my desktop, Drive D, third folder. The password is your birthday.” “Alright, good. I’ll have Vanessa go over to your place and copy them onto a flash drive. Where’s your spare key?” “Second shelf of the shoe rack by the door.” “Got it. Rest up. If it’s nothing serious, don’t waste money staying cooped up in a hospital room. Just grab some prescription meds and go home.” Before hanging up, she added, “And as soon as you’re discharged, come home and cook something for your sister. Her appetite hasn’t been great lately.” The call cut off. From beginning to end, she never asked which hospital I was in. She never asked if the surgery had gone smoothly. She never said she was coming to see me. That night, I pulled out my phone and logged into the creator dashboard of an account named “Third Lens”. Follower count: 1.27 million. Latest video views: 3.4 million. I hesitated for a moment before tapping on an unread Direct Message I had left unanswered for days. It was a job offer from a prominent media company in Los Angeles. The salary and benefits were more than enough for me to live comfortably. More importantly, it was thousands of miles away from home. I used to think that as long as I stayed close, my parents would eventually see me. Now, I realized how foolish that was. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, and I typed back: [Mr. West, I’m in.] I locked my phone and checked my personal messages one last time. Since leaving the family group chat, my parents hadn’t texted me privately. Neither had Vanessa, nor Ted. It was as if my presence—or absence—made no difference to them at all. When I was nineteen, I received my college acceptance letter. Top-tier university, School of Journalism and Mass Communication, majoring in Cinematography. That day, I had run home clutching the letter, bursting through the front door, only to find the living room buzzing with a celebration. They weren’t celebrating me. Vanessa had just been accepted into the state dance troupe. Mom had ordered a three-tier cream cake with dark chocolate lettering that read: “To Vanessa, the future is yours.” Dad had uncorked a bottle of vintage wine he’d been saving for years. Ted was whistling and cheering in the corner. I had stood in the foyer, the paper in my hand slowly drooping toward the floor… On the fifth day, I checked myself out of the hospital. As the nurse pulled the IV cannula out of my vein, the door to the room opened. It was Mom, carrying an insulated lunch bag, with Dad trailing right behind her. “Laurel, why didn’t you tell us you were getting discharged today?” I froze. “What are you doing here?” “You were hospitalized, so we came to check on you.” Mom set the bag on the nightstand, glancing around the room. “This place looks pretty expensive. How much did the stay cost?” “Insurance covered most of it.” “Good.” Mom nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Your father’s workplace is setting up a housing co-op fund, and he’s short fifteen thousand dollars. Do you have any savings? Lend it to us first.” My hands tightened into fists. “I don’t have money.” “How could you not have money? You’ve been working for over a year.” Dad spoke up from the doorway, his brow furrowed. Mom’s face darkened immediately. “Whenever the family needs help, you always come up with excuses. You live alone, how much could you possibly spend? You should have plenty saved up from your salary!” “My salary is thirty-five hundred a month. My rent is twelve hundred, utilities are two hundred. What exactly do you think I’m saving?” Mom scowled. “A college graduate making only thirty-five hundred?” Dad cut in, annoyed. “Can you help us with the money or not?” “No.” Mom stood up abruptly. “We raised you all these years! Now that we need a little help, you’re suddenly unwilling?” “Raised me?” I stood up too, the back of my hand aching where the IV had just been removed. “I paid for my college tuition with student loans. My living expenses came from working three part-time jobs.” Mom pointed a sharp finger at my face. “Are you saying you don’t even owe us a debt of gratitude now?” “I do,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “Which is why over the years, I did everything you ever asked me to do. But starting today, I’m done.” “What did you just say?” “I said,” I enunciated every single word, “I’m done being the ghost in this family.” The hospital room door swung open, and the nurse poked her head in. “Please keep your voices down, this is a recovery ward.” Mom took a deep breath, her eyes cold. “So this is your attitude now? Fine. I’ll remember this.” Dad stepped forward, raising his hand as if to strike me. “Don’t you dare!” The nurse darted in, stepping directly between us. “Sir, calm down! We do not tolerate violence here, or I will call security and the police.” Dad’s hand froze mid-air. Mom pulled at his sleeve. “Let’s go. We raised an ungrateful snake. Why waste our breath!” They stormed out. I sat back down on the mattress, my whole body trembling with a deep, bone-chilling cold. The nurse poured a glass of warm water and handed it to me. “Are you alright?” “I’m fine. Thank you.” She hesitated for a moment. “Some family ties… they aren’t your fault.” I nodded slowly, silent. That afternoon, I took a taxi back to my apartment. The moment I pushed open the door, I knew Vanessa had been there. My desktop monitor was still glowing, and a half-empty cup of boba tea sat on the desk. Stuck to the plastic cup was a yellow sticky note in Vanessa’s handwriting: “Thanks~ Got the files! Left the tea for you, get some rest!” I picked up the boba tea and tossed it straight into the trash can. Then I sat down, opened my computer, navigated to Drive D, and selected every single file, photo, and video related to the Porter family. “Permanently Delete.” My phone vibrated with an email notification from Simon West: [See you next Monday in LA. Company apartment is all set up.] … The air in Los Angeles was crisp and filled with the scent of salt and asphalt, completely different from the humid, suffocating winters back home. I stood in front of the high-rise building of Echo Creative, dragging my rolling suitcase, and looked up at the neon logo on the top floor. “Laurel?” A man in a relaxed linen shirt walked out through the revolving glass doors. “I’m Simon West. Welcome.” He extended a hand. “Rough flight? Let’s get you upstairs to complete your onboarding. The company apartment is already cleaned and waiting.” The onboarding paperwork was straightforward. Under the “Emergency Contact” section, I left the lines completely blank. The young HR assistant looked up at me, paused, and wrote a small note in parentheses: [None] Simon led me to the creative team’s open workspace. A massive wall of floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline stretching out toward the ocean. “Your desk is over there. Your gear arrives tomorrow.” He pointed to a spacious corner desk by the window. “This documentary series focuses on solitary seniors living in major cities. It’s a six-month project. Your visual tone is perfect for it.” I nodded. “Thank you, Simon.” On my third day in LA, I posted my first video on “Third Lens” since moving. It was shot at 6:00 AM at Santa Monica Beach—the gentle tide pulling back, leaving intricate wet patterns in the sand under the pale golden dawn. No people. No voiceover. Just light and ambient sound. The comment section exploded as usual. [Who is behind this camera? Every single frame feels like it’s breathing.] [I’m crying and I don’t even know why. It feels like the person filming this is deeply lonely, yet totally free.] The follower count jumped from 1.27 million to 1.43 million overnight. Three major brands sent partnership inquiries in my inbox. I replied with my standard rate card. I had secretly created this account during my sophomore year of college. Back then, after filming Vanessa’s dance rehearsals or Ted’s games, I would take the leftover landscape B-roll, edit it into my own atmospheric style, and post it online. Nobody in my family knew that the creator behind “Third Lens” was Laurel. During my first weekend in LA, as I was organizing my camera lenses in the company apartment, my phone buzzed with a text. It was from my brother, Ted. “Where are you? Come home and grab your stuff. Mom says she’s clearing out your room to make space for my new study room.” The room they had promised would always be kept for me. Now, it was becoming Ted’s study. I typed back a single sentence: “Throw it all away. I don’t need it.” Ted replied almost instantly: “K.” A week later, on a Tuesday afternoon, I was color-grading in the editing suite. My screen lit up with an Instagram notification from Vanessa’s public profile. A new family portrait. They were sitting in the living room at home. Mom was in the middle, Vanessa in a white lace dress on her left, Ted in his team jersey on her right. All three were beaming at the camera. Caption: “Mom’s new phone is finally here! Anniversary portrait!” A relative had commented underneath: “Where’s Laurel?” Vanessa had replied: “She’s busy out of town! Next time~” Next time. Always “next time.” I scrolled past the post without stopping. If I had seen something like that months ago, my heart would have ached. Now, I felt nothing at all. By May, I had been in Los Angeles for two months. The documentary was halfway complete. I had followed six elderly subjects and accumulated over four hundred hours of raw footage. Simon announced at our weekly meeting that the rough cut was receiving rave reviews, and a major streaming platform was already negotiating early distribution rights. After work, I stayed behind at my desk to organize the day’s shooting logs. The office was quiet. Suddenly, a text notification popped up on my phone. A bank deposit alert: [Account ending in 367: Direct Deposit +$500.00. Memo: Travel Expenses – Mom] I stared at the notification, my thumb hovering over the screen. A moment later, a text from Mom arrived: “Laurel, your sister has a huge showcase performance in June and needs a five-minute promo documentary. Hiring an outside production team costs way too much. Can you take a few days off and come back to shoot it for her? I sent you $500 for your flight. Let me know if you need more.” Out in the industry, a polished five-minute commercial profile carried a starting price tag of fifteen thousand dollars. To her, my labor was worth five hundred. I took a screenshot of her text and saved it into a secure notes folder on my phone. The folder was named [Settled]. There were several other screenshots inside it. One was from the summer I turned sixteen, when I spent two full months filming Vanessa’s intensive dance camp. Mom’s compensation for me back then had been: “Well, you had nothing better to do anyway.” Another was from when I was twenty. Ted’s high school basketball team needed promotional posters. I spent two weeks scouting locations and doing high-end photo retouching. Dad’s exact words had been: “We’re family, why bring up money? When your brother makes it big, he’ll take care of you.” Another was from last Thanksgiving. Mom made me edit all forty photos from the family dinner. I stayed up until 3:00 AM perfecting every shot, only for her to text the family group: “They look okay. Laurel still needs more practice.” I didn’t keep these records out of a desire for revenge. I kept them to remind myself whenever I felt a moment of weakness—there were no sweets on the road backward. Only knives. I closed the note, opened my banking app, and refunded the $500 transfer directly back to her account. I typed a single word in the memo box: “No.” I didn’t reply to Mom’s text. Instead, I opened the “Third Lens” inbox. A major brand had just accepted my sponsorship terms. Quote: $20,000 for a single video integration. I clicked “Accept”. On the very same night, under a different name, my work was worth twenty thousand dollars. The next day, I made a final decision. I spent the afternoon going through my phone, deleting every contact named Porter. I removed Mom, Dad, Vanessa, and Ted from my main messaging apps. I didn’t block them. Blocking was a statement, and I didn’t even want to offer them an attitude anymore. When I was finished, I ordered myself a high-end salmon sashimi platter from a local Japanese spot down the street. I sat on the small balcony of my apartment, picked up a slice of fresh salmon, and dipped it in soy sauce. It tasted clean, bright, and fresh. In early June, on a bright Wednesday morning, I was setting up lighting gear at the home of one of my documentary subjects when Simon called. “Laurel, heads up.” He paused on the line. “Your family just walked into the building lobby. Front desk says an older woman is claiming to be your mother and demanding to know which floor your desk is on.” My hands froze on the tripod adjustment knob for a brief second. “Tell reception you don’t know who that is.” Simon let out a low sigh. “Already handled. I told security we have no employee by that name. Keep shooting where you are, don’t rush back.” “Thanks, Simon.” I hung up and went back to adjusting the softbox lights. My subject, an eighty-year-old retired carpenter named Mr. Hogan, sat in his armchair holding a faded photograph. “You look a little pale today, Laurel. Did you skip breakfast?” “I ate,” I said, offering him a soft smile. “Ready when you are, Mr. Hogan.” When I returned to the office building that evening, the sun had already set. The lobby guard nodded at me as I walked past. “Ms. Porter, an older woman stood outside the glass doors for over three hours today. We finally had to escort her off the property. She left a bag at the front desk for you.” I walked over to the reception counter and looked inside the plastic bag. Inside were two jars of preserved peaches, a bag of dried dates, and an unsealed envelope. They were all Vanessa’s favorite treats. Even when bringing me a peace offering, she couldn’t help but pack it with my sister’s tastes. I pulled out the letter and skimmed the handwritten lines. Mom’s handwriting was shaky, clearly written through tears: “Laurel, Mom knows you’re angry. But no matter what, you came from my body. You can’t truly abandon this family. Besides, Vanessa’s event in June really can’t happen without you—she hates the way outside photographers shoot her. Just come home once. Mom will buy you a new camera, okay?” The final line read: “You were always the most sensible child. Don’t disappoint Mom.” I stuffed the letter back into the bag, along with the peaches and dates, and handed it right back to the receptionist. “Please throw this away. I don’t need it.”

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The day my younger sister bought her forty-seventh limited-edition Japanese Lolita dress, I was standing in the drafty corridor outside my dorm, calling our mother to ask for three hundred dollars to buy a new laptop. Through the receiver, my sister’s sharp voice cut through the background noise. “Mom! The tea-party collection just dropped! There are only three left—quick, scan the code and pay before they’re gone!” My mother’s tone instantly shifted, distracted and hurried. “Things are tight this month, Lauren. Just make do with your old computer for now. If Courtney misses this dress, it’s gone forever.” Those frilly, collector-edition dresses averaged around three hundred and fifty dollars each. Forty-seven of them. I didn’t even dare do the math. When I went home for summer break, I discovered my bedroom door had been completely unhinged. In its place hung a cheap, pink lace curtain. Inside, the tiny space was crammed with massive transparent storage tubs filled with Courtney’s crinolines, petticoats, and wigs. My twin bed had been shoved into the far corner, suffocated against the wall. Courtney was standing in front of my full-length mirror, admiring herself in her newest dress. She didn’t even turn around when I walked in. “The curtain makes it easier for me to grab my outfits, Lauren. Besides, you only stay here a few days a year anyway—don’t be so petty.” At dinner, I mentioned that I needed to pay a hundred and fifty dollars for my senior research lab equipment fee next semester. My father took a sip of his soup, his eyes glued to his phone screen. “Didn’t you win a merit scholarship? Figure it out yourself. Stop staring at the family’s wallet.” After dinner, I returned to the doorless room. I squeezed onto the corner of my mattress, surrounded by layers of stiff tulle, and opened my lagging, dying laptop. I clicked on the application form my professor had emailed me earlier. A three-year international fellowship at a research institute four thousand miles away in Scandinavia. Under strict non-disclosure terms, no travel home was permitted mid-term. I filled out every box, attached my transcripts, and hit submit. After all, a room without a door was never meant to hold anyone anyway. … “Mom, the motherboard completely fried. The repair guy said it’s not even worth fixing.” I gripped my phone, standing at the far end of the dormitory hallway where the air was cold and quiet. “My research group needs the midterm simulation models by next week. Could you transfer three hundred dollars so I can buy a basic replacement? I’ll treat it as a loan and pay you back as soon as my part-time check comes in.” A chaotic rustle echoed through the speaker. My mother sounded entirely unbothered, her mind clearly elsewhere. “Three hundred? Why do you need money again? Didn’t you just get paid eighty bucks from your tutoring job last month? Why can’t you learn to manage your spending?” I swallowed hard, trying to force down the bitter acidity rising in my chest. “That eighty dollars? You called me last week saying Dad needed to pay the car insurance, so I transferred every cent to you.” She went silent for two seconds, searching for a quick brush-off. Before she could speak, a shrill, ecstatic squeal burst through the speaker. It was my younger sister, Courtney, her voice so piercing it almost made my ear bleed. “Mom! Hurry! The limited-edition lace drop is live! There are only three spots left! It’s three hundred and fifty bucks—quick, pay for it!” I heard the sound of frantic footsteps on the other end, accompanied by my mother’s doting, indulgent chiding. “Slow down, sweetie, don’t trip. Mom’s paying right now.” Then, turning her attention back to me, her voice grew clipped and impatient. “Lauren, things are tight this month. Just make do with your old one for now. If your sister misses this dress, it’s gone forever. I have to go.” “Click.” The line went dead. I pulled the phone from my ear and stared down at the blacked-out screen of the hand-me-down laptop resting on the windowsill. It gave off a faint, burnt-plastic smell. My uncle had passed it down to me four years ago when it was already on its last legs. For four years, I had used it to write papers, run statistical models, and draft lesson plans for my tutoring gigs. Every time it froze, I held my breath, gently restarting it while praying my data hadn’t vanished into thin air. I had genuinely believed our family was struggling financially. So I worked myself to the bone for scholarships, picked up every side job available, and lived on instant oatmeal and bargain groceries. I felt guilty whenever I spent three dollars on a basket of fresh apples. But the truth was, my mother’s definition of “tight finances” only ever applied to me. Courtney could buy a three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar dress on a whim. Yet my three-hundred-dollar request—a necessity for my senior thesis and graduation—wasn’t even worth a moment’s consideration. My phone buzzed. A message popped up in the lab group chat from my academic advisor. “Lauren, how are the simulations running? Next Monday’s presentation is critical for securing our research funding for the second half of the year.” I stared at the text, my thumb hovering over the glass screen. I didn’t know how to respond. Go to an internet cafe? Public computers didn’t have the processing power or software licenses for our high-level simulation programs. Borrow from a classmate? Everyone was drowning in their own senior projects; their rigs were running simulations twenty-four hours a day. I opened a private chat with my professor, typing out “My laptop blew its motherboard”, only to backspace every single letter. It was too humiliating. I was twenty-two years old, and I couldn’t even afford a three-hundred-dollar secondhand computer. Just then, another message popped up from my advisor. “Lauren, that Scandinavian exchange program I mentioned earlier? Applications opened today.” “It’s based at a partner institute in Northern Europe. They provide top-of-the-line lab equipment and a generous, tax-free living stipend every month.” “However, the terms are strict. It’s a full three-year commitment, and due to non-disclosure and security protocols, you won’t be permitted to return home during the tenure.” “You’re a brilliant researcher, Lauren. You shouldn’t be held back by a lack of resources. Think it over. If you want it, fill out the form and send it back to me tonight.” My heart hammered against my ribs. Three years. Four thousand miles. No coming home. It meant a complete, unburdened break from this family. An exit from Courtney’s suffocating shadow, and an end to the endless, expected sacrifices. I looked out the hallway window at the darkening twilight over the campus quad. For once in my life, I didn’t want to be the sensible, understanding daughter anymore. I typed back: “Thank you, Professor. I’ll send you the completed form tonight.” … The day summer break started, I dragged my battered rolling suitcase back home. But when I unlocked the front door and walked down the hallway toward my bedroom, I froze dead in my tracks. The sturdy wooden door—the one that had a working lock, even if the paint was peeling—was gone. In its place hung a flimsy, pale-pink lace curtain. A stray breeze from the open hallway window rustled the delicate fabric, exposing every inch of the room inside. My bedroom had always been tiny, barely big enough for a twin mattress and a narrow wardrobe. Now, it was packed to the ceiling with massive, clear plastic storage tubs. Inside them were stacked neon-colored wigs, towering petticoats, and metallic props. My bed had been shoved violently into the corner, its mattress partially crushed under unopened cardboard shipping boxes. Courtney stood before my full-length mirror wearing her newly arrived dress. She was adjusting the frilled bodice, and when she saw me, she didn’t even bother to glance up properly. “Oh, you’re back. Pull the zipper up for me, will you? The design is absurd, I can’t reach it.” I stared at the naked metal frame where the door hinges used to be. Empty screw holes gaped back at me. “Where is my door?” My voice trembled. Courtney spoke as if stating the most obvious fact in the world. “Taken down. A curtain makes it so much easier for me to grab my outfits. Besides, you only stay here a few weeks a year anyway—don’t be so stingy.” She spun around, her voluminous bell-shaped skirt puffing out and completely blocking the tiny strip of floor space that remained. “Plus, my dresses are delicate. The wooden door frame keeps catching on the lace. This curtain is way better.” I looked at the elaborate, pristine dress she wore, then at my bed, which was so smothered by her clutter I wouldn’t even be able to roll over in my sleep. “This is my room. What gives you the right to take down my door without asking me?” Courtney snapped, her face twisting into an irritated scowl as she flicked her frilled hem away. “Mom and Dad both said it was fine! Why are you screaming at me? It’s just a door. It’s not like we threw you out.” Hearing the commotion, my mother walked out of the kitchen holding a greasy spatula. Seeing my rigid posture, her face hardened immediately. “Lauren, you just walked through the door and you’re already picking a fight with your sister?” she scolded. “Do you have any idea how expensive Courtney’s dresses are? If you snag one of them, can you afford to replace it?” “Besides, you’re a senior now. Once you graduate, you’ll be living on your own anyway. This room sits empty most of the time—what’s wrong with letting your sister store her things in here?” My father, who was reading the news on his tablet on the living room sofa, chimed in without looking up. “Exactly. Lauren, why have you become so painfully petty? We’re family—does everything have to be counted down to the penny? Making a fuss over a simple door… if the neighbors hear, they’ll laugh at us.” The three of them presented a united front, seamlessly weaving a narrative where I was the selfish, dramatic intruder causing trouble over nothing. I stood in the dim hallway, looking at the soft pink curtain. In their eyes, my privacy, my dignity, and my personal boundaries weren’t worth a single thread on Courtney’s dresses. “Stop wearing that sulky face,” Courtney muttered, rolling her eyes. “Fine, I’ll give you one of my old dresses if you’re that jealous.” The patronizing pity in her tone burned against my cheeks like a slap. I didn’t say another word. Quietly, I dragged my heavy suitcase past the curtain into the doorless room. The sheets smelled faintly of mildew and cardboard dust. I lifted the shipping boxes off my mattress, set them on the floor, and sat on the edge of the bed. Bursts of lighthearted laughter drifted in from the living room. My mother was asking Courtney what she wanted for dinner, while my father suggested a few scenic parks where they could take photos of Courtney in her new outfit over the weekend. And there I sat, tucked into a curtained nook stripped of all privacy, feeling like an unwanted trespasser in the home where I had grown up. I pulled out my phone and opened the official confirmation letter sent by my advisor. Staring at the bold black words—”APPLICATION APPROVED”—a profound sense of relief washed over me. Soon. Just one more month of endurance. Once the new semester started, I would be completely free. At dinner, the table was set with roasted pork ribs and fish filet —Courtney’s absolute favorites. The moment I reached out my fork to pick up a piece of fish, my mother tapped the edge of my bowl with her utensil. “Lauren, let your sister eat first. She spent the entire afternoon standing and modeling those dresses. She’s exhausted.” I pulled my hand back, silently picking at the plain stir-fried greens in front of me instead. My father took a sip of his beer, his gaze settling on me. “Lauren, you’re starting your final year. How’s the job search coming? Don’t spend all your time huddled in that university lab. It doesn’t pay anything real.” I set my bowl down and looked straight at him. “Dad, when the semester starts, I need to pay a hundred and fifty dollars for our research group’s equipment access fee. It dictates whether my advisor writes my recommendation letters.” My father paused, setting his beer down as his brows knit into a heavy scowl. “A hundred and fifty dollars? Why are you asking for money again? Don’t you win top merit scholarships every single year? Figure it out yourself. Stop relying on us for every cent.” My mother chimed in immediately. “Exactly. Courtney needs to enroll in a posture and modeling workshop next month—it costs seven hundred dollars. Where is the family supposed to find spare cash for your extra school fees?” I looked at them, a bone-deep coldness spreading through my veins. “I won a fifteen-hundred-dollar merit grant my freshman year,” I said, my voice measured and deliberate. “A thousand my sophomore year, and two thousand last year.” I looked my mother dead in the eye. “Out of all that money, aside from my basic tuition, I transferred over three thousand dollars directly to you. You told me the family business was struggling and you needed capital to bridge the gap.” My mother’s expression flickered. She looked away, a flash of guilt quickly replaced by defensive anger. “Well… did feeding you and clothing you for eighteen years cost nothing? Now that your wings are grown, you’re going to sit here and audit your own parents?” My father slammed his palm onto the dining table, making the dishes rattle. “Lauren! Is that how you talk to your mother? We’ve fulfilled our duty by putting you through college! Your sister is at a critical age where she needs to build her poise and presence. As her older sister, instead of helping the family, you’re sitting here demanding hand-outs! How can you be so utterly self-centered?” Courtney chewed smugly on a pork rib, her eyes glinting with malicious triumph. “Right? Lauren, aren’t you supposed to be the top student in your class? Can’t the top student even earn a hundred and fifty bucks? My friends told me college tutors make great money. You’re just lazy.” I looked at the three of them sitting around the warm dining light. In that quiet moment, I finally understood. My years of discipline, my quiet obedience, and my endless compromises were nothing more than stupidity in their eyes. Every single dollar I had wired home hadn’t gone into my father’s non-existent business investments, nor had it gone to groceries or utility bills. It had been transformed into the intricate ruffles filling Courtney’s wardrobe, the expensive designer leather shoes on her feet, and the unearned confidence that allowed her to look down on me with contempt. “I understand,” I said quietly. I stood up from the table without another word. I walked back into the room without a door, sat down on the edge of the twin bed, and pulled the pink lace curtain shut behind me. Out in the living room, my father was still grumbling loudly. “Ungrateful brat… all those years of reading books, and she didn’t learn a single shred of family decency.” My mother soothed him softly. “Alright, don’t lower your blood pressure over her. It’s not worth it. Courtney, eat another piece of meat, sweetie.” I pulled up my laggy laptop, logged into the university portal, and clicked on the final confirmation for the international fellowship program. A warning prompt flashed across the screen in dark red: “Once confirmed, this agreement is binding and non-reversible. You will be assigned to the Northern European Research Station for a mandatory term of three years. Please confirm that you have disclosed this commitment to your immediate family.” I stared at the words “disclosed this commitment to your immediate family”, and a soundless, bitter laugh escaped my lips. They didn’t need to know. They had Courtney. That was more than enough for them. I moved the cursor and clicked without a second thought: “Disclosed and Confirmed.” Over the next two weeks, I was impeccably obedient. I never mentioned the lab fee again. I left early every morning and returned late every evening, pretending I was out working a local tutoring job. In reality, I spent my days in the air-conditioned campus laboratory, helping my professor archive data and finalize my departure paperwork. Seeing me leave early and come home exhausted every day, my mother’s attitude softened noticeably. One evening at dinner, she did something unprecedented—she used her serving spoon to scoop a leftover piece of fish tail into my bowl. “Lauren, see? This is how it should be. It’s good for a young woman to taste hardship early. It teaches you how to run a household when you get married.” I looked at the bony, picked-over fish tail swimming in cold oil. I smiled faintly and pushed it beneath a mound of rice. “Yeah. I get it.” The night before my flight, I waited until the house was asleep before I began packing my things. I had so little. Pathetically little. A few faded T-shirts, two pairs of worn jeans, a thick stack of academic textbooks, and every academic award certificate I had earned over the past four years. I stacked them neatly inside my worn suitcase. Looking at the nearly empty closet, I felt a strange urge to laugh. After living in this home for twenty-two years, everything I owned couldn’t even fill a single twenty-four-inch roller bag. Meanwhile, in the room next door, Courtney’s shoeboxes alone were stacked all the way to the crown molding. The next morning, I rolled my suitcase into the entryway. Courtney was sitting on the sofa scrolling through her phone. When she saw me holding a heavy suitcase, she looked slightly surprised. “Lauren? Fall semester doesn’t start yet, does it? Why are you carrying so much stuff?” “My research group has an early orientation project,” I said evenly, slipping into my worn sneakers. “I need to go early.” My mother poked her head out of the kitchen, holding a damp dishcloth. “Stay safe on the bus. Call home when you get to campus. And remember, you’ll need to figure out your own allowance this month—we really don’t have any spare money.” I looked at my mother. I saw the deep crow’s feet carved into the corners of her eyes, and the faded, stiff apron tied around her waist. For a terrifying fraction of a second, something in my chest softened. Then, my eyes drifted past her shoulder toward the corner of the living room, where three massive, freshly delivered parcel boxes were stacked high. It was Courtney’s forty-eighth dress. The faint glimmer of hesitation in my heart vanished instantly, leaving behind a cold, clear stillness. “Okay,” I said. I opened the front door, stepped out into the hallway, and walked away. I didn’t look back once. On the shuttle bus to the international airport, my phone vibrated constantly. In the family group chat, Courtney had dropped a grid of nine heavily edited photos. She was wearing a icy-blue Lolita gown, sitting inside an upscale tea lounge, smiling like an innocent, pampered princess. My mother spammed the chat with voice notes overflowing with affection. “Oh, my sweet girl looks so gorgeous! Just like a painting!” “Every penny for that dress was worth it! Look at her class!” My father followed up by sending a generous digital cash gift: “[For Courtney to buy sweet treats.]” I stared at the flurry of notifications, utterly silent. Ten minutes later, a private text message popped up from my mother. “[Stop making the family worry about you all the time. Look at your sister—she never makes us say a single harsh word.]” Staring at those words on the screen, the sheer absurdity of it hit me like a physical weight. Courtney bought forty-eight designer dresses and drained the family’s savings, yet she was “no trouble at all.” I paid my own way through college on merit grants, yet I was the villain “making the family worry.” The shuttle bus came to a smooth stop outside the international departure terminal. I pulled my suitcase from the lower rack and stepped out into the crisp autumn breeze under a bright sky. I didn’t reply to my mother’s message. I tapped into my settings, selected the family group chat, and hit “Leave Group”. Then, I popped out my SIM card, walked over to the nearest recycling bin inside the terminal, and tossed the tiny plastic chip inside. Four thousand miles. Three years. This time, I was leaving for good.

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My roommate stole my online persona to go on a real-life blind date with our campus heartthrob. When she came back, her face was flushed with triumphant pride. “Dylan told me that compared to the online version of me, he vastly prefers the real thing.” She started dating Dylan right then and there while guarding him against me like I was a biohazard. What she didn’t realize was – I had never intended to meet Dylan in real life in the first place. I’m just a nerdy, overworked STEM student. The only reason I was venting on that forum was because my graduate coursework was crushing my soul. Our chat history wasn’t just 90% fake; it was 90% unhinged and inappropriate. Meeting in person wasn’t a romance – it was a total social execution. 1. Stepping out of the science building, I ran straight into Dylan and Kendra. Dylan was decked out in head-to-toe designer drip. Tall, broad-shouldered, with pale skin and sharp, handsome features. I had to give it to him – as campus royalty went, he was undeniably eye candy. The moment Kendra saw me, her face drained of color, panicking as if facing a mortal threat. Honestly, she was overreacting. She was wearing a tailored designer sundress with flawless makeup. On a beauty-rating forum where Zendaya scored an eight out of ten, Kendra had managed a solid 5.8. Meanwhile, in the tagged photo she posted of me in the comments, I had earned a generous 3.8. At this exact moment, I was wearing a faded, oversized thrift tee, hair thrown back in a scraped-together bun, face glistening with a sheen of lab grease. I couldn’t be bothered to care, but after hours of suffering through corrupted research data, my brain desperately needed a distraction. So, I deliberately waved and smiled. “Oh, hey! What a coincidence. You guys here to study…?” “Do you mind backing off, student?” Before I could finish, Dylan cut me off cold. He instinctively pulled Kendra behind him, shielding her like a bodyguard while casting a hostile glare my way. Kendra leaned up and whispered a couple of hurried sentences into his ear. Instantly, Dylan’s expression shifted to pure disdain. “So you’re the one who’s been isolating Kendra in the dorm just because you have an unrequited crush on me?” “I don’t know when you started stalking me or when you developed this little obsession – ” He scowled, his tone dripping with icy impatience. “But let me make one thing crystal clear: Kendra is the only person I care about.” “If I catch you picking on her again, I’ll make sure you regret it.” “Get lost.” Kendra peeked over his shoulder, throwing me a smug, victorious smirk. I curled my toes inside my peeling flip-flops. The secondhand embarrassment was unbearable. I cleared my throat and tried to explain. “Uh, look, if I told you that ‘Married10TimesToGetLove’ was actually – ” Dylan let out a harsh laugh. “Kendra called it,” he sneered. “You really would do anything to get to me, wouldn’t you? Even impersonating her.” Annoyed, I pulled out my phone and shot a quick message to my online buddy [D]: “Did you get dropped on your head as a infant?” A bright red exclamation mark popped up. “Message failed to send.” Dylan had blocked me. Right in front of me, he pulled out his phone and nonchalantly waved the screen at my face. “Stealing Kendra’s handle won’t work anymore. I already added her new account.” I snapped back to reality, instantly chilling to the bone. “What was I doing?” If Kendra hadn’t covered my tracks so thoroughly, I would have been completely exposed right here! Having delivered his grand speech, Dylan dismissed me entirely and pulled Kendra by the wrist. “Let’s go, babe. I booked us a table at a Michelin-star spot.” Kendra beamed, pouring on the enthusiastic praise. “You’re so generous, babe! Taking me to such a high-end place!” Dylan frowned in slight confusion. “Didn’t you tell me you’ve eaten exclusively at Michelin restaurants since you were a kid? And that you always order two tables – one to eat at, and one purely for photo ops?” Kendra’s face turned white. “Huh? Oh! Right, right, of course!” 2. Dylan and I met when I was trying to sell off some old gear online. I had posted on the campus market board: “Anyone interested in a cute little bear? Looking for someone to take care of it!” Dylan assumed I was illegally rehoming an exotic bear cub and added me. It turned out I was just trying to get rid of a Bear-brand mini rice cooker. Once I realized his intellectual capacity was… adorable, I started using him as my personal void to shout into. I told him everything, confident he wouldn’t get it anyway. Dysfunctional family baggage. Crushed dreams. Brutal academic pressure. Nightmare lab partners. Trash-talking men. … Then Dylan suddenly insisted on meeting up in person. Kendra had caught a glimpse of our chat log on my laptop in the dorm once. Back then, she had mocked me for cyber-flirting, completely unaware that the guy behind the screen was the campus golden boy. And then, she inadvertently saved me from total social death. While I was slaving away in the research lab, their romance escalated at lightspeed. Half the campus witnessed their high-profile courtship. Kendra, the finance major, had successfully bagged the brooding art school heartthrob. Dylan waited on her hand and foot, driving his sports car all the way to the suburbs just to buy her favorite artisanal boba. Both came from wealthy backgrounds – a match made in high-society heaven. A picture-perfect romance of the elite. When I got back to the dorm, our other two roommates were crowded around Kendra, hungrily digging for details on her love life. The moment I walked through the door, the room went dead silent, followed by an even louder burst of performative chatter. One of the roommates raised her voice deliberately: “Some girls from broke families should stick to studying instead of eyeing other people’s boyfriends.” “Being poor isn’t a crime, but stealing someone else’s man sure is!” She was referring to something that happened a while back. Kendra had misplaced a bottle of luxury perfume. Since I was the only one in the room at the time, she immediately accused me of stealing it. I had been completely defenseless. Once the two roommates were done making their point, Kendra stepped in with her usual gentle tone. “Alright, guys, we all live together.” She turned to me. “Cecilia, I know things are tight for your family. Next time you want to borrow something, just ask me.” I nodded smoothly. “Sure.” “I actually have a blind date tomorrow. Mind lending me that new bag you just bought? You’re so generous, I’m sure you won’t mind, right?” Kendra’s smile stiffened. I knew for a fact she had just bought a pre-owned Hermès Kelly. Dylan had casually asked her why she wasn’t carrying the Hermès her mother supposedly bought her, sending Kendra into a frantic panic to buy one secondhand. What she didn’t know was that my mom had actually bought a cheap knockoff, a detail I had never bothered correcting Dylan about. Kendra stared at me, her eyes narrowing with heavy subtext. “It’s always better to be authentic, Cecilia. Don’t blow things out of proportion just to save face – whether it’s for a blind date or chatting with random people online.” “Your date probably isn’t high-class anyway. You wouldn’t need a bag this expensive.” The other two jumped in to agree. Yeah, definitely low-class. Word was he was some bleach-blonde fuckboy. But the sweet older couple setting it up promised me a bonus allowance if I behaved on the date. I ignored them and grabbed my washbag, but Kendra called after me again. “Oh, by the way, my boyfriend is treating us all to dinner tonight.” “Cecilia, you should come too.” Free food before a long night of studying? “Sure thing.” The moment the words left my mouth, snarky comments floated from behind me. “A place that high-end… if it weren’t for Kendra’s boyfriend, she probably wouldn’t step foot in one her entire life.” “Kendra, aren’t you worried she’s still lingering around your man?” Kendra tilted her chin up, offering a poised, delicate smile. “What’s there to be afraid of?” “Dylan would have to be blind to choose her over me.” 3. I splashed some water on my face and headed to the restaurant. I pushed open the door to the private room. Only Dylan was sitting there. I glanced at my watch. I wasn’t early. The moment Dylan saw me, the smile on his face vanished, replaced by an unmistakable flicker of disgust. My gaze settled on his face. Say what you will, the guy might lack brain cells, but his face was undeniably pretty. A shame, really. He knew far too much about my dirty laundry; we were fundamentally doomed. Fragments of our old chat history flashed through my mind – “I’m so lonely.” “I’m actually a deeply romantic person. Generous to a fault with my friends. Even though I’m only twenty-four, I think things through carefully. I’d argue I’m more mature than most forty-two-year-olds, though I act like a total baby in private…” “By the way.” “How big are you? I mean your age.” “I only date pure, untouched boys with their V-cards intact.” … Along with a mountain of unhinged, trash-talking rants. It was utterly unwatchable. As my mind wandered, my gaze lingered blankly on Dylan’s face. He caught me staring and defensively shifted his chair backward. “Stop looking at me. It’s gross.” “Oh. Right.” First time I’d seen someone self-deprecate so accurately. Just then, Kendra arrived, flanked by our roommates. Her eyes caught mine, and she forced a look of polite surprise. “Cecilia, you came?” I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you invite me?” One of the roommates sneered. “Kendra was just being polite. I can’t believe you actually had the nerve to show up. Arriving so early just to get alone time with Dylan, huh?” Kendra smoothed things over with a sweet smile. “It’s fine, the more the merrier.” Dylan took her hand warmly. “You’re just too innocent, babe. Online you were like a feisty little kitten, but in real life, you’re so kind and sweet.” Kendra blushed delicately and ducked into his chest. I felt a sudden wave of goosebumps. Truth be told, Dylan had zero banter online and couldn’t catch my jokes to save his life. If he hadn’t occasionally sent handsome selfies, I would have blocked him months ago. Dylan handed the menu to Kendra. She pointed to a few dishes, stopping at the mango foie gras. Dylan’s expression visibly froze. Oh, right. I had told Dylan online that I was deathly allergic to mangoes. 4. Dylan stared at Kendra as she happily ate her mango starter, his eyes clouded with utter bewilderment. Noticing his intense gaze, Kendra blushed and offered him a tender glance, placing a piece of pan-seared fish onto his plate. Dylan didn’t move his fork. He hated seafood. He had explicitly told “Married10TimesToGetLove” about it. When he was a kid, his mother favored his younger brother, giving all the seafood to the brother first. In a fit of petty rage, Dylan swore he would never touch seafood again for the rest of his life. What a tragic childhood. What traumatic family baggage. At the time, “Married10TimesToGetLove” had comforted him: “If it were me, I’d pee in the seafood dish so nobody gets to eat it!” How could Kendra forget something like that? Dylan’s hand holding the chopsticks went rigid, his eyes growing increasingly lost. I took the opportunity to check my phone. The information about my blind date tomorrow had been updated. Good news: He wasn’t a bleach-blonde fuckboy; he had silver hair. Better news: His photo was stunning. Easily three points hotter than Dylan. Bad news: Complicated family structure, complete with an illegitimate older brother. I looked at the dish on the table and sighed thoughtfully. “Wow, that’s actually fish? It’s so tender, I almost mistook it for tofu.” Kendra snapped back to reality, frantically trying to cover her track. “Oh, right, right, of course…” Having skimmed my chat logs before, my subtle reminder sparked her memory. She looked at Dylan with a face full of self-reproach. “Babe, it’s all my fault, I forgot…” Dylan let out a long sigh of relief. He patted her head gently. “How could I ever blame you?” They embraced tenderly. A mutual, passionate connection. How sweet. I only hoped my thesis defense would go this smoothly. After dinner, Dylan went to settle the bill. Kendra wiped her lips elegantly with a napkin. “You guys go ahead back to the dorm. Dylan and I are going somewhere else.” The two roommates squealed and teased her. She offered a coy scold. “Stop it, we’re just going to see a movie. He said the first time needs proper romance; he won’t rush things.” My hand wiping my mouth paused. I opened my mouth, then shut it. Kendra pulled me aside after dismissing the other two. “I was going to tell Dylan the truth, but as you can see, he’s totally head over heels for me.” “If you had met him instead, he wouldn’t even look at you.” “You have no idea what kind of background Dylan comes from. He’s the eldest heir to a multi-billion-dollar corporate empire. He doesn’t have time to play around with a broke girl from the slums.” I was temporarily rendered speechless. Kendra continued, “Thanks for helping me out back there, though I would’ve remembered on my own anyway.” “I’ll let the whole perfume stealing incident slide. We’re even now.” Just as she finished, Dylan returned to pick her up. Kendra shot me one last pitying look before walking away, completely satisfied. 5. The next day. I arrived early at the restaurant for the blind date. My date showed up fifteen minutes late, bearing fresh bruises on his face. I paused my phone game and took a couple of seconds to inspect him. I decided to grant him a temporary pardon for his tardiness. Sensational silver hair. A silver cross necklace, black tee, black jeans. His style leaned a bit edgy-edgy, but his face was exquisitely breathtaking – better looking than any plastic surgery could achieve. A cool, sweet boy. He opened his mouth and dropped a megaton bomb: “My mom said you’re her childhood friend’s daughter and forced me to marry you.” Whoa. A mama’s boy. “I didn’t agree, so I got into a fistfight with her before coming here.” Oh. Never mind then. I hadn’t eaten breakfast, so I ordered a few extra dishes. The silver-haired boy, Felix, raised an eyebrow. “What, expecting another date?” The meal lasted an hour, filled with random banter and casual roasting. Zero romantic sparks. I checked my watch, preparing to make a polite exit, when the waiter walked over. “Sir, since you ordered the couple’s set menu, if you post an intimate photo of the two of you on social media, you can get twelve percent off!” Felix turned to look at me, confusion in his eyes. “The set menu was cheaper,” I explained, adding offhandedly, “I can pose for a picture with you, but I’m not posting it. You post it if you want.” Surely the young master of the wealthy Kerwin family didn’t care about a twelve percent discount. To my surprise, the moment the words left my mouth, Felix whipped out his phone. “Snap.” “Again, you blinked.” “Snap.” “Again, is your mouth glued shut?” “Snap.” Felix reviewed the photos, nodded in satisfaction, and slipped the phone back into his pocket. The waiter and I exchanged a bewildered look. The waiter kindly reminded him, “Sir, it needs to be posted on social media – like Instagram or TikTok.” Felix shook his head. “Nah. Do I look like I care about your twelve percent off?” Me: … “Then why did you take the photos?” Felix spoke with absolute seriousness: “It’s my first blind date. Keeping a souvenir.” “Who knows, might be my last.” 6. Felix walked me back to campus. Don’t get the wrong idea – he didn’t drive. He took an Uber here and decided to ride the subway back with me. He was actually pretty nice, managing to snatch a subway seat for me during rush hour. For a second, I almost felt like I was pregnant. After an hour on the subway, we finally arrived at the campus gates. Felix accompanied me all the way. I didn’t have a car, but I had acquired a dedicated escort. As we reached the gates, I saw Dylan and Kendra holding each other in a sweet embrace from a distance. “Tsk.” A sound of intense disgust came from right above my head. I was a bit confused. Honestly, setting aside everything else, purely as an aesthetic visual, the two of them looked quite striking together. Felix pointed at Dylan. “That’s my brother.” I was stunned. “Full brother?” “No. Illegitimate.” What a small world. I turned to Felix. “Don’t you have places to be? Why aren’t you leaving?” He shook his head. “My time isn’t that valuable.” “Come on, let’s go eavesdrop and see if we can catch some dramatic tea.” Saying that, he dragged me closer to Dylan and Kendra, creeping around like a stealthy stray dog. We heard Dylan saying in a dead serious tone: “Babe, you’re just too naive. Make sure you stay far away from that Palmer girl.” “She looks like she still hasn’t given up on me.” Kendra replied softly: “Don’t be like that. Cecilia is just jealous that I have such a great boyfriend, which is why she targets me everywhere.” “I saw her spending hours dressing up early this morning. Apparently, she went on a blind date with some off-campus guy… probably some shady loser.” Her tone dripped with fake concern, as if deeply worried I’d be scammed. The shady loser standing next to me, Felix, rolled his eyes. “Gross. I’m nauseous.” Dylan fell silent for a moment, appearing to ponder something. A second later, he let out a cold snort. “I could actually introduce her to a few decent guys, though they might not even look down at her level!” Kendra froze, hurriedly saying, “No need, really, she knows plenty of guys…” Ignoring her, Dylan continued self-importantly, “I have a cousin who just broke up with his girlfriend. He’s more than enough for her.” “When the time comes, she’ll owe you a favor and be utterly grateful to you. It’ll also finally sever her lingering feelings for me!” Seeing how set he was, Kendra could only nod along. And just like that, without my knowledge or consent as the actual subject, my next blind date was officially locked in. A second later, my phone buzzed with a text from Kendra. She was inviting me for coffee tomorrow, claiming she wanted to introduce me to a guy. I had zero interest. I was just about to text back a refusal when I turned my head and caught Felix staring intensely at my phone screen, radiating an aura of tragic longing out of nowhere. Spooked by his expression, my fingers glitched. I sent back a single word – [Sure].

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The man who had never once missed a date in five years disappeared on the morning of our wedding rehearsal. No calls, no texts, and his phone went straight to voicemail. Fearing the worst, I called my future sister-in-law, Bonnie. At first, she tried to soothe me with vague excuses, but her voice wavered, and she let it slip. “Look, Susie, it’s just a rehearsal. Thomas has someone far more important to take care of right now.” Before I could even process her words, the makeup artist in the bridal suite gasped, pointing toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the downtown plaza. “Oh my god, look at that,” she squealed, clutching her hands to her chest. “How romantic. A woman would be lucky to have a man who loves her like that.” I turned my head toward the giant LED billboard towering over the city center. There, illuminated in crisp high-definition, was my fiancé. Thomas was down on one knee, sliding a diamond ring onto the finger of his distant cousin, Mia. And standing right beside them, taking photos with a radiant smile, was my future mother-in-law—the woman who had spent years telling me she considered me the daughter she never had. My heart shattered in my chest. I called my best friend on speaker, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe. When she answered, she didn’t gasp. She didn’t scream. She just let out a long, heavy sigh. “Susie… I’m so sorry, but I knew,” she confessed softly. “Mia’s an orphan, and her depression is really severe. She’s never even been in a real relationship. It’s pathetic, honestly. Thomas’s just playing along to give her a little piece of mind, a fake title to make her happy before… well, you know. It was actually my idea. Just think of it as helping a sick girl, okay?” Listening to her casual, detached tone made my blood run cold. The makeup artist, completely oblivious to my crumbling world, turned around and smiled. “So, sweetie, when is your groom getting here?” A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my throat. “He’s not coming,” I whispered. “And I don’t want him anymore.” … The line to Bonnie was still open. “Look,” Bonnie’s voice cut back in, sharp and impatient. “Thomas told me himself—you’re the one marrying into the family. You’re the real bride. The doctor said Mia can’t handle any stress right now. Can’t you just treat this like a game of house for her sake?” When I stayed silent, Bonnie grew frantic. “Does playing house require renting the most expensive billboard in the middle of downtown?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. Bonnie lost her temper. “Why are you being so heartless, Susie? Mia has no parents! This might be the only time in her entire life she gets to wear a white dress! So what if my brother spent a little money to make her happy? Do you really have to count every single penny?” “Whatever,” she snapped. “I can’t deal with you. I’ll let my brother talk to you.” She slammed the phone down. On the giant screen across the plaza, the video froze on Mia’s tear-stained, euphoric face. Down on the street, passersby broke into cheers. Passing cars honked their horns in celebration. Only I stood alone in the quiet room, looking down at my bare left hand. Thomas had never proposed to me. Not once. He always said grand gestures were empty, narcissistic vanity—that building a real life together, quietly, was what truly mattered. Yet today, in front of the entire city, he gave all the grand gestures to his cousin. Minutes after the spectacle ended, Thomas’s call came through. “Susie, did Bonnie talk to you?” he started, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Mia had a severe breakdown last night. She cut her wrists. I had no choice. I had to pull off something drastic to keep her tethered to reality.” He paused, waiting for a response I didn’t give, before dropping into the familiar, gentle tone he always used to manage me. “I swear to you, Susie, no one could ever replace you in my heart. Tomorrow, as soon as the wedding is over, I’ll take you to the jeweler and buy you that three-carat ring you loved, okay?” If this had happened a year ago, I would have believed him. Three years ago, when my startup folded and left me swimming in debt, loan sharks came knocking on my door. It was Thomas who stood on my porch with a baseball bat, shielding me with his body. “Don’t be scared, Susie,” he had whispered, pulling me into his chest. “If the sky falls, I’ll hold it up for you.” Back then, his eyes held only me. But I didn’t believe him anymore. Because his world had grown crowded, and another woman now held the prime estate in his heart. I forced myself to look up at the ceiling, swallowing back the hot tears prickling my eyes. My voice was a scratchy thread. “Thomas… can you swear you don’t feel anything for her?” Silence stretched over the line. Then, Thomas exploded in frustration. “Susie, do you really have to throw a hysterical tantrum right now? I told you, you get the legal title. You’re the one becoming Mrs. Cornell. Mia has nothing! You have so much—why is it so hard for you to spare a tiny slice of your happiness for her?” A tear finally spilled over, trailing down my cheek as I let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. My parents died when I was a child. I had no siblings, no inheritance—only my frail, aging grandmother who raised me on a pension. And he dared to stand there and tell me I “had so much”? He wanted me to parcel out my love like table scraps? I wiped the moisture from my cheek. My tone went completely flat. “Fine. I’ll share.” And I would share completely. I would give it all away. Thomas, oblivious to the icy finality in my voice, let out a massive sigh of relief. “That’s my girl. I knew my Susie was reasonable. Oh, and don’t mention any of this to your grandmother, alright? Her heart is fragile. I don’t want her getting worked up over nothing. Once Mia stabilizes, I’ll come over and apologize to her properly.” The line went dead. Inside me, the last ember of warmth snuffed out. I knew I should walk away right now, but I couldn’t. Not yet. Not until tomorrow’s ceremony was recorded. Grandma had been praying for five years to see me walk down the aisle. Her heart was weak, and her doctor warned her against traveling. The plan had always been for me to record the wedding video, bring it to her nursing home, and watch it together. I needed that complete, beautiful video. It was the only gift I had left to give her. When I arrived back at our shared apartment later that afternoon, Thomas was already there. Before he could say a word, a pale, timid face peeked out from behind his shoulder. Mia. “Susie… I’m so sorry,” Mia whimpered, clutching a delicate cardigan around her shoulders. “I was terrified of being alone in the apartment, and Thomas was worried about me, so he brought me here.” Thomas smoothly wrapped an arm around her waist, easing her into the entryway. “Susie, Mia was just discharged. I couldn’t leave her alone. The mattress in the master bedroom is soft and ergonomic—it’s much better for her back right now. Let her stay in the master suite for a couple of days.” My eyes stung as I stared at him. That mattress was something I had spent three weekends visiting four different furniture showrooms to find, specifically for “our” bed. Before I could speak, Mia shrank back into Thomas’s side, trembling like a frightened bird. “Oh no… Susie, am I making you upset? If it bothers you, I’ll leave right now. My life is worthless anyway. It doesn’t matter if I die on the street.” She made a dramatic show of turning toward the door. Thomas’s brow furrowed, and he pulled her tightly back against his chest. “Stop talking like that! What nonsense! This is your home too.” He stroked her hair, then turned a stern, disappointed glare on me. “Susie, where is your grace? You’re usually so generous. Mia is suffering from severe trauma—are you really going to throw a fit over a bedroom?” Looking at the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms, the knot in my stomach suddenly loosened. The anger evaporated, replaced by a strange, numb detachment. “Fine,” I said softly. “I’ll take the guest room.” I walked into the master bedroom, pulled my designer suitcases out of the closet, and began packing everything I owned. As I folded a silk blouse, a pair of arms wrapped around my waist from behind. Thomas rested his chin on my shoulder, his breathing warm against my ear. “Susie, this is just temporary,” he murmured, his familiar sandalwood cologne washing over me. “Once her emotional state settles, I’ll get her a place of her own. Tonight, I’ll sleep in the guest room with you, okay?” I didn’t pull away. I just stared at the empty closet rack. “The guest bed is a twin,” I said evenly. “It’s too small for two people.” Thomas froze. Before he could respond, a sharp, piercing scream echoed from the living room. Instantly, his arms dropped from my waist. He didn’t even look back as he sprinted out of the room. When I zipped up my bags and walked out, I saw the shattered pieces of a jade bracelet scattered across the hardwood floor. It was the heirloom Thomas’s mother had shown me two days ago—a family piece passed down through generations, reserved strictly for the Cornell family’s official daughter-in-law. She had promised to place it on my wrist after the wedding. Clearly, she had already given it to Mia. My prospective mother-in-law was standing in the foyer, holding Mia’s trembling hands and cooing over her. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s just a piece of jewelry! As long as you didn’t cut your skin, that’s all that matters.” Then, she looked up and spotted me standing near the hallway with my suitcases. “Susie, look what happened. Mia’s heirloom bracelet broke,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth. “Since her hand is bare now, lend her that custom diamond tiara you had made for tomorrow’s ceremony. Just for the day.” I stared at her in utter disbelief. That tiara was my pride and joy. I had spent six months sketching the design, sourcing the conflict-free lab diamonds, and saving every spare dollar from my freelance consulting jobs to pay the jeweler. Even Thomas seemed to realize how absurd the request was. He hesitated. “Mom… tomorrow is Susie’s wedding. It’s not really appropriate for Mia to wear the bridal headpiece.” His mother whipped around, glaring at him. “What’s inappropriate about it? You already proposed to Mia in front of the whole city! Are you really going to be so stingy over a headband?” She turned back to me, her eyes narrowing with moral disdain. “Susie, don’t be so petty. Fighting over a crown with a girl who is mentally ill… aren’t you afraid of bringing bad karma on yourself?” Thomas shifted his weight, avoiding my gaze entirely. “Susie… maybe just for the photos?” A cold laugh bubbled up from my chest. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll lend it to her.” I went back to the room and dug out the brass-plated prototype the jeweler had sent me months ago during the draft phase—the one with faint scratches and fake glass crystals. Mia was a treacherous homewrecker; she didn’t deserve to touch my genuine custom piece. When I brought the box out, Mia grabbed it with greedy, trembling hands. “Thank you, Susie! You’re so sweet!” Thomas stepped closer to me, reaching out to stroke my hair. “Susie, I know you’re making sacrifices. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” I tilted my head, letting his hand fall empty into the air. … The bridal dressing room at the venue the next morning was suffocatingly quiet. There were no laughing bridesmaids, no champagne toasts, no family popping in with tears of joy. Just a hired makeup artist mechanically dabbing foundation onto my pale skin. “Miss Michell, has your bridal bouquet arrived yet?” the stylist asked, adjusting my veil. I pulled out my phone and checked the tracking app. The courier notification showed that the custom lily-of-the-valley bouquet—ordered a month ago from a specialty florist—had been delivered an hour ago. Signed for by: “Thomas Cornell.” Just then, Bonnie strolled into the room holding a cheap, wilted arrangement of deep red roses. “Susie,” she said carelessly, tossing the flowers onto the vanity. “Thomas thought the white lilies were too plain. White is unlucky for weddings anyway. He had the driver swap them for red roses.” Lilies of the valley were my favorite flowers. Thomas had known that for five years. And now, he had traded them for a half-dead bundle of clearance roses. It was almost poetic in its cruelty. I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I just asked, “Is the wedding car outside?” Bonnie’s eyes flickered nervously. She crossed her arms, fidgeting with her bracelet. “Uh, the lead limousine had a minor mechanical glitch. Thomas told the driver to use the backup sedan to pick you up. Hey… make sure you don’t wear a sour face out there today. There are dozens of relatives out in the hall.” If I was throwing the man away, why should I care about the car? I stood up, smoothing the tulle skirts of my dress. “Let’s go.” The main ballroom was decorated lavishly, floating in a sea of soft ivory roses and crystal chandeliers. However, as I sat near the back corner of the family seating area, I looked up at the main multimedia screens. Interspersed among the engagement photos of Thomas and me were several solitary portraits of Mia. In the photos, she was wearing my custom prototype tiara, laughing radiant and free. Beside me, Thomas’s groomsmen were whispering among themselves, oblivious to my presence. “Man, Thomas is such a good guy,” one whispered. “To pull off a stunt like this just to grant Mia’s dying wish, even risking his own wedding day.” “Right?” another nodded. “Susie is lucky. Marrying a guy with that much honor and responsibility? She hit the jackpot. I just hope she doesn’t make a scene today and embarrass him.” I picked up the glass of water in front of me and took a sip. It was ice-cold, sliding down my esophagus like liquid glass. The grand brass doors at the end of the aisle swung open, and the emcee’s booming voice echoed through the speakers. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for our breathtaking bride!” I took a breath and prepared to stand up. Before I could even plant my feet, a figure in a sweeping white bridal gown, wearing my tiara and clutching my fresh bouquet of lilies of the valley, stepped out into the spotlight. Mia. The spotlight washed over her delicate features. From the front row, Thomas—clad in his tailored black tuxedo—stepped forward, taking her gloved hand with immense gentleness. In the front row, Thomas’s mother wiped tears from her eyes. Bonnie clapped frantically. The crowd of guests broke into a roar of applause, touched by what appeared to be a fairytale romance. And there I sat. The actual bride, dressed in my own gown, sitting isolated in the audience, watching my groom vow his life to another woman. I didn’t yell. I didn’t tear down the decorations. Because this entire farce was being filmed. As long as I could get the raw video file afterward, I could edit out the stage, splice in my footage, and show my grandmother a dignified, beautiful wedding. She would never know the degradation I suffered today. She would never have her heart broken. The music swelled. Thomas leaned down and kissed Mia softly on the lips. The crowd erupted into another round of cheers. The stage show was over. It was time for me to grab the master tape and leave this nightmare behind forever. I stood up, turning toward the exit. And then, my breath hitched. Standing in the doorway of the ballroom, leaning heavily on a cane, was the frail, hunched figure of my grandmother. “Grandma!” Panic surged through my veins. I threw off my train and sprinted across the room toward her. Grandma lived in a rural town over three hundred miles away. Because of her severe advanced heart failure, her doctors had strictly forbidden long travel. That was why I had planned to bring the video back to her home. How on earth was she standing here? Grandma’s clouded eyes swept over the stage—over Mia in her white gown, over Thomas holding her waist—and then fell upon me, standing in the aisle in my matching dress. Her hand trembled violently as she raised her cane, pointing it straight at Thomas’s face. “My granddaughter is sitting in the crowd wearing her wedding dress…” Grandma’s voice shook with terrifying rage. “…and you are holding another woman at the altar?! Thomas Cornell… do you think the Michell family has no one left to stand up for her?!” Thomas’s face instantly drained of color. He dropped Mia’s hand and stumbled down the altar steps. “Grandma! Let me explain!” he stammered, panic lacing his tone. “This is just an act! Susie is the only one I love!” Then, he turned his glare toward me, his eyes burning with accusation. “Susie! Grandma is old and fragile—she doesn’t understand what’s going on! Did you secretly bring her here just to ruin everything and stress her out?” I didn’t bother arguing with him. I wrapped my arms around Grandma’s frail shoulders, my hands trembling. “Grandma, I don’t want him anymore. Let’s go home.” Before we could turn around, Mia hurried down the steps, pulling a leather-bound red booklet from her clutch. “Grandma, please don’t blame Thomas!” Mia cried, holding up a official-looking marriage certificate. “The truth is… Thomas and I are already legally married! Susie is the intruder here! She’s the one who refused to let him go!” When my grandmother was a young woman, she had been slandered and ruined by a wealthy family accusing her of being a mistress. It was the deepest trauma of her life. She leaned forward, squinting at the names printed inside the booklet. Her breathing suddenly became shallow, terrifyingly rapid. “You… how could you do this to my Susie…” Her eyelids fluttered, and her knees buckled. “Grandma!” I screamed, catching her limp body before she hit the marble floor. I dropped to my knees, frantically pressing my thumb into the pressure point above her lip. “Grandma! Wake up!” I looked up at Thomas, tears blurring my vision. “Thomas! Get your car! Take us to the hospital right now!” Thomas took a step toward me—but behind him, Mia gasped softly, clutching her chest and collapsing onto the floor like a broken doll. “Thomas… my chest hurts…” she whimpered, gasping for air. “I… I can’t breathe…” Thomas halted mid-stride. He looked at me, then back at Mia, his face a knot of conflict. “Susie,” he said, turning his back on us. “Grandma can wait a few minutes—just call an ambulance! Mia’s having a panic attack, she needs her medication in the dressing room!” Without waiting for my reply, he scooped Mia into his arms and sprinted down the hallway, disappearing around the corner. I stared at his retreating back, and the last shred of my soul died. The city ambulance took forty minutes to navigate the weekend traffic. As I knelt on the cold marble floor of the venue foyer, cradling my grandmother’s chest, her frail hand slowly slipped out of mine, dropping limply to the floor. … Three hours later. After getting Mia settled in a private clinic, Thomas finally remembered to check on us. He searched every hospital within a five-mile radius, but found no record of my grandmother’s admission. In a panic, he drove back to our apartment to look for me. He unlocked the door and shoved it open—only to be met by a middle-aged woman in yellow rubber gloves holding a mop. Thomas froze. “Who are you? Where’s Susie?” The woman gave him an indifferent glance, leaning on her mop. “The girl who lived here? She moved out an hour ago, honey. Sold me the place for cash at a steep discount.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “558511”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The fall semester of our junior year kicked off with the Student Government Association elections. My best friend, Betty, and I both made it to the final ballot for Vice President. Right before the votes were tallied, Betty proposed a playful bet: whoever lost had to dress up in a clown costume and run eight laps around the track field in front of the entire campus. I won by a narrow margin of ten votes. The applause hadn’t even died down when the screen behind the podium flickered. My boyfriend, Todd, stepped up to the AV system and projected a series of photos across the massive display in the auditorium. They were pictures from a nightmare I thought I’d put behind me—a night at a local lounge where a stranger had tried to corner me—spliced together with intimate, explicit photos of me asleep in bed. Todd grabbed the microphone, his voice cutting through the stunned silence like an ice pick. “I don’t believe someone who sells her body for money and lives a disgusting double life deserves to represent this university,” he announced calmly. In an instant, hundreds of eyes shifted toward me, heavy with disgust and malice, treating me like toxic waste. I was immediately disqualified and stripped of my SGA title. Staring at the familiar hotel headboard in those intimate photos, my chest heaved. I cornered Todd in the hallway behind the stage, my hands shaking uncontrollably. “Why are you lying?” I choked out, tears burning my eyes. “Those private photos… you took them when I was asleep. Why would you do this?” Todd stepped closer, leaning in with a faint, chilling smile. He lowered his voice so only I could hear. “Coral, baby, it doesn’t matter who took them.” “You know how sensitive Betty is,” he whispered, his breath warm against my cheek. “She cries if her hair gets slightly messy. If I forced her to wear a hideous clown suit in front of everyone, she’d be broken for a month.” “Besides, you “were” touched at that bar, and you “did” sleep with me. I just merged the two truths. Be a good girl. Once you finish running your laps, I’ll take you out to a nice dinner.” I stood frozen as he walked away, high-fiving Betty as they laughed and debated where to host her victory celebration. Wiping the cold tears from my cheeks, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I had kept hidden for months. “Mom,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m moving to London with you.” … Someone dragged a battered clown suit out of the SGA storage closet and dumped it at my feet. It was stained with a lukewarm, greasy liquid. The guy who threw it smirked at me. “Sorry about that, Coral. I spilled my cup noodles on it earlier. Don’t be picky.” “Then again,” he added, his eyes scanning me up and down with sleazy curiosity, “I hear rich guys in VIP suites like pouring champagne all over girls like you anyway. You’re probably used to it, right? Though if you want to run naked, we wouldn’t complain. Let’s see what the design department’s golden girl—or should I say, campus escort—is really packing under there.” The foul smell of stale noodle broth mixed with the crude laughter of the guys around me, suffocating me. The night at the lounge had been a terrifying near-miss. Todd had arrived just in time, pulled me out, and called the campus police before anything actual happened. I had been terrified of becoming the subject of vicious campus gossip, and Todd had kissed my forehead, promising on his life that he would guard my secret forever. Now, he was the executioner nailing me to the cross of public shame. When I stepped out of the restroom wearing the damp, ridiculous costume, Todd was leaning against the wall outside. “Don’t worry, I kept guard so those boys didn’t peek,” he said gently. “I told them to keep their mouths shut, too.” It sounded so considerate, so protective. Yet it sent a sharp, agonizing chill straight through my spine. I looked up into his handsome, familiar face. “You lied to me a few nights ago, didn’t you? You didn’t get your drink spiked at that networking event. You just wanted to get me to your room, wait until I fell asleep, and take those photos so Betty wouldn’t lose.” We had been secretly dating for five years, ever since high school, keeping our relationship hidden on campus. We had never crossed the line into intimacy—until a few nights ago. He had called me in a panic, crying that someone had slipped something into his drink at a fraternity mixer and begging me to come over. I had rushed to his side out of pure, unadulterated love, unaware that I was walking into a carefully laid trap. Before Todd could answer, Betty stepped out from behind him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Coral, please don’t be mad at Todd,” she sobbed softly. “He was just worried I’d lose face. Why don’t you give me the suit? I’ll run for you. It’s fine if everyone laughs at me…” Todd immediately pulled her into his chest, frowning. “What are you talking about? You have delicate skin—you couldn’t handle wearing that filthy thing for a second.” He turned back to me, his brow furrowed in disapproval. “Coral, don’t be so bitter. They’re just a few photos. As long as I know you’re clean, isn’t that enough? You grew up in an orphanage, so you don’t care about social standing. But Betty’s family and relatives all know she was running for VP. If she loses, how is she supposed to face them?” A sharp pain constricted my heart, cutting off my air supply. I had never realized that growing up in foster care made me disposable in his eyes. The September humidity hung heavy over the campus track field. By the sixth lap, black spots danced across my vision, and my knees buckled, sending me crashing onto the rough dirt lane. “Are you okay?” Todd’s voice sounded behind me, sharp with worry. I instinctively turned my head, only to freeze. He wasn’t looking at me. He was standing near the bleachers, holding an iced latte in one hand while his other hand gently stroked Betty’s back as she patted her chest. His gaze was filled with helpless adoration. “Drink slowly, no one’s rushing you. See? You choked. Only two more sips—your stomach is sensitive, you know cold drinks mess you up.” He didn’t cast a single glance in my direction. A few freshmen coming off ROTC training walked past, recognizing Todd, and waved enthusiastically. “Senior Todd! Is she your girlfriend? You guys look amazing together! Wishing you two forever!” Other SGA members joined in the teasing. “Seriously, you two have been feeding us couple goals for three years now. When are you making it official? You’re buying us drinks tonight!” I watched Todd and Betty exchange a soft, knowing smile. Neither of them denied it. A scorching burn rose from my dry throat, spreading through my lungs and limbs. After the night at the hotel, I had asked Todd if we could finally make our relationship public. He had frowned and brushed me off: “Coral, we’re both in student government. We have to avoid conflict of interest. Otherwise, people will think I’m using my presidency to give my girlfriend special treatment. Let’s wait until graduation.” It was never about ethics. He just wanted to save the public spotlight for someone else. Trembling, I pulled my phone from my pocket and tapped the familiar contact. [Mom, I’ve made up my mind. I’m moving to London with you.] My biological mother had tracked me down two months ago. She was now a successful corporate executive based in the UK and had been desperate to bring me over to finish my design degree. I had repeatedly turned her down because I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Todd. I hadn’t even found the right moment to tell him about her. Now, I realized there was no need. I forced myself up and dragged my aching body through the final lap. I wanted nothing more than to retreat to my dorm and collapse, but Todd insisted that the team was heading to an upscale restaurant to celebrate Betty’s win, and that I had to come along. My head was spinning, and a dull, freezing ache had settled deep in my lower abdomen. I tried to refuse—after all, I was no longer part of SGA. Todd grabbed my wrist, his expression darkening. “Betty considers you her best friend, which is why she invited you. Do you really have to ruin her night by pretending to be sick? If you don’t go, she’s going to cry.” “Besides, everyone was just joking around earlier. Don’t take it so personally. A deal’s a deal, Coral. Don’t be a sore loser. Go change your clothes and don’t keep everyone waiting.” In the end, I was dragged along to the private dining room. Once the food arrived, an officer from SGA gave Todd a knowing wink. “Todd, didn’t you prepare a special congratulations gift for Betty? Bring it out!” Todd smirked and pulled a velvet box from his inner coat pocket. Inside lay an exquisite, glittering diamond bracelet. Betty gasped, covering her mouth in shock, while the rest of the table burst into screams. “Holy crap! Isn’t that from the luxury jewelry exhibition last week? That costs at least forty grand!” “No wonder Todd sold his brand-new luxury watch and emptied his personal savings! Betty really has you wrapped around her finger, huh?” My breath hitched. I instinctively looked at Todd’s wrist. It was bare. Last year, Todd had fallen in love with a limited-edition watch. His family was comfortable, but they weren’t the type to drop ten thousand dollars on a timepiece for a college student. To buy it for him, I had spent a year and a half working three part-time jobs, taking freelance design commissions late into the night, and dipping into the allowance my mother had sent me. I had finally surprised him with it on his birthday a few weeks ago. He had swept me into his arms, spinning me around in tears, swearing he would treasure it until he was eighty years old. And now, he had sold it to buy a bracelet for Betty. A wave of nausea hit me so hard my vision blurred. I scrambled out of my chair, the metal legs scraping loudly against the floor. Everyone turned to stare at me in surprise. Without a word of explanation, I sprinted to the restroom and threw up until my ribs ached. When I wiped my mouth and stepped out, Todd was waiting by the sinks, his face thunderous. “Coral, how long are you going to keep throwing this pathetic tantrum?” he demanded. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was when you stormed out like that? Betty thinks you’re still mad at her—she’s practically in tears in there! You’re going back in and apologizing to her.” A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest. “You sold the watch I bled to buy you just to get a gift for another woman, and I’m not allowed to be angry?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Todd… do you even remember what today is? It’s our five-year anniversary.” Todd flinched slightly, his brows knitting closer together. “Stop making a scene! Who said I forgot?” He shoved a heavy manila envelope into my hands. “You want to be a jewelry designer after graduation, right? I took high-res photos of the pieces at the exhibition for you. They’re great study material.” I looked at the thick stack of printed photos, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. “So Betty gets a forty-thousand-dollar diamond bracelet, and I get a stack of cheap flyers you took on your phone?” I stared straight into his eyes. “Todd, who is actually your girlfriend?” Irritation flashed across his face. “Why do you always have to ruin things?” “We can celebrate our anniversary any day, but today is important to Betty. She’s wanted that bracelet forever. You’re her best friend and you didn’t get her anything, so I had to step up on your behalf!” “It’s just a piece of jewelry—do you really have to compete with her over everything? Once I start working, I’ll buy you something better. All you talk about is money, Coral. You haven’t even entered the real world yet—don’t become so damn materialistic!” I stared at him in utter disbelief as he spun on his heel and walked away. It was never about the bracelet. When I reached the dining room, the door was cracked open. They were playing Spin the Bottle. The bottle landed on Betty, and the dare was to kiss a member of the opposite sex for three minutes, or take a shot of whiskey. Betty caught my reflection in the glass door, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face. “Oh… my stomach isn’t feeling great tonight, but… I guess I’ll drink.” As her hand reached for the shot glass, Todd snatched it from her fingers. “Your stomach hurts and you’re drinking liquor? Are you trying to kill yourself?” Before she could respond, Todd cupped the back of Betty’s head, pulled her in, and pressed his lips firmly onto hers. Betty’s eyes drifted toward the door. The helpless, innocent act was completely gone, replaced by the cruel, triumphant smirk of a victor. I couldn’t watch another second. I turned and stumbled out of the restaurant into the thick night air. The moment I crossed the street, a sharp, excruciating pain ripped through my lower abdomen. Dizziness swept over me, and the world went pitch black. … When I woke up, the sterile smell of antiseptic filled my lungs. I was lying in a hospital bed. A nurse was adjusting my IV line, giving me a stern look. “What is wrong with you young girls? Running intense track laps while suffering from severe dysmenorrhea?” “It’s scorching outside—do you know how close you were to severe heatstroke and dehydration?” She sighed, her tone softening slightly. “Since you didn’t have any personal supplies, I placed a medical pad under you on the bed. You need to call your family or boyfriend to bring you a pack of pads and a clean pair of pants. Yours are ruined.” I hadn’t realized my period was coming early. My lower body felt heavy and chilled, and the IV fluids were making my bladder ache. I couldn’t even stand up to walk to the bathroom without bleeding through. Desperate, I pulled out my phone and dialed Todd. He declined the first four calls. On the tenth try, he finally picked up. “Todd,” I whispered, my voice trembling with embarrassment. “I passed out from cramps… I’m at the hospital. Can you please buy me a pack of pads and bring them over? And maybe a cheap pair of sweatpants…” “Coral, aren’t you tired of acting?” Todd interrupted, his tone laced with disgust. “Betty is having a great time right now. Why do you always have to ruin her happiness? I don’t have the time or energy to deal with your drama.” “Click.” The line went dead, replaced by the cold, rhythmic beep of the dial tone. In the end, it was my academic advisor, Professor Lawson, who saw my desperate text, brought a pair of her own workout pants, and stayed by my bed the entire night. The next morning, as I was being discharged, Professor Lawson looked at me with deep concern. “Coral, are you absolutely sure you want to process a complete withdrawal from the university?” I unlocked my phone. There were no missed calls or texts from Todd. Instead, a post from one of the SGA members popped up on my feed from late last night. [Congrats to the newlyweds! Heading into the honeymoon suite tonight~] The attached photo showed Todd supporting a tipsy Betty as they walked into a luxury hotel lobby. Betty had left a comment with blushing and laughing emojis. Todd had replied: [Cut it out. Delete this before Betty gets embarrassed.] He hadn’t denied it. Not even once. I stared at the screen for a long time, then locked my phone and looked up at Professor Lawson, offering a faint, hollow smile. “Yes, Professor. I’m completely sure.” I followed her to the administration office and signed the withdrawal papers. When I returned to my dorm room to pack my belongings, I found all my clothes, books, and design sketches piled outside in the dusty hallway. My mattress had been dragged into the corridor, drenched in bleach, reeking of harsh chemicals. I stared at my three roommates, my knuckles turning white. “What is the meaning of this?” Kendra, the head of the room, kicked a chair aside and pointed a finger at my face. “You still have the nerve to ask? Your ‘best friend’ Betty told us everything! You’ve been living a dirty double life, and you got hospitalized this morning because of some disgusting infection! How dare you live in our dorm? You’re a hazard to public health!” “We’re not sharing a space with trash like you. Grab your stuff and get the hell out, or I’m reporting you to the dean!” I stood paralyzed, my mind struggling to process her words. Becca, a roommate who had always been quiet and kind to me, pulled me away from the door and whispered nervously, “Coral… Betty accidentally posted some… explicit photos of you in the department group chat this morning.” “She deleted them right away, but hundreds of people saw them. Everyone’s freaking out. You should check the chat.” I opened the department chatroom—a group of over a thousand students that I had muted months ago. Scrolling up, my heart plummeted into a dark abyss. [Woah, didn’t know Coral had a body like that! Must have a ton of wealthy clients, huh?] [I heard someone saw her being escorted out of the hospital by an advisor this morning. She wasn’t even wearing the pants she wore yesterday. Did she get caught in a police bust? That wild, huh?] [Gross, that’s disgusting. What if she’s contagious? Feeling so bad for her roommates right now.] Below the messages, Betty had sent a shushing emoji. [Guys, please, it was an accident! I slipped and clicked the wrong file. Please pretend you didn’t see anything!] [Coral grew up without parents, so it hasn’t been easy for her to make money. As for whether she has an illness… I shouldn’t betray her privacy. Just please don’t discriminate against her, and make sure you sanitize your living spaces!] I didn’t need to guess. The photos Betty had “accidentally” posted and deleted were the exact intimate images Todd had projected on the screen during the election. The text blurred before my eyes. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the phone. Todd had forwarded those photos to Betty. “This” was his definition of “guarding my secret”? I marched straight to the SGA office. Through the cracked door, I heard Betty chatting animatedly with another student. “Is the stuff about Coral really true?” the girl asked. “How can you still be friends with her? Aren’t you disgusted?” Betty sighed dramatically. “The pictures speak for themselves, and I’m terrible at lying. But I feel sorry for her. I heard her mother was a street worker who died of diseases, which is why her father abandoned her at an orphanage. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Rage surged through my veins, hot and blinding. I kicked the door open with a loud “BANG”. “You’re lying! My mother is nothing like that! Don’t you dare insult her!” I rushed toward Betty, my hand raised to slap the fake smile off her face. Before my hand could land, a powerful force shoved me backward. I stumbled and crashed onto the floor, the sharp edge of a metal desk catching the side of my forehead. A searing burst of pain radiated through my skull, followed by a warm trickle of blood pouring down my face. Todd stood over me, his eyes blazing with fury. “Coral, what the hell is wrong with you?!” Seeing the blood dripping down my cheek, Todd’s expression flickered with panic. He reached out to pull me up. “Co… Coral, are you okay? I didn’t mean to—” Betty immediately wrapped her arms around his arm, sobbing hysterically. “Todd, I was scared Coral was still mad at me, so I went to her dorm this morning to apologize! I was worried people were spreading rumors, so I tried to clear her name in the group chat, but she wouldn’t listen!” “She even stole the diamond bracelet you gave me! I tried to handle it quietly by calling her here so she could just give it back, but she tried to attack me!” The girl next to her quickly chimed in. “Yes! I saw it with my own eyes! Coral stole Betty’s bracelet!” Without asking, the girl grabbed my canvas bag off the floor and dumped its contents onto the desk. Among my notebooks and pencils, the sparkling diamond bracelet tumbled out. My breath hitched. I looked at Todd frantically. “I didn’t! She lied, she was the one who—” “Enough!” Todd shattered my explanation, his eyes filled with cold disappointment. “Coral, Betty has been trying to protect you at every turn, and you repay her by stealing her things? Are you really that jealous of her?” “You really are an uneducated brat raised without parents. Apologize to Betty right now!” I stared at him, my heart turning to ash. Years ago, when kids at school called me an orphan, I had been consumed by insecurity, desperately wishing for a family to love me. Back then, Todd had held me tightly, kissing my forehead. “Coral, you are the most incredible girl I’ve ever met. To me, you are stronger than anyone with parents. From now on, I am your family. I will love you twice as much to make up for everything.” It turned out that the person who knows where your wounds are is always the one who knows exactly where to plunge the knife. I looked at him, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “What if I refuse?” Todd looked at me deeply, then turned to the gathered crowd. “Call the police.” “And turn on the campus broadcast system. Announce to the entire university that Coral from the Design Department is a thief.” Someone hesitated. “Todd, are you sure? If we do that, she’ll get a permanent disciplinary record, and police involvement will ruin her future career. Since we found the bracelet, maybe—” “No,” Todd cut in coldly. “She stole from Betty today—who knows what she’ll do to hurt her tomorrow? She needs to learn her lesson the hard way.” It didn’t take long for the entire campus to brand me a thief. Amid the harsh jeers and disgusted glares of onlookers, the police escorted me toward the cruiser outside. Todd ran up to the car before the door closed, lowering his voice. “Coral… Betty is kind-hearted. She’s willing to settle, but because the bracelet is so expensive, you’ll have to stay in custody for a month before bail can be posted.” “Use this time to reflect on what you did. I’m doing this for your own good. Don’t worry about the criminal record—if you can’t find a job in the future, I’ll support you.” Looking at the man who had chosen to believe a lie without a second thought, without a single shred of concern for my dignity or future, a faint smile touched my lips. “Todd,” I said softly. “We’re over.” Todd froze, a sudden flicker of confusion passing over his eyes. Before he could say anything, the police officer shut the door. As the cruiser pulled away, I turned to the young female officer sitting beside me. “Officer,” I said quietly, “I have full video evidence proving my innocence.” … An hour later, I walked out of the police station a free woman. I called Professor Lawson to confirm that my university withdrawal documents had cleared, and asked her to mail the final transcripts to my mother’s address in London. Then, I boarded a one-way flight across the Atlantic. I didn’t want to spend another second in this place. Three days later, Todd had a free morning and decided to head to the station to visit me, only to run into Professor Lawson in the administrative hallway. When he mentioned his plan, Professor Lawson frowned. “You don’t need to go. The police cleared Coral days ago. She was completely innocent.” “In fact, she left the country three days ago to study abroad.”

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On the morning of our wedding, my fiancé, Joel, booked out the entire grand ballroom of the city’s premiere hotel. A massive LED screen played a continuous loop of our five years together, and the stage was smothered in white peonies—the exact flowers I’d offhandedly mentioned loving two years ago. More than a hundred guests I’d never seen before called out my name in unison as I walked toward the alter. My eyes welled with tears. I thought this was the grand, secret surprise he’d spent months orchestrating behind my back. Until my phone vibrated in my clutch. It was my father. “Sadie,” he whispered softly, his voice drowned out by static. “The security guard at the front gate says my digital pass is invalid. He won’t let me in.” I hiked up the heavy train of my wedding gown and rushed toward the head table. But sitting in the chair reserved for my father was a total stranger. The man casually adjusted a metallic gold wristband on his arm, holding up his smartphone to film me. “Do you mind stepping out of my frame? I paid eight hundred bucks for this seat specifically to experience the ceremony from the Father-of-the-Bride perspective.” A second later, every phone in the room chimed at once. [Allow the father of the bride to enter the venue?] My heart hammered against my ribs. I assumed the event coordination firm had made a catastrophic error, and I turned to scan the crowd for Joel. Then I noticed the fine print at the bottom of the notification on my screen: [This interactive event node was personally configured by the groom, Joel.] … A month before the wedding, Joel had gently taken my binder of vendor contacts and planning checklists out of my hands. “You’ve carried the weight of us for five years,” he had said, folding the paperwork neatly and tucking it into his jacket before pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “Let me handle this one. Sadie, your only job is to show up and marry me.” At the time, his tech startup was pitching to venture capitalists, trying desperately to raise a seed round. He was working round-the-clock, barely coming home to sleep. I hadn’t expected him to actually put together a grand affair; I’d already pre-booked the venue and drafted the guest list myself just to lighten his load. So when the town car pulled up to the hotel that morning, I had been utterly blown away. Outside the main foyer stood a fifty-foot gallery wall of our memories. The very first photograph was from five years ago: Joel and me sitting on the curb outside a 7-Eleven at two in the morning, sharing a cup of instant noodles. He’d just experienced his first major business failure, down to his last twenty-seven dollars, yet he’d scooped the only slice of sausage out of his broth and put it in my bowl. Beneath the image was a single painted line: [Thank you for walking with me from twenty-seven dollars to today.] Over the last six months, I’d gone to dress fittings alone. On the day we went to get our marriage license, he’d arrived two hours late because a client meeting had run over. It wasn’t that I hadn’t felt hurt. But staring up at that wall, the lingering resentment in my chest melted away. Everything felt answered for. He had remembered. He cared. “Miss Shaw, let’s get you into your dress,” a coordinator said with a warm smile, guiding me into the bridal suite. “Mr. Joel has so many surprises lined up for you.” Half an hour later, the suite door swung open. Joel walked in wearing the tailored black tuxedo I’d picked out for him. Two camera operators followed closely behind. One of them immediately mounted a camera on a tripod beside the vanity mirror, its red recording light blinking continuously. “Why are there so many cameras?” I asked, smoothing down my lace sleeves. “To capture the memory,” he replied, stepping behind me to adjust my veil. In the mirror’s reflection, the dark circles under his eyes spoke of countless sleepless nights, yet his expression was intensely focused. “There are a lot of key clients here today, Sadie. Potential investors, too. I want everyone to see who brought me to where I am.” A lump formed in my throat. I didn’t care about public grandstanding; I just wanted to know that as his career soared, there would still be a place for me beside him. And here he was, giving me his answer in front of the world. “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll ruin your makeup,” Joel murmured, gently catching a tear with the pad of his thumb. He smiled softly. “I want everyone in that room to see how much I love you.” The camera operator pushed in closer, framing our faces in tight focus. Self-conscious under the lens, I lowered my head and laughed softly. From outside, a sudden burst of coordinated applause echoed through the doors. A coordinator pulled back the velvet curtain, giving me a quick preview of the hall. The grand ballroom was packed to capacity. Aside from two family tables near the front, I didn’t recognize a single face in the crowd. The guests weren’t chatting among themselves; they were all staring fixatedly toward the bridal suite. A young woman in the front row caught my eye and whispered to the person beside her, “She looks even better in person than in the trailer—” She caught herself mid-sentence and quickly corrected herself. “—than in the photos.” I didn’t think twice about the slip of the tongue. Joel’s company specialized in interactive software and live-event engagement. I assumed these people were prospective clients or beta testers his team had invited to run a live demo. Joel checked his watch and pressed a quick kiss to my temple. “I’m going out front. At eleven-eighteen sharp, I’m coming to make you my wife.” I nodded, watching him walk out. Left alone, I pulled out my phone to see if my father had arrived. Just ten minutes ago, he’d sent a nervous selfie asking if his tie was straight, telling me he’d rewritten his father-of-the-bride speech six times because he was terrified of messing up on stage. Before I could dial his number, my phone chimed with an incoming call from him. “Dad! Where are you?” I smiled. “Joel set up the most incredible—” “Sadie,” my father interrupted, his voice hushed and tight. “The security team at the gate… they’re telling me my digital pass is invalid.” “What?” “They won’t let me through the entrance.” “Stay right there, Dad. I’m coming down.” I grabbed my heavy skirts and headed for the door, but the makeup artist quickly stepped into my path. “Miss Shaw, the ceremony starts in twenty-eight minutes. You can’t go outside now.” “My father is stuck at the gate.” “Mr. Joel has structured every second of the timeline,” she insisted, her tone unnaturally rigid. “Please don’t disrupt the flow.” I froze, looking at her intently. “You knew my father was outside?” She averted her eyes. I pushed past her and walked swiftly down the carpeted hallway. At the entrance of the ballroom lounge stood two automated turnstiles manned by security. My father was standing on the far side, his tie visibly crooked, clutching a sheath of paper covered in his handwriting. “Dad, why aren’t they letting you in?” “They said my code’s already been scanned,” he murmured softly, avoiding my eyes. “It’s probably just a system glitch. Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. Go back inside.” As he spoke, he tried to tuck the speech behind his back, but I caught sight of the top line written in his blue ink: “I can finally hand my daughter over to a man who will protect her.” The more he tried to make excuses for the situation, the harder the knot in my stomach pulled. Today was my wedding day, yet my father was being forced to stand outside like an uninvited trespasser. “Check the system again,” I demanded of the attendant. “He’s the father of the bride.” “Mr. Shaw’s scheduled entry window hasn’t opened yet,” the staff member replied mechanically. “What do you mean ‘entry window’?” I snapped. A female assistant nearby tugged at the staff member’s sleeve, whispering under her breath, “Stop arguing with her. This is the exact sequence Mr. Joel set up.” I dialed Joel’s cell immediately, but he declined the call. A second later, a text from his assistant popped up: [Joel is reviewing the soundboard and opening equipment right now. We’ll handle any issues after the ceremony.] An uneasy nausea settled in my gut, though I forced it down. “Maybe this is part of Joel’s plan,” I told myself desperately. “Maybe he’s going to personally walk Dad in during a special moment.” “Dad, give me two minutes,” I said softly. I turned back into the ballroom, heading straight for the head table to find his team. Sitting beneath the floral centerpiece labeled “Father of the Bride” was a middle-aged man wearing a metallic gold wristband, holding his phone up, camera pointed directly at me. “This seat is taken,” I said, my voice shaking. The man didn’t move. Instead, he leaned over and gestured to the people at his table. “Look, the bride’s here!” “You’re sitting in my father’s seat.” “I know,” he said, tapping the gold band on his wrist with a grin. “I bought the Father-of-the-Bride POV ticket. Eight hundred dollars. Stand back a bit, will you? I need a clean angle to catch your dad’s entrance reaction.” Blood rushed to my ears. “What do you mean, you “bought” it?” “You don’t know?” He flipped his phone screen toward me, displaying an app dashboard titled “Real Wedding: Live Immersive Experience”. “General Observer: $100. Father-of-the-Bride VIP Seat: $800.” In the top right corner, a counter showed: “128 Tickets Sold.” The event description listed our detailed backstory—the exact date Joel and I met, the address of our first apartment, the location of his proposal, even the details of our brief breakup three years ago. “Who gave you this information?” I demanded. A young woman at the table chuckled. “The organizers, obviously. The promo page said the couple was fully aware and participating. Don’t tell me you’re starting the method acting already?” “Acting what?” She glanced at her phone. “Your dad’s blocked at the turnstile, right? Isn’t the next story node supposed to test whether you’ll delay the wedding for him?” My eyes whipped toward the stage. Joel was standing beneath the spotlights, testing a lapel mic. Catching my gaze, his smile faltered, and he walked briskly toward me, gripping my arm and pulling me into an alcove. “Sadie, why are you out here?” “Why are strangers paying money to sit in my father’s chair, Joel?” “It’s just a few immersive spectator seats,” Joel whispered, leaning in so only I could hear. “We’re running a live product demo for potential investors today. I was going to explain everything once the event wrapped.” “Let my dad in. Now.” He gripped both of my hands in his. “Sadie, please, just breathe. Your dad will get his seat back. I have the whole arc scheduled.” The practiced, soothing rhythm of his voice—the exact tone he used when calming down panicked clients—sent a chill straight through me. Before I could reply, every phone in the room chimed again. A prompt flashed on the main LED screen on stage: [Should the Father of the Bride be permitted to enter now?] [Option A: Immediate Entry] [Option B: Wait for the Emotional Climax Node] On the screen’s real-time tracker, Option B began to skyrocket. A spectator nearby laughed, “If they let him in now, it ruins the tension!” I snatched my hands out of Joel’s grip. “Turn off the poll.” “Sadie, listen to me—” Joel signaled the host on stage to drag out his opening monologue, then pulled me forcefully into the private bridal suite behind the curtain. “The company built a new platform: Immersive Real-Life Event Streaming. Today is our first live proof-of-concept. Those people out there are paying beta testers.” “You used our “wedding” as a lab test?” “It’s only a few interactive choices! It won’t ruin the actual ceremony,” he pressed on, his voice rising in desperate justification. “When we reach the family segment, the doors will open and he’ll walk in on cue.” He said it so smoothly, as if my father attending my wedding was a dramatic reveal that needed to be timed for maximum metric impact. I stared at him, my throat dry. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Joel paused, his eyes flickering slightly before he grabbed my shoulders. “Because I knew you’d say no.” The fear in my chest hardened into absolute, searing rage. “So you lied to me?” “I wanted to surprise you, and I needed the investors to see organic user engagement!” he pleaded, pulling out his phone to show me an open email draft. “The venue costs and production tech were pre-funded by our sponsors. The ticket sales are covering the rest. If our engagement metrics hit the target today, the VCs will finalize a three-hundred-thousand-dollar investment. I can finally pay the back wages I owe the engineering team!” I had sat up until three in the morning with him for weeks, editing seven iterations of his pitch deck. I had helped him outline the early logic for user consent and emergency kill-switches when his platform was just an idea sketched on a napkin. “Sadie, I didn’t hide this to hurt you,” Joel said softly, reaching out to touch my veil. “I did this because I trust you. I knew our love was strong enough to handle it.” His touch felt cold. My heart was breaking, yet a desperate, foolish part of me still wanted to believe he was just a desperate founder pushed to the brink. I gave him one final lifeline. “Let my father in right now.” “Okay,” he agreed quickly. “And shut down the broadcasting of our private lives. You can show our public timeline, but the breakups, the fights—take them down.” “Anything you want,” Joel said, touching his forehead to mine. “Just trust me one more time, Sadie. Once the ceremony is over, I’ll lay it all out for you.” Five years ago, when his first business collapsed, he’d said those exact words to me: “Trust me one more time.” I had believed him then. On the screen outside, the voting closed. Seventy-six percent of the audience had voted to keep my father waiting outside. “Let him in now,” I reminded Joel, my voice trembling. “Doing it now,” Joel murmured, pressing the earpiece hidden beneath his hair. But as he looked down at his wrist-tablet, his eyes widened—the live stream viewer count had just doubled. He hesitated for two seconds. “Maintain original sequence parameters,” he whispered into his mic. Suddenly, the house lights in the grand ballroom went dark. The announcer’s booming, cheerful voice echoed through the speakers: “Before we begin the family reconciliation segment, let’s take a listen to an authentic, unreleased audio clip from the couple’s darkest moment.” A second later, my own voice burst through the high-end sound system, crisp and echoing overhead: “Joel, my dad is going into surgery tomorrow morning! I can’t keep setting everything aside for your company anymore!” I whipped around, blood draining from my face. That was a private voice memo I had sent Joel three years ago. That morning, my father had sat in a sterile hospital room, signing his own surgical consent form alone because I was miles away, desperately fixing a server crash for Joel’s startup. By the time I rushed to his bedside, my dad had patted my hand and comforted “me”, telling me that a young man’s career was important and that I shouldn’t be distracted. I had broken up with Joel that night in a burst of sheer grief and guilt. I had never told my father about that fight. I had carried that guilt in silence for three years. Out in the hall, several paying audience members pulled up their event guides, eagerly discussing whether “the Bride Character” was going to choose her father or her partner. “Turn it off!” I screamed, sprinting toward the AV control booth, but two male staff members stepped up to block me. “Miss Shaw, this story node has been unlocked by ticket sales,” one of them said smoothly. “The sequence cannot be interrupted.” “Who authorized you to broadcast my private recordings? Show me the release form!” The technician hesitated, then opened the master dashboard on his tablet to show me. Just as the screen loaded, a bright green system alert popped up at the top: [Sequence Node Updated: Father ticketless, entry denied — COMPLETED.] The technician tried to swipe the notification away, but I recognized the legacy backend layout—I had helped design it. I snatched the tablet straight out of his hands and tapped the log. A document filled the screen: “WEDDING EMOTIONAL EXECUTION TIMELINE.” I scrolled down frantically. Written beside every moment of my morning were pre-scripted emotional targets formulated by his team: [Bride shows anxiety — Meets Target Metrics.] [Bride’s anger insufficient — Deploy Escalation Trigger.] On the right side of the sheet were the sponsor payout values: “Keeping the Father outside: $3,000.” “Bride crying on camera: $10,000.” “Bride total emotional breakdown, followed by Groom’s comforting embrace: $25,000.” They weren’t trying to fix a mistake. They were deliberately orchestrating my pain, waiting for me to break so they could cash the check. The staff member reached for the tablet. “Miss Shaw, it’s time for you to return to the bridal suite.” “And if I refuse to break down?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. He adjusted his headset awkwardly. “Then the host will continue to prompt you regarding your father’s missed surgery until your stress response hits the metric threshold.” “Did Joel design this parameter too?” He couldn’t look me in the eye. Three years ago, after that fight, Joel had stood outside my father’s apartment building all night in the pouring rain. He had told me, “You are allowed to just be a daughter, Sadie. You don’t always have to save me.” I had forgiven him because of that sentence. I had taken him back. And now, that night had been edited into a three-minute monetized clip titled “Choice Point 1: Love vs. Filial Duty.” I tapped the revision history of the file. “Last modified: 2:14 AM.” “Operator: Joel.” I walked back into the bridal suite, my hands numb. I picked up my clutch and pulled out my written wedding vows. The very first line read: [Joel, thank you for making me believe that every sacrifice I made was seen and cherished by you.] My phone buzzed. A text from my dad: [Sweetheart, don’t argue with Joel on your wedding day because of me. Today is your big day. Just enjoy it.] I stared at the words “your big day”, tears dripping onto the card, smudging the ink of my vows. The suite door opened, and Joel walked in. I looked up at him. “My dad is still standing outside in the cold. Did you know that?” “Just twenty more minutes, Sadie,” he said, lowering his voice into a pleading rush. “When the family segment hits, I’ll personally go out and escort him in on camera.” “You promised me you would let him in “now”.” “The live stream audience just doubled!” he hissed, taking a step toward me. “Sadie, the company needs this data! We are one threshold away from clearing our debt!” “And my dad’s seat at the head table?” “We’ll put him at the side overflow table for now. Once the live broadcast finishes, I’ll pay back double for the ticket.” “That was “his” seat, Joel.” “If there weren’t cameras out there, would it kill you to just have him wait twenty minutes?” Joel snapped, averting his gaze. “There are no ‘ifs’ today. We need this.” I held the tear-stained paper in my hand, staring at him, waiting for him to offer a single, genuine word of apology. He took a step toward me. For a split second, I thought he was finally going to pull me into his arms. Instead, Joel pressed his earpiece and whispered coldly, “She’s crying. Push Camera 3 in close. Tell the makeup artist to stay outside.” The lens of Camera 3 shifted, zooming directly into my face. I stared into the black glass of the camera, then back at the man I was supposed to marry. “Is that all you see when I cry? A metric?” “We’ll talk after the broadcast,” he said, reaching for my hand. “What if I refuse to keep playing my part?” Joel’s composure finally shattered, his eyes turning fierce. “Sadie, do not ruin us at the very last step! Your dad is just waiting twenty minutes! He’s an adult, he will understand!” Looking at him, I suddenly didn’t want to cry anymore. He saw a metric. The audience saw a ten-thousand-dollar emotional trigger. The sponsors saw a twenty-five-thousand-dollar climax. Not a single person in this building saw “me”. I slowly folded my written vows in half, then in half again. “You wanted an emotional climax, right?” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I’ll give you one.” Joel blinked, thrown off. “You saw the execution timeline?” “I saw everything.” “Then what are you going to do?” “The family segment is out of control,” I said smoothly, stepping toward him. “Hand over the master admin control. I’ll fix the narrative for you.” Joel hesitated, searching my face. For five years, every time his company faced an operational crisis, I had been the one to clean up the backend, patch the code, and pull him out of the fire. Habit took over. He pulled his master tablet from his jacket and handed it to me. “Only modify the next segment,” he warned. “Temporary Master Administrator Access Granted,” the screen displayed. I opened the operational tree for [Family Reconciliation Node] and selected [Reassign Host Authority to Bride]. A red system warning flashed across the display: [Warning: Upon override, the original creator will temporarily lose access permissions to venue gates, seating assignments, and display projections for this node.] Joel’s face went corpse-pale as he realized what I was doing. He lunged forward to snatch the tablet back. “Sadie, wait—” I slammed my thumb onto [Confirm]. Outside the bridal suite, a heavy chime echoed through the foyer as the electronic turnstiles unlocked simultaneously. On the entrance monitor, the status of my father’s digital pass turned from bright red to solid green.

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On the fourth year of our secret relationship, Irene Drake cried on stage at the Golden Globes. Clutching her Best Actress trophy to her chest, her voice cracked through the microphone: “Someone has stood by me in the dark for four years. Without him, I wouldn’t be standing here tonight.” The crowd in the Beverly Hilton ballroom erupted into cheers. The host leaned in with a smooth, knowing smile. “And is this mystery man here tonight?” Irene nodded through her tears, her eyelashes heavy with mascara. “He’s sitting right down there.” Inside my tuxedo pocket, my fingers tightened around the velvet box. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard it was suffocating. I had stayed in the shadows for four long years. I was the sole heir to the Kingsley Media empire, but I’d frozen my own life, buried my real name, and stepped into the background. I became her personal assistant. I carried her luggage, shielded her from paparazzi, negotiated her contracts in dimly lit corners, and dragged her from an uncredited indie extra all the way to the Hollywood A-list. Irene wiped away a tear and stepped down from the podium, holding her golden statue like a shield. I stood up, adjusting my jacket, ready. She walked straight past me. She didn’t glance my way. She didn’t pause. Her eyes swept over me as if I were nothing more than a piece of set dressing, brushing past me to reach the second row. To Brody Callahan. The breakout star I had personally signed to her agency six months ago. Irene laced her fingers through his, stood on her tiptoes, and pressed a lingering kiss against his cheek. “Baby,” she whispered into his microphone, her voice picked up by the house speakers, “I got it.” The room shattered into deafening applause. The live broadcast feed blew up with millions of frantic comments. I remained standing in the aisle, an island in a sea of celebration. The air in my lungs felt like ice. In my pocket, my phone vibrated. A text from my father: “It’s time to come home. The merger with the Ashford family—you name the date.” I pulled my hand out of my pocket, dropped the velvet ring box into the dark, narrow crevice between the plush velvet seats, and loosened my bow tie. I typed a single word in reply: “Okay.” … 1 By nine o’clock the next morning, the internet had completely combusted over Irene and Brody’s hard-launch romance. The top three trending topics across every social platform belonged to them. #IreneAndBrodyOfficial #FourYearsInSecret #HollywoodsNewPowerCouple I sat on the edge of the worn sofa in my cramped Queens walk-up, staring at the glowing screen until my knuckles turned white. Four years. The “man who stood by her for four years” wasn’t Brody Callahan. He hadn’t even known her twelve months ago. She had taken four years of my devotion, my late nights, my quiet sacrifices, and handed them to another man like a prop. During our first year together, Irene lived in a frigid two-bedroom apartment with three roommates outside the city. On winter nights when the radiator rattled and died, she wrapped herself in my heavy down coat, shivering while she memorized lines. In our second year, I quietly used my father’s quiet leverage to land her first leading role. In our third year came her first major awards nomination. And in our fourth, the Oscar buzz, culminating in last night’s win. In all that time, I hadn’t used a single dime of Kingsley family money directly. Every door opened, every producer smoothed over, every crisis averted was carved out of my own sweat under the title of “Calum, Irene’s assistant.” She had never once asked how a low-paid assistant managed to get the most powerful showrunners in Los Angeles on the phone. She simply didn’t care about the answer. The magic happened, and that was enough. I put my phone down, went into the tiny bathroom, and splashed ice-cold water onto my face. The man staring back at me in the cracked mirror had dark circles carved beneath his eyes and dry, peeling skin at the corners of his mouth. Four years without a proper night’s sleep. Four years of hauling oversized luggage, booking last-minute flights, placating insane studio execs, and burying her scandals before the press caught wind. Calum Kingsley—the only son and heir of Victor Kingsley—had spent four years working as a glorified maid. And last night was my compensation. My phone buzzed again on the sink. A text from Irene. “Calum, handle my call sheet for tomorrow. Also, coordinate with Brody’s team regarding his availability—we need to align our schedules. Oh, and edit the red carpet photo of Brody and me before posting it to my official socials.” I stared at the glowing words. A knot formed in the back of my throat. It was so casual. So entitled. Not a single word of explanation. Not even a fleeting attempt to address the fact that she had introduced another man to the entire world as her four-year partner, right in front of my face. To her, I wasn’t even a human being with feelings. I was a tool. An appliance that functioned quietly, required no maintenance, and deserved no respect. I closed the app without replying. Scrolling down my contacts, I found a number I hadn’t dialed in over forty-eight months. I tapped call. It rang twice before a deep, measured voice answered. “Father.” Silence stretched over the line for two long seconds. “You’ve come to your senses?” Victor Kingsley asked. “Yes.” “Good.” My father’s tone didn’t shift, but I knew what that single word meant. It meant that every door, every fund, every network, and every corporate machine owned by the Kingsley family would tilt in my direction overnight. It meant that “Calum the Assistant” died the moment I pressed end call. “A car will pick you up at six tomorrow morning,” my father said softly. “Leave the junk behind.” “Understood.” After hanging up, I opened Irene’s chat one last time. I typed two words: “I quit.” Send. Three minutes later, a voice note came through from her. I clicked play. “Wait, what? Calum, is this a joke?” Her tone was light, laced with a faint, annoyed laugh. “We have a major brand shoot on Thursday. Stop throwing a tantrum—” It was spoken with the same breezy dismissal she used when complaining about bad weather. I didn’t answer. I dragged her contact card to the bottom of the screen and pressed “Block”. Then I powered off the phone. Outside, the New York night was dark and cold. I sat in the single armchair of the apartment I had occupied for four years. Two hundred square feet. A narrow bed, a rickety wardrobe, and a desk covered in call sheets and industry scripts. Tacked to the wall was Irene’s master schedule, color-coded by hand. I reached out, ripped the paper off the wall, crumpled it into a tight ball, and tossed it into the trash. Starting tomorrow, none of it was my problem anymore. … 2 At six o’clock the following morning, a sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb outside the rundown building. My father’s driver, George, stood by the rear door in a tailored dark suit. When he saw me walking down the steps carrying a single leather duffel bag, his eyes glistened. “Young Master Calum,” he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. I offered a small nod. “Let’s go, George.” He opened the door, and I sank into the cool leather interior. The crisp smell of sandalwood and rich upholstery filled the cabin—a scent at once suffocatingly familiar and entirely distant. The moment I turned on my secondary phone, a torrent of notifications flooded the screen. Irene had sent a dozen messages over the course of the night. They started with “Are you serious?” and devolved into “Calum, stop being so childish”, before concluding at three in the morning with a cold finality: “Fine. Assistants are a dime a dozen anyway. Wish you the best in your future endeavors.” “Wish you the best in your future endeavors.” A quiet, hollow laugh escaped my chest. “Thank you, Irene. Really.” Right below her texts was one from Brody Callahan: “Hey man, heard you walked out? Who’s taking over our contract coordination now? Can you recommend someone competent at least…?” I deleted the thread without reading the rest. The Maybach cut through the morning traffic, gliding out of the city and onto the iron-gated driveway of a massive private estate in Greenwich. The wrought-iron gates swung open automatically. On the front steps, the butler and six household staff stood in two precise lines. “Welcome home, Young Master,” they bowed in unison. Stepping out onto the marble foyer felt like crossing an invisible boundary into an entirely different dimension. The polished floors reflected the soft light of crystal chandeliers, and the air smelled faintly of aged cedar and espresso. My father was sitting on the leather sofa in the formal living room, reading the “Wall Street Journal”. He glanced up over the rim of his glasses as I walked in. “Have you eaten?” “Not yet.” “Sit down and eat.” There were no grand speeches, no emotional reunions, and no sharp interrogations demanding to know what I had been doing with my life for the past four years. Victor Kingsley was a man who never cared about the process—only the outcome. He had known where I was every single day. He knew who I was with and what I was doing. But he had waited silently, knowing that when I returned on my own terms, it would mean the game was over. Breakfast was served immediately: smoked salmon, poached eggs, fresh fruit, and warm pastries. I ate hungrily. During my years with Irene, I rarely had time for a sit-down meal, often surviving on cold protein bars and lukewarm convenience store coffee while running her errands. “When you finish, go upstairs and change,” my father said, turning a page of his paper. “The Ashfords are coming for tea at two.” “The arrangement?” I asked. “Yes.” He paused, casting a quiet look at me. “The Ashford girl isn’t like the women you’ve spent time around. She’s a Columbia Law graduate, currently working as a federal prosecutor in the District Attorney’s office. Sharp. Grounded. But—” He smoothed his paper down. “If you don’t like her, we can treat it as a polite social call. I won’t force you.” I finished my coffee and dabbed my mouth with a linen napkin. “I’ll meet her.” My father’s mouth twitched slightly—the closest he ever came to a smile. “Good.” Upstairs, I showered and put on a bespoke charcoal suit that had been tailored to my exact measurements and waiting in my closet. Standing before the floor-to-ceiling mirror, the exhausted, disheveled assistant who had hauled luggage through airports was entirely gone. In his place stood the man I was always meant to be. My phone rang. It was Reggie Fox, the head of the boutique talent agency that officially employed me. “Calum! What the hell is going on with you? Quitting out of nowhere? Irene has three major press stops tomorrow—” “Find someone else, Reggie.” “Listen to me, you little—” “Reggie,” I interrupted, my tone icy and flat. “Every major studio relationship Irene Drake enjoyed over the last four years—the network execs, the luxury brand directors, the A-list producers—you and I both know who built those bridges.” The line went dead silent. “Now that I’m gone, those bridges are closed,” I continued calmly. “Consider this your courtesy notice.” “Calum… what are you talking about? What can a fucking assistant possibly do to—” I ended the call before he could finish. “What can an assistant do?” Irene believed her meteoric rise was entirely due to her own raw talent. She believed studio heads naturally reached out to her, that high-end fashion houses fell over themselves to book her, that top directors just happened to see her tapes. She had no idea that every single opportunity was the result of Calum Kingsley making a quiet phone call from the dark. I hadn’t told her then. And there was certainly no need to tell her now. … 3 At two o’clock in the afternoon, the Ashfords arrived. Judge Ashford was a distinguished man in his late sixties, a retired appellate judge whose family held deep roots in Manhattan real estate and banking. He greeted my father with a warm handshake and a booming laugh. Walking behind him was his granddaughter. I found myself looking at her longer than I intended. Tess Ashford had sharp, chin-length dark hair, a crisp silk blouse paired with tailored trousers, and an aura of effortless composure. Her features were striking, but what caught my attention was the steady, unbothered intelligence in her dark eyes. She wasn’t like Irene. Irene’s beauty was an engineered, desperate thing—crafted to demand the attention of everyone in the room. Tess was confident in a way that required nothing from anyone. “Tess,” she said, extending a hand directly to me. Her tone was cool and measured. “Nice to meet you, Calum.” I shook her hand. Her grip was firm and dry. “Likewise.” We sat in the glass sunroom while our elders talked business in the main hall. Tess took a slow sip of her Earl Grey tea, her eyes weighing me over the rim of her cup. “So,” she began plainly. “You’re the Kingsley heir who spent four years playing personal assistant to a movie star?” A direct hit. I held my teacup steady. “Word travels fast.” “It’s a small city at a certain level,” she replied softly. “I do have one question, though.” “Ask away.” “What were you looking for?” I went quiet for a moment, watching the afternoon light filter through the trees outside. “What was I looking for?” I had been looking for a woman I believed was worth giving up everything for. But standing here now, that answer felt irrelevant. “Youthful foolishness,” I said with a faint, dry smile. “I paid four years of tuition, and now I’ve graduated.” Tess looked at me, and a genuine, amused smile broke across her face—not out of politeness, but because she recognized absolute truth when she heard it. “Fair enough,” she said, setting her cup down. “As for this arrangement our grandfathers are pushing—I’ll be clear. I’m not opposed to getting to know you, but I won’t marry someone just because it looks good on a balance sheet.” “Agreed,” I said smoothly. “We take it slow.” She raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by my lack of pushback. In the hallway, the two older men glanced toward the sunroom, exchanging pleased, subtle smiles. After an hour of conversation, the Ashfords departed. I stood by the grand entrance, watching their car pull away down the long driveway. My father walked up beside me, hands resting behind his back. “Opinion?” he asked quietly. “She’s impressive.” “Then keep in touch.” I nodded. My phone buzzed again in my pocket. This time, it wasn’t Irene, nor was it Reggie Fox. It was the true gatekeepers of the entertainment industry—the power brokers I had personally cultivated over the last four years under the strict understanding of my true family name. A text from Garrick Vance, CEO of Paramount Media: “Calum, heard you stepped away from that situation. Let’s get dinner this week. I have an upcoming slate of major features I’d love your family office to co-finance.” A message from the head of global marketing at Cartier: “Mr. Kingsley, we are reviewing our celebrity ambassador contracts for the coming fiscal year. Should we proceed with renewing Irene Drake, or would you prefer we reallocate those spots?” And a direct note from Leland Ford, the legendary showrunner: “Calum, that prestige drama series Irene was eyeing—we haven’t locked her in yet. I have two other actresses pushing hard for it. What are your thoughts?” I read through them slowly. For four years, none of these executives had ever messaged Irene directly. Every piece of business had passed through me. They didn’t care about a rising starlet; they cared about the immense capital and distribution power of the Kingsley empire. I typed out a single, uniform response and sent it to all three: “My personal involvement with Irene Drake has concluded. You may adjust your business decisions accordingly. Let’s catch up soon.” I put the phone back in my pocket, my expression unreadable. Irene didn’t know it yet, but the invisible foundation beneath her feet had just dissolved completely. … 4 Three days later, Irene’s agency assigned her a new assistant—a young, inexperienced girl fresh out of college. I knew this because my old contacts in production kept me quietly informed. “Calum, you wouldn’t believe the chaos over here,” whispered an associate producer named Dan during a brief phone call. “What’s happening?” “Cartier just pulled out of her ambassador renewal. Said their global marketing strategy shifted overnight. Reggie Fox called their senior VP five times, and his calls went straight to voicemail.” “And the prestige series with Leland Ford?” “Gone,” Dan chuckled quietly. “Leland announced an open casting call yesterday afternoon. Reggie looked like he was about to have a heart attack in the middle of the office.” I set my coffee cup down on the dark wood desk in my new office. It was only the third day. Irene hadn’t processed reality yet. She undoubtedly thought these setbacks were bad luck, scheduling conflicts, or standard industry volatility. She couldn’t fathom that every piece of her golden career had been held together by a single hand. That afternoon, I officially took my seat at Kingsley Media Headquarters as Executive Vice President of Entertainment & Private Equity. When I walked through the executive floor, fifty senior directors and analysts stood up to welcome me. “Good morning, Mr. Kingsley.” “Welcome, Mr. Kingsley.” I gave a polite nod and entered my corner office overlooking Manhattan. My chief of staff walked in, placing a thick leather-bound dossier on my desk. “Mr. Kingsley, as requested—here is the complete breakdown of Irene Drake’s active commercial contracts, film slates, and brand partnerships.” I flipped it open. Three dense pages. Eight major luxury endorsements, three pending studio pictures, two national brand campaigns, and a high-profile streaming series. I could collapse every single one of them with a few short emails. Not out of malice, but because she needed to understand a fundamental truth: some people are not tools to be used and discarded when their utility seems exhausted. I closed the folder. “Leave it for now. Let the momentum build.” My chief of staff bowed and left the room. I spun my leather chair toward the window, looking out over the city skyline. My phone screen flickered on the desk. A text from Irene. The light, patronizing tone was gone. “Calum, did you say something to people in the industry? Several of my deals just got frozen out of nowhere. What is going on with you?” I looked at the screen and said nothing. Another message hit a minute later: “Even if you quit, you have no right to sabotage my career! Those relationships belong to the agency, not to you personally. Stop acting out!” “Belong to the agency?” A faint, cold smile touched my lips. She still genuinely believed it was her agency’s power that opened those doors. Ten minutes passed before a voice message arrived. I tapped it. Irene’s voice spilled out of the speaker, stripped of its usual smooth polish, sharp with rising panic: “Calum, answer me! What are you trying to do? Are you throwing a fit because of what happened at the Globes? I told you, that was purely for PR! Brody and I—it’s just strategic! You shouldn’t take it personally. You’re my assistant, you’re not—” She broke off mid-sentence, catching herself. A long, heavy silence stretched over the recording before her tone softened into an anxious demand: “Just call me back, okay? We need to talk.” I listened to the message to the end. “You’re my assistant, you’re not—” Not what? Not my boyfriend? Not my partner? Not a real man in your eyes? She was right. I wasn’t. I had allowed myself to be erased for four years, mistaking her ambition for love. I closed her chat. I opened a new message thread with Leland Ford, the showrunner. “Give the lead role in the prestige drama to Sabrina West. Skip the formal auditions.” Leland replied within seconds: “Consider it done, Calum.” Sabrina West was Irene’s fiercest rival. They had come up together, but Irene had consistently edged her out for top roles over the past two years—not because Irene was the better actress, but because I had quietly cleared the path. I wasn’t going out of my way to ruin Irene Drake. It was simply that from this moment forward, resources would flow only where I chose to direct them. And for Irene Drake, the tap was officially off.

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Right before the ceremony was scheduled to start, my mother suddenly clutched her chest and collapsed to the floor. I abandoned everything—the wedding, the guests, the altar—and rushed her to the emergency room myself. The second we pulled into the ER bay, a message popped up in our family group chat. “Larry’s safely at the hospital. Start the wedding.” A second later, Dad replied: “Don’t worry, Justin’s already standing at the main altar.” Then my sister added: “Justin’s waited ten years for this. Today he finally gets to marry Leila, out in the open.” The three messages were deleted moments later. But then Trevor, my supposed best friend, accidentally sent a short video of the ceremony into the chat. In the video, my younger brother, Justin, was wearing the custom tuxedo I had spent months hand-selecting. Leila was standing at the end of the aisle, slipping the ring forged for my finger onto his. All those friends and relatives who, just yesterday, had hugged me and wished me a lifetime of happiness were chanting in unison: “Kiss her! Kiss her!” In the hospital bed, Mom snatched the phone from my hand. The agony on her face was completely gone, replaced only by the frantic panic of someone caught red-handed. “Larry… Justin has loved Leila for so many years,” she pleaded, her voice trembling. “He just wanted a wedding of his own. You’ve had Leila for seven years. Just let him have this one day, okay?” I looked at the ECG pads still stuck to her chest—pads monitoring a heart that was beating just fine—and a bitter, hollow laugh escaped my throat. So everyone had been playing their part in this grand performance. And I was the only fool kept in the dark, performing as the clown for their entertainment. … By the time I rushed back to the hotel, Leila was holding Justin’s hands, reading her vows. “From the moment I met you, I knew that every path I walked in this life was meant to lead me straight back to you.” My breath caught in my throat. Those were my vows. I wrote them myself. I had spent three sleepless nights refining those exact words, trying to condense seven years of devotion into a single sentence. Just last night, Leila had curled up in my arms, whispering that she would save those words exclusively for me at the altar. And now, she recited them word for word. To Justin. When the guests spotted me standing in the doorway, the applause ground to a sudden halt. Leila immediately dropped Justin’s hands and instinctively took a step toward me. “Larry, go back to the hospital,” she said softly, though her eyes were guarded. “I’ll explain everything after the ceremony.” I shoved past the lingering stares, my blood boiling beneath my skin. “Explain it now!” “Why is he wearing my suit? Why is he wearing my ring? Why is he standing next to my bride?” Leila stepped back, taking Justin’s hand in hers once more. A flicker of impatience flashed across her eyes. “Because this wedding was meant for Justin from the very beginning.” Those seven words froze me where I stood. I had spent an entire year planning every single detail of this wedding. And now Leila was telling me it was never meant for me at all. She glanced at the tailored tuxedo Justin was wearing and spoke in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. “Justin loved this suit long before you saw it. He was overseas and couldn’t come in for fittings, so I had you try it on to confirm the cuts and measurements.” I stared at her, ice cold. “And the ring?” “His, too. The original design was drafted based on his ring size.” A chill raced down my spine, numbing my limbs. No wonder she had refused to let the tailor let out the shoulders or waist, insisting instead that I lose weight to fit into the jacket. I had barely eaten a proper dinner in six months just to fit into that tuxedo. Only now did I realize: I was never the groom. I was just a mannequin. Justin laced his fingers through Leila’s, looking at me with a gaze steeped in gentle, condescending pity. “Larry, don’t blame Leila. I was the one who asked her to go after you.” He sighed softly. “Seven years ago, when I had to go abroad for treatment, doctors said I might never make it back. You had just been devastated by your ex-girlfriend, tossing and turning in bed night after night.” His eyes shimmered with just the right amount of sorrowful empathy. “I couldn’t bear to see you suffer like that. So I begged Leila to take care of you in my place while I was gone. The breakfast delivered to your dorm room every morning? That was a menu I put together for you. The restaurant for your first date? I picked it. Even the confession speech she gave you—I wrote every single word.” My throat locked up. It felt like choking on crushed glass. Leila had pursued me for ninety-nine days. I used to keep a journal, meticulously recording every little gesture, every sweet moment of those ninety-nine days. All those little details that had made my heart flutter… Not a single one of them had ever belonged to me. Trevor walked up beside them, the groomsman boutonnière I had handpicked for him still pinned proudly to his lapel. “Larry, I know keeping you in the dark wasn’t right,” Trevor said gently, as if reasoning with an unstable child. “But Justin suffered so much more than you. He had to sit back and watch the love of his life stay by your side for seven years, and he never once tried to break you two up. He’s been remarkably selfless. Don’t back him into a corner now.” I stared at the man I had called my best friend for over a decade. “So you knew? All along?” Trevor nodded. “We were just afraid you wouldn’t be able to handle it. You can be… reactive, Larry. If you found out Leila was really in love with Justin, who knows what you might have done?” They all lined up beside Justin, shielding him. They looked at me with the same unified, wary glare. As if I weren’t the victim who had been systematically lied to for seven long years, but a dangerous madman set on destroying my brother’s happiness. In my coat pocket, my phone vibrated. It was an email notification from the director of an overseas project who had reached out to me three months ago. [Mr. Callahan, the deadline for confirming the permanent overseas position is tonight. We still have one final slot reserved for your flight.] I gripped the phone tightly. Three months ago, I had turned down this once-in-a-lifetime career opportunity for Leila. I remembered how she had clung to my arms back then, dropping her usual pride to beg me to stay. “Larry, if you go abroad, what about me? We’re getting married soon. How could you leave me here alone?” I had agonized over the decision, but ultimately chose to stay, giving up my dreams so we could build a life together. Thinking of the seven years we’d spent building that life, I looked at Leila, my voice raw and tight. “If Justin has been back, why didn’t you break up with me? Over these seven years… did you ever love me? Even for a second?” Leila remained silent for a very long time. Justin gave a helpless, tragic little smile, his tone dripping with patronizing sympathy. “She didn’t break up with you because I wouldn’t let her, Larry.” “You had made Leila your entire world. I was terrified that if she left, you’d completely fall apart again.” He stepped forward like a benevolent benefactor granting a token of charity. “I left the woman I love most by your side for seven years. I watched her celebrate your birthdays, take engagement photos with you, even plan a wedding with you. I’ve stepped back for so long. Now, I just want the wedding that was always mine to begin with. Why can’t you just let me have this?” Suddenly, Leila placed her hand protectively over her lower stomach. “If it were just between Justin and me, I might have waited for you to gradually come to terms with it,” she said, her tone growing colder by the second. “But I’m three months pregnant.” “I won’t let my baby grow up calling their biological father ‘Uncle Justin’.” She looked me dead in the eye. “Justin gave up seven years for you, Larry. Now that I’m carrying his child, I can’t play along with this farce anymore.” A few cold sentences erased seven years of shared history in an instant. Yet there was a time when Leila treated me like I was her entire universe. When I was hospitalized with acute gastritis, she canceled all her corporate meetings and stayed by my bed for two days and two nights straight. When her family opposed our relationship, she gave up her credit cards, cut off her family’s wealth, and moved into my tiny rented apartment. During our darkest days, we shared single bowls of instant noodles. She would always slide the only poached egg onto my side, smiling warmly. “Just hang in there with me, Larry. I promise I’ll prove to everyone that you didn’t choose wrong.” Later, when her startup failed and left her drowning in debt, I worked my day job and took on freelance design gigs late into the night, carrying us through the hardest two years of our lives. The day she secured her first major round of funding, she held my hands so tightly her knuckles turned white. She swore she would never betray me. Those warm tight hugs were real. Those tears she cried were real. And yet now, carrying Justin’s child, she was telling me that seven years of love was nothing more than an elaborate piece of theater. Behind us, the giant digital screen on stage suddenly flickered to life. Unaware of the chaotic breakdown at the front of the room, the venue staff initiated the scheduled slideshow presentation. Bold golden letters materialized on the screen: “[Leila Davis & Justin Callahan: Ten Years of Unconditional Love]” A timeline of photographs began to unfold. On my twenty-fourth birthday, Leila told me her flight was delayed, leaving me sitting alone at an apartment table with a cold, melting cake. In the photo on screen, she was standing under a snow-capped mountain, wrapping a scarf around Justin’s neck and standing on tiptoe to kiss his frost-reddened nose. Six months ago, I was rushed into emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix. Leila claimed she was stuck on a last-minute business trip and couldn’t make it to the hospital. Mom said her heart condition was acting up. Dad and my sister both turned their phones off simultaneously. I had to sign my own surgical consent form with trembling fingers. When I was wheeled into the operating room, I didn’t even have anyone to hold my jacket. In the photos playing on screen, they were all on a tropical island, throwing Justin a birthday bash. Mom was holding out a wrapped gift; Dad was helping him cut the cake; my sister had set off fireworks along the beach all night long. And Trevor was behind the camera, capturing the perfect family reunion. Slide by slide, the photos documented the seven years I was excluded from. They filled in every plot hole behind their mountain of lies. The double doors at the back of the banquet hall swung open. Mom rushed inside, heading straight for Justin, tenderly adjusting his bow tie with motherly devotion. When she turned to look at me, her voice was laced with sharp accusation. “Justin has suffered so much for your sake over the last seven years! He just wants his own wedding back—why do you have to ruin everything by causing a scene?” I stared at my mother, a searing heat burning in my throat. “Mom… so you never had a heart condition? You’ve been faking it all along?” “Three years ago, when Leila and I were supposed to get our marriage license… you suddenly had a chest pain episode and made me stay at the hospital with you.” “Was that just to keep me away, too?” Justin suddenly let out a soft laugh. “Larry, you finally figured it out.” He reached into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket and pulled out two red marriage certificates. In the official photograph inside, Leila was leaning affectionately against Justin, both of them beaming with effortless romance. The date stamped on the certificate was the exact day I spent waiting outside the ER for my mother. Dad and my sister were listed as the official witnesses. Trevor was the one who took the commemorative photo. Leila had held Justin’s hand, becoming his legal wife amidst the glowing blessings of my entire family. While I, like a desperate idiot, sat in a hospital waiting room sending dozens of messages to Leila. I had apologized over and over, begging for forgiveness because I couldn’t make it to the courthouse to become her husband that day. I swore that once Mom got better, I’d plan an even better day to make it up to her. She had taken hours to reply: “It’s okay. We have all the time in the world.” Justin toyed with the red booklets in his hands, chuckling lightly. “Larry, I was the one who dictated that text to her. Because right then, she was too busy kissing me to care about your notifications.” I stood in the middle of the crowded hall, the cold seeping into my bones until I couldn’t feel a thing. I grit my teeth, turned on my heel, and walked out. I knew that if I stayed one second longer, I would lose every last shred of dignity I had left. Outside the venue, as the romantic wedding march began to play inside, I pulled out my phone and replied to the overseas project director with a single word: [Accepted.] The director replied almost instantly: [Mr. Callahan, your overseas transfer application is confirmed. Your flight ticket has been issued.] There were exactly twenty-four hours left until I vanished from their lives forever. Originally, Leila and I were supposed to head straight to the airport for our honeymoon right after the reception. My passport and luggage were already packed and stored in the groom’s dressing suite. I grabbed my passport, stuffed it into my suitcase, and turned to leave. Suddenly, the door swung open. “Larry!” Leila burst into the room, out of breath, looking as though she was terrified I’d disappear into thin air. My face was pale, but before I could utter a word, she unwrapped a creamy milk candy and pressed it toward me. The gesture was as practiced and effortless as every single moment from our past seven years. “You look terrible. Is your hypoglycemia acting up again?” The sweet, rich scent of vanilla and sugar drifted into the air, but to me, it tasted like ash. Seeing that I didn’t reach for it, she gently placed the candy into the palm of my hand. “I’ll have the driver take you to a hotel,” she said softly. “I booked a suite for you. Just rest there for a few days. Once the ceremony is completely wrapped up, I’ll come find you and explain everything.” My chest tightened painfully. She didn’t say she loved me. She didn’t say she couldn’t bear to let me go. Yet this reflexive, instinctual tenderness still brought back memories of the girl who used to run through torrential rain to bring me medicine, the girl who would sit by my side until I finished every bite of my meal. Seven years of muscle memory were hard to erase. The wrapper in my hand still held the warmth of her fingers. Once, I believed this devotion belonged solely to me. Now, the man she went home to was someone else. A voice echoed from the doorway—Justin was standing there, with Trevor hovering just behind him. “Leila, so you really “were” in here with him.” Justin’s eyes fell upon Leila’s lingering hand near mine, his expression darkening instantly. “Am I always going to be second choice to him?” “I can tell you still haven’t let my brother go. Fine—if that’s the case, we don’t need to do this wedding at all.” Leila’s face drained of color. She rushed over and grabbed Justin by the wrist. I watched as she stood on tiptoe, pulling him down into a deep, desperate kiss to prove her devotion. In that moment, I realized I was the intruder standing in the middle of “their” marriage. I took a long, quiet breath, suppressing the burning ache in my chest. I grabbed the handle of my rolling suitcase and turned to leave without a word. As I passed Justin, he deliberately cut across my path, throwing his shoulder hard into mine. Off balance and unprepared, I slammed sideways into the edge of a glass coffee table. The sharp, shattered corner sliced deep into the meat of my lower waist. A blinding surge of pain tore through my abdomen. Blood soaked through my white dress shirt almost instantly. Leila saw the crimson spreading across the floor, and her eyes widened in shock. She took two hurried steps toward me, pulling out her phone. “Larry, I’m calling an ambulance—” Before she could dial, Justin suddenly clutched his chest, stumbling heavily against her shoulder. “Leila… I feel terrible,” he gasped, his voice raspy. “My chest hurts so much… I can’t breathe…” His face turned pale as he squeezed her hand with desperate strength. With those few words, the entire room rushed to surround him. Leila immediately dropped her phone to support Justin. Mom and Dad pressed close, frantically calling for doctors; my sister rubbed his back to help him catch his breath; Trevor sprinted toward the elevators to hold the doors. As Justin was ushered out, he didn’t even bother to glance down at me. Leila hesitated for a split second, looking back at me as she guided Justin down the hall. “I have to get Justin to the ER first,” she said hurriedly. “Your cut doesn’t look too deep—call an ambulance for yourself!” The heavy doors clicked shut behind them. The corridor fell dead silent, save for the echoing sound of their hurried footsteps fading away. I pressed down hard on the gushing wound, trying to push myself off the floor to reach my phone. My fingers brushed the screen, and then everything went completely black. It was a hotel housekeeper who finally found me. When she came in to clean the groom’s suite, she found me lying motionless in a pool of blood and immediately called emergency services. By the time the hospital tests came back, the surgeon’s face was grim. “Deep laceration to the lateral waist,” he announced, reviewing my chart. “Substantial blood loss. You’re lucky it missed your kidney—another centimeter deeper, and the damage would have been catastrophic.” I stared at the thick layers of gauze bandaged tightly around my torso, staying silent for a long time. Five years ago, when Leila was ambushed by muggers on a late-night street, I took three knife strikes to protect her. Those three stab wounds destroyed my left kidney. The day I was discharged back then, Leila had held my hands and wept, swearing she would never let me suffer another injury for as long as she lived. And today, my one remaining functional kidney was nearly destroyed at her wedding to my brother. I spent two days in that hospital bed. Every day brought IV drips and agonizing dressing changes. Even the smallest shift in position sent searing pain through my waist, blood seeping fresh through the bandages. On the morning of the third day, the doctor checked my sutures and urged me to stay bedridden for at least another week. I didn’t answer. I just gently touched the thick wrap around my abdomen. It burned like hell, but the pain in my body was nothing compared to the hollow, cavernous void where my heart used to be. Before I discharged myself, the nurse walked in with a set of final paperwork. She glanced around the empty room. “Where’s your family?” Right on cue, my phone chimed with a social media notification. Justin had posted a new photo. In the picture, Leila was sitting at his bedside, holding his hand tightly. Mom and Dad were hovering over him with affection; my sister had brought over a thermos of homemade soup; Trevor was holding a massive bouquet of fresh flowers. The caption read: [False alarm—just hyperventilation brought on by emotional distress.] [Thank you to my incredible family who loves me so unconditionally.] They had spent two full days across town at the other hospital, keeping vigil by Justin’s bedside. Not a single one of them had cared whether I was dead or alive. The nurse asked softly, “Do you want to give your family another call before you go?” I looked at the line labeled “Emergency Contact” on the discharge form. After a long silence, I took the pen from her hand. “No need,” I said quietly. “I don’t have a family.” Ignoring the doctor’s warnings, I gathered my single suitcase and boarded a cab to the airport. As the boarding call echoed over the loudspeakers, I exited the family group chat and permanently deactivated my phone number. The twenty-four-hour timer had officially run out. As the plane banked through the clouds, the city that had held me captive for seven years slowly dissolved into the horizon. Ten hours later, I landed in my new home. The moment I booted up my phone with a new local SIM card, a flood of missed calls and system notifications overwhelmed the screen.

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It was pouring, a torrential downpour that turned the city sky into slate. I was trapped at the office, nursing a badly twisted ankle, shivering so hard I could barely hold my phone. When Brandon finally answered, my voice was trembling. “Brandon… I fell down the stairs at work. My ankle is messed up, and my head is bleeding. Can you please come pick me up?” Brandon’s tone was impossibly detached, tossed off between background noises. “Sabrina, come on. You’re the older sister – can’t you let me help Kylie for a little bit? She’s devastated right now. Her little ant colony on the patio got flooded.” Before I could even process the words, the line went dead. A second later, a notification buzzed in our family group chat. Kylie had posted a photo of her wrist, showing a microscopic red streak. “A nasty twig scratched me! It hurts so bad… I need a kiss to make it better!” Not even three seconds passed before Brandon replied with a saved selfie of Kylie pouting – a picture she’d sent weeks ago. “Does this cute pic I saved do the trick?” I stared at the screen, my grip tightening until my knuckles turned white. Digging my teeth into my lower lip until I tasted copper, I plunged blindly out into the rain. … By the time I dragged my bruised, blood-stained body through the front door of my parents’ house, my head was throbbing with a dull, sickening heat. Inside, the atmosphere was warm and filled with the mouth-watering scent of pan-seared trout. Brandon was sitting at the dining table, meticulously picking fishbones out of a tender fillet. My parents sat beside him, beaming with affectionate indulgence. “Kylie, sweetie, you really need to find yourself a man,” Mom was chuckling. “Just look at how spoiled you are with Brandon around!” Kylie giggled, leaning over to bite the piece of fish directly off the fork Brandon was holding. “Then I’ll just marry Brandon!” Dad sighed with mock regret. “Honestly, Kylie’s always had better taste and a sweeter heart than her sister. If things don’t work out, Sabrina ought to just step aside and give him to you.” A flush bloomed behind Brandon’s ears. He reached out, playfully tugging Kylie’s hair. “Stop being silly.” He paused, his voice dropping into a softer, lower register. “Though… if I’d met you first… who knows?” They were all laughing, lost in their cozy little world. Not a single person noticed me standing in the entryway, rain dripping from my clothes, blood drying in thick crusts down the side of my face. Dark spots danced across my vision. I swallowed down the metallic bitterness rising in my throat. “This wedding… I don’t think I want it anymore.” … “CRASH.” My knees gave out, and I slammed heavily against the entryway console table, my shoe slipping halfway off my foot. The loud bang finally shattered the room’s cozy bubble. Brandon turned around. The moment his eyes landed on the blood matted in my hair, he instinctively started to push himself up from the table. “Sabrina, what happened to – ” “Aww, Brandon!” Kylie suddenly gasped, clutching her throat and pulling frantically on his sleeve. “There was a bone left in that piece! It’s poking my throat! It hurts so much!” Brandon froze mid-stride. Without a second thought, he sat right back down, pulling Kylie toward him in a flurry of panic. “Open wide, let me see! Is it stuck deep?” My hand, clinging to the edge of the console for leverage, completely lost its strength. I slid onto the floor. “What on earth are you doing?!” Mom yelled, pointing an accusing finger at me from the table. “Look at the mud you’re dragging all over the rug! That’s genuine wool – Kylie bought that for the family with her very first paycheck!” She glared at me, her face contorted with disgust. “She’s so thoughtful! Unlike you – always walking around with that stone-cold face, not a drop of gratitude in your body!” I lifted my eyes, catching the glint of the solid gold bracelet resting on Mom’s wrist – the one I had bought her with my own savings. A cold, sharp blade seemed to twist in my chest. When I graduated from college, my parents refused to give me a single dime, claiming they were “building my character.” I survived on plain tap water and gas station bread for a month, fainting at my desk twice from low blood sugar. Because I hadn’t bought them lavish gifts with my meager first paycheck, I was branded selfish and ungrateful forever. Yet when Kylie graduated last year, they pulled every string they had to land her a cushy desk job, topping it off with a two-thousand-dollar monthly allowance for “spending money.” “Your sister is fragile,” Dad chimed in, tossing his napkin onto the table without looking at me. “She can’t handle the harsh corporate world like you can. You should have given up that promotion to her. Enough of this scene! Stop standing at the door looking like a corpse – it’s bad luck! Go to the bathroom and wash that blood off your face!” I lowered my eyes, forcing my shallow breaths to stay quiet. “Brandon… I think I swallowed the bone. You don’t have to look anymore!” Kylie’s voice drifted over from the table, laced with a faint, triumphant sweetness. I closed the bathroom door and turned the hot water on full blast. But the walls were thin, and their voices carried effortlessly over the sound of running water. “Brandon, for your honeymoon next month… can I come with you guys?” Kylie coaxed. “I really want to go ice-climbing in Iceland! I already made a whole itinerary! But Sabrina booked the Maldives… she’s definitely not gonna want me there…” Brandon didn’t hesitate for a single second. “Why wouldn’t she? You just graduated – you’re the youngest, so we all compromise for you! We’ll cancel the Maldives and go to Iceland instead. Consider it your graduation trip.” My hands froze as I wrung out my hair. I stepped to the bathroom door, pulling it open just a crack. “No. The overwater bungalow in the Maldives is non-refundable. We’ll lose thousands.” Kylie let out a soft, whimpering pout. Brandon didn’t even look at me. “Then we lose the deposit. Kylie wants to see the glaciers, Sabrina. She rarely asks for anything. As her older sister, just yield to her for once.” Mom and Dad chimed in immediately. “Exactly! Stop being so bitter and selfish! You two are going away on a fancy trip anyway – do you want Kylie sitting at home feeling left out?” I gripped the wet towel in my hands, a suffocating weight pressing down on my lungs. They had entirely forgotten that my body couldn’t handle the extreme cold. When we were teenagers, Kylie demanded I walk through a blizzard to get her favorite breakfast pastries. By the time I trudged back through knee-deep snow, the house was empty – my parents had taken Kylie to my grandmother’s house in Florida for the holidays. I was locked out, huddled in the freezing stairwell for two days. If a neighbor hadn’t come home early, I would have frozen to death. Ever since then, severe cold triggered agonizing, deep-tissue bone aches. When my parents finally returned, Mom had brushed it off with a casual, “Kylie was rushing us. We just forgot you.” Whenever Kylie wanted something, I was expected to step aside. Even if it cost me my health. Even if it cost me my life. I remembered how Brandon had held me in his arms when I first told him that story, tears in his eyes. “Sabrina, in my world, you will never have to step aside for anyone ever again. You are my top priority.” Now, he had forgotten his promise. He had forgotten my pain. As the water cooled on my skin, I turned to grab a towel, only to find the rack empty. “Mom, where’s my bath towel?” I called out. An irritated voice came from the hallway. “How should I know? You always leave your stuff lying around. I probably used it to wipe down the counters and threw it out!” I stood there in the chilly air, trembling. On the towel rack hung three sets. One shared by my parents. Two separate sets for Kylie – one for her body, one for her hair. “Your sister has sensitive skin,” Mom had told me when Kylie moved her stuff in. “Her towels can’t mix with yours. You can share or figure it out.” I swallowed the sting in my eyes, taking deep, shuddering breaths to quiet the rising panic in my chest. I wiped myself down with handfuls of paper towels, pulled on my clothes, and slipped out the back door toward my own small apartment downtown. Once inside my quiet space, I pulled up my phone and dialed the travel agency. “Hi. I need to cancel the honeymoon booking for the Maldives. Yes, I understand I’ll forfeit the deposit.” After hanging up, I opened an email that had been sitting in my inbox for two weeks – a corporate transfer offer to our international headquarters in Munich. I had ignored it because of Brandon, because of our upcoming wedding. I dragged my fingers across the keyboard and typed my reply: “I accept the transfer. I can be ready to deploy in three days.” … Later that evening, the front door unlocked. Brandon walked in carrying a steaming mug of ginger tea. “You got caught in the rain today,” he said, his tone gentle, completely casual, as if the scene at my parents’ house had never happened. “Drink this while it’s hot so you don’t catch a cold.” The ambient chill in my bones pushed me to take the mug. The warmth spread through my hands, loosening the terrible tension that had locked my shoulders all night. I remembered how he used to be – how he would cook intricate meals and wrap me in warm blankets whenever I was sick or overwhelmed. A faint, aching flicker of hope stirred in my chest. “Maybe… maybe he still cares. Maybe he just got caught up in the moment.” Brandon cleared his throat. “Sabrina, I need to talk to you about something.” My stomach plummeted. I looked up at him over the rim of the mug. “Kylie’s new office is right in the heart of downtown,” Brandon said smoothly. “Her commute from your parents’ place in the suburbs is almost two hours each way. It’s exhausting for her. I remember you have that one-bedroom condo downtown… Why don’t you sign the title over to Kylie tomorrow? Think of it as a graduation gift from her big sister.” The hot steam from the tea stung my eyes. That one-bedroom condo was bought with every spare penny I had earned over five years, working three jobs, skipping meals, bleeding myself dry so I could have “one” place in this world that had my name on the deed. One sanctuary where no one could ever lock me out again. My fingers turned white against the ceramic mug. “Brandon… that condo…” Brandon chuckled, cutting me off with a patronizing pat to my cheek. “Kylie was right. She said you’d be stingy about it.” He smiled warmly. “But we’re getting married next week! We’re moving into our new house together, so you won’t even need that small condo. You’re doing so much better than her financially – just be generous for once. Besides, Kylie isn’t the brat you make her out to be. She spent half an hour in the rain today trying to build a little plastic shelter for those ants. She’s actually… really sweet and kind.” I swallowed the remaining tea. The warmth that had briefly settled in my stomach turned instantly ash-bitter. “And if I say no?” I asked, locking my eyes on his. The easy smile froze on Brandon’s lips. His brows pulled together in an irritated pinch. Before he could answer, the apartment door swung open. “If Sabrina doesn’t want to, then forget it,” Kylie sniffled from the doorway, her eyes rimmed red, looking like a tragic victim. “It’s fine. I’ll just get up at five in the morning and cram into the crowded subway.” Brandon let out a heavy, disappointed sigh. He stepped toward the door, whispered a few comforting words to Kylie, and then turned back to face me, shutting the door behind him. “Sabrina… I’m finally starting to understand why your parents don’t like you.” My heart hammered against my ribs, choking the air right out of my throat. “What did you just say?” Brandon looked at me with profound disappointment. “Your parents told me you were deeply selfish. I didn’t want to believe them. But seeing you now…” I opened my mouth to speak, but Brandon held up a hand, cutting me off cold. “Enough. Don’t bother making excuses. I already told Kylie that she can have one of the guest rooms in our new married home. She won’t need your condo after all.” He turned on his heel and walked out, slamming the door. I sat on the edge of the bed, his words echoing through the quiet room like a death sentence: “You are deeply selfish.” Outside, I heard Kylie whimpering softly, and Brandon’s low, murmuring voice soothing her. “Don’t cry, little crybaby. Didn’t you post on Instagram that you wanted to try that fancy tasting menu downtown? I’ll take tomorrow off work and take you there. If your sister won’t spoil you, I will.” A hollow, ragged laugh escaped my lips. When we first started dating, I had begged Brandon to go to an amusement park with me, but he always claimed he was far too busy with work. Weekends, holidays, weeknights – he never had time to go out with me. I took a deep breath, letting the icy reality wash over me. The last lingering shred of hesitation evaporated into thin air. I picked up my phone, bought a one-way ticket to Munich, and began packing my life into a single suitcase. … The next morning, I was woken up by a barrage of notifications. I opened social media to find Kylie had posted a series of photos. In the shots, her hand was resting close to Brandon’s, both of them wearing matching silver band rings. “It feels so amazing to be someone’s absolute priority. Even a rainy day tastes sweet!” I scrolled down without expression. Right below it was a post from my mother: “Future son-in-law took the day off to treat us all to an incredible feast! Such a happy family!” Dozens of relatives had left comments: “They look so perfect together! A match made in heaven!” “You’re so blessed! Brandon treats Kylie like a princess!” Not a single person questioned why Brandon was out parading around with his fiancée’s sister instead of his fiancée. I stared at the screen for a long moment. Then, I systematically tapped the “Like” button on every single one of their posts. Within sixty seconds, my phone vibrated with an incoming call from Brandon. “Sabrina! Go un-like those posts right now!” he barked the moment I answered. I stayed silent. Hearing my silence, his tone softened slightly into a scolding sigh. “Kylie was already feeling insecure about what happened yesterday. I finally managed to cheer her up by taking her out, and now you go liking her posts? She’s going to think you’re being passive-aggressive! You’re her older sister – stop picking on her!” I let out a low, dry laugh and hung up the phone. I threw the phone onto the bed and resumed packing. To think that a simple “like” was considered bullying Kylie. There wasn’t much I needed to take. We had been together for four years. Back when we first met, he used to pity my childhood, telling me that love meant making up for past wounds. He used to buy me all the birthday gifts my parents had denied me growing up. Everything had shifted the day Kylie met him. She began asking him for rides home from work. Slowly, my spot in the passenger seat became cluttered with her shoes, her sweaters, her lipsticks. When I tried to clear her stuff out, Brandon stopped me. “Kylie texted me saying she’d pick those up later. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” “Why are you guys texting so much?” I had asked, feeling sick. Brandon had dismissed my anxiety with a wave of his hand. “She’s your sister. We’re going to be family anyway. What’s wrong with having her on social media?” “I told you how she operates – ” “Sabrina, Kylie isn’t the monster you make her out to be.” … I walked over to the nightstand and pulled out a small, battered metal tin with peeling paint. Inside lay a pair of simple gold hoop earrings – the only thing left to me by my grandmother. When I was little, my parents claimed having two kids was too expensive, so they dumped me in the countryside with my grandmother. She was the only person who ever loved me. While the neighbors mocked me for being an abandoned child, my grandmother held me, fed me, and kept me warm. When she passed away, my parents swooped in like vultures, taking every cent of her savings and using it to buy designer clothes and private tutoring for Kylie. The only thing they missed were these tiny gold hoops, which my grandmother had secretly tucked into my hands on her deathbed. I held the cold metal tightly in my palm, remembering the gentle touch of her paper-thin hands. A sudden, sharp knock banged on my apartment door. I opened it to find Brandon standing there, his face dark and furious. “Give the gold earrings back to Kylie.” I froze, stunned. Kylie stepped out from behind him, her eyes brimming with tears. “Sabrina… I know you hate me, but those earrings are the only thing Grandma left me… Please, just give them back to me?” Brandon stepped forward, shielding Kylie behind his back, his eyes locked on mine with disgust. “If I hadn’t had lunch with your parents today, I never would have known! They told me a pair of gold earrings went missing when they packed up Grandma’s things. I had no idea you were the kind of person who would steal from your own sister’s inheritance!” He sneered. “Don’t bother lying. I’ve seen you staring at that old metal box like a freak. They’re in there, aren’t they?” I stared at them, my entire body going rigid. “What kind of sick lie is this?!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Kylie barely met Grandma! She was on a trip to Disney World when Grandma died! Why on earth would Grandma leave her inheritance to her?!” Kylie grabbed the back of Brandon’s shirt, trembling dramatically. “Sabrina, I know you resent me, but we’re both her granddaughters! Why wouldn’t she leave me something?” Brandon’s patience snapped. “If you won’t get them, I’ll find them myself!” He pushed past me toward the bedroom. I threw my body against the doorway, blocking him, my whole frame shaking violently. “Brandon! We’ve been together for four years! You don’t trust me at all?!” Brandon stopped, looking down at me with unreserved contempt. “How can I trust you? Your own parents told me you’ve been envious of Kylie since you were a child. They said you have a habit of stealing things!” “Stealing.” The word exploded in my brain, shattering my composure into a thousand jagged pieces. Brandon “knew” the truth about that. He knew the story! When we were kids on a family trip, my parents bought Kylie a luxury meal while leaving me with nothing. I was so dizzy from hunger that I reached over and took “one single french fry” from Kylie’s plate. My parents had tackled me to the ground in front of dozens of tourists, beating me and screaming that I was a disgraceful little thief. It was the deepest trauma of my childhood. And now, Brandon was using that exact dagger to gut me. A primal, hysterical rage surged through my chest. I balled my hands into fists and screamed with everything I had left: “GET OUT! GET THE HELL OUT OF MY APARTMENT!” Doors clicked open down the hallway as neighbors poked their heads out to watch the scene. Seeing the crowd gather, Brandon’s eyes flicked around nervously, his jaw tightening. “Sabrina, you’ve completely lost your mind to jealousy! No matter how much you envy your sister, you can’t steal her things!” Gasps echoed down the hall. “Look at her… looks so quiet, but she’s a thief?” “Stealing from her own family? How vile.” The whispers wrapped around me like suffocating chains. The disgusted glares of my neighbors bled into the memory of the tourists staring down at a helpless, starving child on the pavement. My dignity was being shredded, stripped naked, and stomped into the dirt. Kylie peeked out from behind Brandon’s shoulder, subtly darting her tongue out at me in a silent mockery. Rage overrode my senses. I lunged forward, raising my hand to slap the smirk off her face. Brandon reacted instantly, grabbing my wrist in a crushing grip. “Give me the earrings!” He violently forced my fingers open. In the struggle, my foot caught on the edge of the rug, and I crashed backward, my head slamming brutally into the sharp, metal corner of the shoe rack behind me. “THUD.” A white-hot pain split through my skull. The scab from yesterday broke wide open, and warm, sticky blood immediately poured down my neck, dripping onto the hardwood floor. Brandon’s hands froze in mid-air. A flash of pure panic cut through his anger. “Sabrina… I… I didn’t mean to – ” I couldn’t feel the physical pain anymore. I just sat there in the pool of my own blood, staring at the gold earrings glinting in his palm. And then, I began to laugh. A hollow, desolate sound that broke into quiet sobs. “Brandon,” I whispered, tears cutting pale tracks through the blood on my cheeks. “Is it true? As long as she wants something, I have to give it up? As long as she tells a lie, you’ll believe her blindly?” Brandon’s face drained of all color. He dropped to his knees, reaching out frantically. “No, Sabrina, stop talking! Let me take you to the hospital – ” “DON’T TOUCH ME!” I recoiled from his hand, dragging myself up against the wall, swaying on my feet. I looked at Brandon, then at Kylie, and finally at the gaping neighbors. “Those earrings belonged to my grandmother. She gave them to me. I never stole a damn thing in my life.” I wiped the blood from my mouth, letting out a soft, final laugh. “And as for you, Brandon…” I looked him dead in the eye. “We’re done. The wedding is canceled.”

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There were two cameras in my bedroom. One was mounted in the corner, angled toward the bed to capture the entire room. The other was clamped to my desk, focused tightly enough to catch every misspelled word on my practice tests and the minute shifts in my facial expressions as I worked. The feeds were wired directly to my mother’s phone. Whenever my mind wandered, her voice would crackle through the two-way speaker. “Joanna, what are you staring at?” “Why did you only score second on the pop quiz today?” “Do another practice test. I’ll check it when I get home.” 01 The moment the lock turned on the front door, my spine went rigid on instinct. I started the silent countdown in my head. “Five.” The heavy front door clicked shut with a muffled thud. “Four.” “Smack—” Her keys and leather tote bag were slammed onto the console table. That meant their owner was in a foul mood today. “Three.” The sound of her taking off her heels and sliding into her house slippers. The soles were worn thin, making a soft, rhythmic “snick-snack” against the hardwood. “Two.” The owner of those slippers marched through the living room, down the hall, and stopped dead outside my room. Without a second of hesitation, she pushed the door open. “Bring me your homework. While I’m grading it, you need to memorize two Shakespeare soliloquies and thirty AP vocabulary words. I’ll quiz you in an hour.” “One.” The countdown ended. I turned slowly, looking toward the doorway. My mother, Vanessa, looked exhausted. Her sharp, calculating eyes did a full sweep of my body from head to toe, then meticulously scanned my immaculate bedroom. Once she confirmed everything was in its proper place, the tension in her jaw relaxed by a fraction of an inch. “Come to the kitchen,” she said. “I bought you that organic detox juice.” The juice was impossibly bitter. It tasted like swamp water. I hated it. But my mother said, “It’s flu season. You need the antioxidants to keep your immune system up. You can’t afford a sick day.” I sat at the kitchen island, staring blankly at the dark green liquid. My mother was a highly respected, fiercely disciplined teacher at the most prestigious magnet school in the county. The classes she taught consistently boasted the highest average test scores. The trophies and plaques she brought home crowded our living room shelves. She was dedicated to a fault, staying hours after the final bell to offer free tutoring to the failing kids. Every student who passed through her classroom swore she was the best teacher they’d ever had. This brilliant, flawless woman was my mother. Therefore, whatever my mother said was the absolute truth, and demanded unconditional obedience. She said I needed the green juice. So, I must need it. “Tap. Tap.” My mother knocked her knuckles against the marble countertop, snapping me out of my daze. “Why are you drinking so slowly today? Chug it. You have studying to do.” I held my breath and tipped the glass back, forcing the rest of the sludge down my throat. The acidity hit the back of my mouth, and my body reacted violently. I gagged, my stomach lurching. “Do not spit that out!” she snapped. “Swallow it!” I slapped a hand over my mouth, forcing my throat to work against its own reflexes. Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Once the nausea was finally shoved down into my gut, I forced a tight smile. “Thanks, Mom. I’m going to study now.” She gave a stiff, approving nod. “Good.” 02 “Your recitation is sloppy.” “You missed a letter on ‘sycophant.’ Write the word out a hundred times. Then I’m shuffling the deck and we are doing the entire spelling quiz again.” When I finally passed her inspection, she nodded. “Alright. Go eat your dinner.” I quietly rubbed my aching wrist and practically sprinted to the dining table. I was starving. But halfway through my plate, my mother suddenly stopped eating. She stared at me, her brow furrowing. “Why is your mouth so big when you chew?” I froze. A sudden, inexplicable wave of shame washed over me. The heat rushed to my cheeks. I didn’t know whether to swallow the food in my mouth or spit it into my napkin. On instinct, I tightened my lips, trying to make myself smaller. I swallowed the half-chewed bite whole. She didn’t look away. She stared at me like I was a grotesque specimen pinned to a corkboard. The corners of her mouth turned down in disgust. “I was just… a little hungry today,” I whispered, trying to defend myself. “I was eating too fast.” She didn’t say a word, her eyes continuing to slowly dissect me. “Sit up straight. You’re slouching like a hunchback.” “Just eat. Why do you keep looking at me? You’re so timid. It’s embarrassing. Have some confidence.” I picked up my fork and took a tiny bite. She let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Opening your mouth that small? It’s going to take you all night to finish one plate.” I dropped my head, thoroughly humiliated. My appetite vanished. The rice that had tasted so sweet a moment ago now felt like sawdust on my tongue. My mother, however, seemed to find her appetite. She ate with relish, pulling out her phone and opening the school’s Parent Portal app. Our homeroom teacher uploaded photos of the class every day for the parents. Things like: “Math teacher working with students after school.” “A student utilizing their lunch break to ask questions about the lecture.” My mother tapped on each photo, zooming in, hunting for my face in the background. When she found me, she scrutinized the pixels. “What is this expression on your face? Why do you look so miserable? Look at the other kids, chasing down the teachers to ask questions. And you? You just sit at your desk like a lump of wood. So dull.” “No wonder you didn’t get into the magnet school.” Westfield Magnet was the best school in the state—and the school where my mother taught. “Why are you smiling so big in this one? That girl sitting next to you—you can tell just by looking at her that she has no academic future. She’s always distracting you. Stop hanging out with her.” She swiped to the next photo. “Why are you staring in that direction? Who are you looking at?” I tried to explain that I was just spacing out. I wasn’t looking at anyone. She didn’t believe me. She stared at that photo for half an hour. Finally, she turned on me, her voice cold and accusatory. “Are you looking at that boy sitting diagonally from you? Joanna! Are you dating someone? How many times have I told you? No dating! Absolutely no boys! Do you hear me?!” It took me swearing to God and the universe that I wasn’t dating anyone before she finally, suspiciously, put the phone down. “I doubt you’d have the guts anyway.” I let out a breath. Then, she glanced down at her screen again, a strange, twisted look passing over her features. “Besides, this boy is actually quite handsome. Looking the way you do, a boy like that would never look twice at you anyway.” I just stared at her, stunned into silence. She seemed to suddenly realize what she’d said. She shifted uncomfortably and averted her eyes. “Mom was just making a joke.” I lowered my head, silently picking up the empty plates and carrying them to the kitchen sink. As I turned on the faucet, she followed me, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. “Joanna, everything Mom does is for your own good. You have to understand that.” “You were barely a year old when your heartless father abandoned us. We’ve had to rely on each other all these years. I’ve worked myself to the bone, waking up before dawn and coming home in the dark, just to make enough money to put you through a decent school.” “You have to make something of yourself. You have to leave that son of his—the one he had with “that woman”—in the dust. Do you understand?” “I want him to regret it. I want him to see how catastrophically wrong he was to leave us!” “Joanna, Mom is the only person in this world who truly, wholeheartedly wants what’s best for you.” … It was a familiar script. She’d recited it a thousand times. I turned the faucet on full blast. The rush of the water drowned out the sound of my ragged breathing and washed away the hot tears threatening to spill. “Don’t cry.” “Don’t let her see you cry.” “Just hold it in. Wait until you’re in bed. Wait until you can pull the covers over your head.” 03 In the pitch black of my bedroom, the camera let out a faint, mechanical “whir-click” as it panned. It was incredibly soft. If you weren’t listening for it, you’d never know it was there. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, keeping my breathing even, pretending to be dead asleep. A long time passed. When the mechanical sounds finally ceased entirely, I faked a heavy shift in my sleep, pulling the edge of the comforter up over my face. Then, I let out a long, trembling exhale. The tears I had been holding back for hours finally broke free, fat drops soaking instantly into my cotton pillowcase. Suddenly, my bedroom door flew open. The comforter was ripped away from my face. My mother stood there in her bare feet, the blue light of her phone illuminating her expressionless face. “What are you crying for?” My heart slammed against my ribs. I tried to play it off, blinking rapidly like I’d just been jolted awake. “Mom… I had a nightmare.” But she just glared down at me, her eyes like ice. “You’re hiding under your covers crying just because I criticized you earlier?” She was so sharp. She pierced right through my fragile little lie. “Are you resenting me?” I frantically shook my head. I was just… hurting. I didn’t even fully understand why. I just felt like I couldn’t breathe. I don’t know what it was that triggered her, but she suddenly reached down, grabbed my arm, and yanked me out of bed. “I put food on the table, I put clothes on your back, and you dare resent me?!” “I’ll beat the ungratefulness right out of you!” The slaps rained down—on my head, my shoulders, my face. I didn’t dare dodge them. I didn’t dare cry out. If I cried, if I tried to protect myself, she would only hit harder. When the storm finally passed and she had exhausted her rage, she collapsed onto the floor, pulled me into her arms, and began to sob. “Joanna, Mommy didn’t mean it.” I sat there, numb, letting her crush me against her chest. I raised a trembling hand and gently patted her back. “I know, Mom. I know.” “I don’t resent you.” “I really just had a bad dream.” She stayed like that for a while until her breathing leveled out. Then she stood up, brushing off her pajamas, completely composed. “Go to sleep. You have an early morning tomorrow.” She turned and walked out the door. As if nothing had ever happened. 04 During study hall the next day, I glanced out the classroom window and saw my mother. She was standing in the hallway, smiling warmly, chatting like an old friend with my homeroom teacher. But from the corner of her eye, she kept shooting glances into the classroom. Some landed on me. Others swept the room, using my desk as the epicenter. A cold sweat broke out on my neck. My entire body went rigid. Right then, my mother locked eyes with me and smiled. It wasn’t the warm, collegial smile she’d just given my teacher. It was the terrifying, tight-lipped smirk she gave me when I failed a test or disobeyed a rule. The corners of her mouth curved up, but her eyes were dead, glittering with a bizarre, almost manic excitement. It chilled me to the bone. The morning sun was pouring through the window, warm and blinding, but I couldn’t stop shivering. Mia, my desk-mate, nudged me. “Hey, you okay?” I gave a tiny shake of my head. “I’m fine.” A few minutes later, my homeroom teacher walked in and called a name. “Noah, can you step out into the hall for a minute?” It was the boy from the photo yesterday. She still didn’t believe me. I looked out the window at my mother, silently begging her with my eyes. “Please. Please don’t humiliate me.” She just raised an eyebrow, completely ignoring my plea. Fifteen minutes later, Noah stormed back into the classroom. His face was an angry, mottled red. He marched straight to my desk and slammed his palms down onto the wood. “Joanna! What the hell did I ever do to you? Why did you have your crazy mother come here to humiliate me?” I stared up at him, utterly paralyzed. “I don’t know,” I stammered. “I didn’t do anything.” The other kids started turning around in their seats, whispering. “Whoa, what’s going on?” Noah was breathing so hard his chest heaved. He pointed a shaking finger at my face. “Your mother just stood in the main office, in front of all the teachers, and called me a shameless predator! She accused me of trying to seduce her precious daughter!” “Joanna, tell them! When have I ever tried to hit on you? We’ve been in the same class for three years, and I swear to God I haven’t spoken more than five sentences to you! Tell them! How exactly did I seduce you?!” Gasps rippled through the classroom. “Holy shit.” “This is unhinged.” I was drowning in embarrassment. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. “I’m so sorry. My mom misunderstood a picture. I tried to explain it to her, but she wouldn’t listen…” Right on cue, my mother stepped into the classroom. “Misunderstood what?” She leveled a venomous glare at Noah. “Your principal and I go way back. If you try anything inappropriate with my daughter again, I will know about it. Keep your distance. Do not interfere with her academic future.” Noah’s neck was flushed purple with rage. “You are out of your mind!” She ignored him. Instead, she pivoted and fixed her glare on Mia. “And you. The second the bell rings, you’re always chattering away at Joanna. It’s obnoxious. Stop distracting her from her work.” She looked Mia up and down with blatant disgust. “For a young lady, you certainly have a big mouth. It’s incredibly unappealing.” Mia was the sweetest, most soft-spoken girl in our grade. At my mother’s words, her face crumpled, flushing scarlet. She cast an uncomfortable, embarrassed look in my direction. I felt like I was going to throw up. I grabbed my mother’s sleeve, my voice breaking. “Mom, please. Stop it. Just stop.” She yanked her arm out of my grip. She swept her gaze over the entire room of wide-eyed teenagers, delivering her final warning. “That goes for all of you.” “If I find out that any single one of you is negatively impacting Joanna’s grades… there will be consequences.” 05 Once my mother finally left, I dragged myself over to Noah to apologize. “I am so, so sorry.” He let out a harsh laugh and took a step back. “Don’t. Just stay away from me. I don’t need your mother ruining my life.” When I walked back to my desk, Mia instinctively shifted her chair an inch closer to the aisle, putting physical distance between us. I looked at her, my heart breaking. “I’m sorry.” She gave me a hesitant look, then quietly turned her face toward the chalkboard. “I guess I do talk too much,” she murmured. “I’ll go to the guidance counselor later and ask for a seat change.” I opened my mouth to say something. To beg her to stay. But my mother’s face flashed in my mind—her mouth moving, her eyes judging. I slumped back in my chair, defeated. After that day, wherever I walked, the students around me would physically part, backing away like I was carrying the plague. They’d snicker behind their hands, avoiding me like a landmine. “Keep your distance, or her mom will come back and go psycho on us.” “Right, right. Can’t distract the “Valedictorian” from her studies.” My actual name was replaced by the sarcastic title of “The Valedictorian.” When I went to the cafeteria, no one sat with me. No one initiated a conversation. If I tried to speak to someone, it was met with exaggerated groans or mocking fake-coughs. An invisible, bulletproof glass box had been dropped over me, cutting me off from the rest of the school. My mother was thrilled. “You are a student,” she said. “This is exactly how you should be living. Total focus on your academics.” I looked at her, my face completely numb. “But I don’t have any friends left.” She scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “You go to school to get into college, not to socialize.” I withdrew into myself. I became a ghost. In the daily photos the teachers posted, I was always the girl sitting quietly at her desk, head buried in a textbook or a worksheet. My mother stared at the screen, finally somewhat satisfied. “At least you finally have the right attitude.” But my grades were tanking faster than ever. When I stared at my textbooks, the words swam on the page. I couldn’t retain a single sentence. I’d spend hours on a single homework assignment, my mind entirely blank. Just walking onto the school grounds made my chest tighten in panic. I felt like a monkey stripped bare, placed in a cage for everyone to point and laugh at. The phantom sounds of their mocking laughter were carved into my brain. Whenever I heard people chatting or laughing in the hallway, my instinct was to curl into a defensive ball. Even though logically I knew they probably weren’t talking about me, I couldn’t stop the paranoia. I became terrified of eye contact. Whenever a teacher walked by, my spine snapped straight on reflex, my expression going dead and serious, terrified that their phone might be raised to snap a candid picture. The only time I could breathe was the walk from the school gates to our front door. But even that freedom was strictly rationed. My mother had mapped the route. She knew exactly how long it took. If I took too long and didn’t trigger the camera in the entryway by her designated time, there were punishments. 06 One Tuesday, I unlocked the front door and immediately noticed the lights were on. My mother had come home early. When she saw me, her brow furrowed. “Your homeroom teacher emailed me your latest test scores. Joanna, what is wrong with you? You dropped fifteen ranks!” I lowered my eyes, my body bracing for the inevitable screaming match. But, entirely out of character, she didn’t yell. Instead, she reached out, her tone sickeningly sweet, and took my hand. “Come here. Starting today, I’m personally overseeing your tutoring.” I was stunned. She was famous for prioritizing her own students over me. I hesitated. “But… don’t you have to stay after school to tutor your students?” The moment the words left my mouth, I noticed a boy sitting in our living room. He leaned around the armchair, flashing a bright, charming smile. “Hey there.”

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