Category: English

The moment I sank into the bath, a low hum filled the air. A drone hovered outside my bathroom window, its red light blinking. Instead of jumping up, I curled into a ball, grabbed the shower rod, and swept the curtain across the window. After scrambling into a robe, I rushed to the window—it was still there. I yanked the curtain open and recorded it with my phone until it zipped away. I immediately shared the video in our building’s group chat: “Whose drone is this? Spying outside bathrooms—have you no shame?” Residents erupted: “That’s the one outside my window days ago!” “I was undressing! This is harassment!” I tagged property management, who promised an “immediate investigation.” I thought it was over. I never imagined the drone had just begun—and now, it was only targeting me. 1. The property management investigation went nowhere. They claimed there were too many blind spots in the security camera coverage to identify the operator. Judging by the silence in the group chat, my neighbors weren’t being bothered anymore. The drone was now my personal stalker. I live on the 16th floor. The view is expansive, which also means I’m completely exposed. Day one, it hovered outside my living room window, its camera lens aimed squarely at me. I drew the curtains. Day two, it circled my bedroom window at midnight. I bought heavy, blackout curtains and plunged my apartment into perpetual twilight. Day three, I was cooking in the kitchen. I turned my head, and there it was. A cold, electronic eye, separated from me by a single pane of glass. I felt like an animal in a glass cage, observed at will by an unseen keeper. I called the police. An officer came, took my statement, and then gave me the line. “Ma’am, without evidence of physical harm or a clear recording of you in a private setting, it’s very difficult to press charges. We recommend you take extra precautions.” Extra precautions? I kept every curtain drawn, living in a self-imposed darkness 24/7. I was starting to feel like I was molding over. That night, I was watching a movie with the volume cranked up. A piercing whine suddenly sliced through the film’s soundtrack. The drone’s propellers. It was practically plastered against my window. I stormed over and ripped the curtains open. A small spotlight had been attached to it. A harsh, white beam of light stabbed through the darkness, aimed directly at my eyes. I stumbled back, my eyes stinging, tears streaming down my face. It was taunting me. A surge of pure rage flooded my senses. I grabbed an apple from the counter, slid open the window, and hurled it with all my might. The drone dodged it with a nimble dip. It wobbled smugly in the air for a moment, then flew off. I watched it disappear. Upwards. I was on the 16th floor. There were more than a dozen floors above me. I shut the window and sat in the dark, listening to the frantic drumming of my own heart. This wasn’t over. 2. The next day, I took a half-day off work. I went to an electronics surplus store. “Do you have any high-powered laser pointers?” I asked the man behind the counter. He pulled a long, unmarked box from under the counter. “This one can hit a target three miles away. Creates a visible beam at night. Don’t point it at anyone’s eyes. It’ll blind them.” “I’ll take it.” That evening, I sat on my sofa in the pitch-black living room, and I waited. I’d left a small crack in the curtains. Sure enough, at 9 PM sharp, the familiar buzz returned. It circled at a distance first, as if scouting for danger, before slowly approaching my window. The spotlight clicked on again. Now. I raised the laser pointer, aimed through the crack in the curtains, and centered the beam on that glowing camera lens. I pressed the button. A brilliant green line shot out and landed squarely on the drone’s eye. The drone jolted violently, as if it had been burned. The light from its camera instantly died. It twitched erratically in the air for a few seconds, then scrambled away in a panicked retreat. A wave of grim satisfaction washed over me as I watched it flee. That night, I slept soundly for the first time in weeks. The next morning, I felt refreshed and ready for work. I opened my front door, and a putrid stench hit me like a physical blow. My door was smeared with a thick, dark red liquid, still dripping goo onto the welcome mat. It smelled like rancid animal blood. The keyhole of my lock was completely filled with hardened glue. My key wouldn’t go in. The door couldn’t be locked from the outside. I stood there, my stomach churning. 3. I didn’t clean the blood. I didn’t touch the lock. I called property management, my voice eerily calm. “My door has been vandalized with some kind of filth and the lock has been destroyed. I need you to send someone to handle it. Also, please check the hallway security footage.” The building manager arrived quickly, his face paling at the sight. “Ms. Vance, this… this is despicable! We’ll check the cameras right away!” I nodded, went downstairs, bought a new deadbolt, and called a locksmith to forcibly remove the old one and install it. My phone was quiet all afternoon. Just before quitting time, the manager called back, his tone apologetic. “Ms. Vance, we reviewed the footage, but… the person was wearing a hoodie and a face mask. We can’t see their face.” “Which floor did they come from?” I asked. “…The 17th.” I hung up. The 17th floor. A package I’d ordered arrived that evening. A smart video doorbell, complete with motion detection and cloud storage. I installed it myself in under thirty minutes. With that done, I ordered takeout, sat on my sofa, and watched the live feed of my front door on a spare phone while I ate. They would be back. I waited for two nights. Nothing happened. The drone didn’t reappear. It seemed they had given up. On the third night, I was reading when my phone buzzed. A notification from the doorbell app. “Motion has been detected at your front door.” I immediately pulled up the live stream. A figure in a black hoodie was creeping toward my door. He was carrying a small bucket. Just as I’d predicted. He stopped in front of my door, twisted the lid off the bucket, and raised it to splash its contents. I pressed the two-way talk button on the app. “Don’t move.” My voice, broadcast through the doorbell’s speaker, wasn’t loud, but it cut through the silent hallway like a knife. The figure froze, sloshing some of the liquid from the bucket. He looked up in terror, his eyes fixing on the tiny doorbell. “I’m recording this,” I continued. “Turn around now, take the stairs, and I can pretend this never happened.” He stood there, paralyzed, clearly weighing his options. “You have three seconds. Three… two…” Before I could say “one,” he dropped the bucket and bolted for the stairwell. I watched him vanish from the screen and saved the video clip. In that split second when he looked up, his mask had slipped just enough to reveal the lower half of his face. A young face, twisted with malice. 4. I didn’t post the video to the group chat. That would only make them more careful next time. I needed a knockout blow. The next day, my internet slowed to a crawl. Videos buffered endlessly, and web pages took ages to load. I called my service provider. After running a diagnostic, they said the line was fine, but my data usage was abnormally high. A number of unauthorized devices were connected to my network. I logged into my router’s admin panel. Sure enough, the list of connected devices was filled with unfamiliar names. One of them stood out: “KK-Drone-Controller.” KK? I suddenly remembered something. There was only one family on the 17th floor. Apartment 1701. The last time I was in the management office, I had glanced at the resident file for 1701. The owner: Sharon Keller. Her son: Kyle Keller. KK. They had been piggybacking on my Wi-Fi the entire time, using my own network to control the drone that was spying on me. No wonder they always knew exactly when I was home. A fire ignited in my chest. I didn’t change the password. Not yet. I opened my laptop and started searching. “How to track devices on your Wi-Fi.” “IP address location.” “Network forensics.” It took me all day, but I found a method. Using specialized software, I could capture the data packets being sent by any device connected to my network. While the data itself was encrypted, I could see which servers it was communicating with. The “KK-Drone-Controller” was constantly pinging a cloud server belonging to a major drone manufacturer. I even found the server’s IP address. I screenshotted everything—the MAC address of the device, the server logs, all of it—and saved it. Only then did I go back into my router settings, blacklist “KK-Drone-Controller,” and change my Wi-Fi password. The next morning, I had just woken up when my doorbell began to ring incessantly, accompanied by furious pounding. I looked through the video feed. A middle-aged woman’s face, contorted with rage. Sharon Keller. Kyle’s mother. “Open this door! You open up right now! You little witch, what did you do to our internet?!” she shrieked, hammering on the door. I activated the speaker. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Don’t play dumb with me! My son said it was you! It was working fine yesterday, and now we can’t get online! What are you trying to pull?!” She had just admitted it. I smiled. “Oh? Are you sure you know how your internet works?” The woman outside fell silent. “Wh-what are you talking about! We have our own service!” “Is that right? Well, that’s funny. I was checking my router yesterday and found an unauthorized device that’s been stealing my Wi-Fi. The device name was ‘KK-Drone-Controller.’ I’ve already filed a police report and given them the device’s MAC address and all the evidence of the servers it was connecting to. The police said that theft of service, if severe enough, is a federal crime.” I heard a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the door. Then, dead silence. A few seconds later, the woman erupted like a cornered animal. “You’re a liar! You vicious little tramp, how dare you frame my son!” She started kicking the door, screaming every curse word imaginable. I didn’t engage further. I muted the speaker and calmly went to make myself a cup of coffee. Listening to her impotent rage from outside my door, I took a sip. It had never tasted so sweet. 5. Sharon Keller’s tantrum lasted for fifteen minutes before neighbors and property management finally persuaded her to leave. The world was quiet again. That evening, the power in my apartment went out. It wasn’t a tripped breaker. My neighbors’ lights were all on. Only my unit was plunged into darkness. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and checked the breaker box. All the switches were in the correct position. I called management. “Ms. Vance, please hold on. We’ll send an electrician right over.” As I waited, a deep sense of unease settled over me. My video doorbell was offline without power. I was blind to what was happening outside my door. I dragged a heavy chair and wedged it under the doorknob. And then I heard it. Soft footsteps. They stopped right outside my door. Next, the faint, metallic scrape of metal on metal. Someone was picking my lock. Every hair on my body stood on end. I held my breath and tiptoed to the door, pressing my ear against the cold steel. Whoever it was, they were clumsy. After several minutes of fumbling, they couldn’t get it open. I heard a muffled curse. They seemed to give up. Then came a different sound. A soft hissing. Like something being squeezed into the keyhole. Superglue. They were trying to lock me in. What if there was a fire? The thought sent a jolt of ice through my veins. I crept to the kitchen and pulled the longest, sharpest carving knife from the block. Just then, my phone rang. It was the electrician. “Ms. Vance, I’m on your floor, but the door to the utility closet in the hallway is locked from the outside. I can’t get in. Let me go find the master key.” My heart sank. They had locked the utility closet, too. Almost simultaneously, I heard the person outside my door react to the sound of my phone. The footsteps started again, this time running frantically toward the stairwell. I rushed to the door and peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty. I yanked the door open. The acrid smell of glue filled the air. The keyhole was completely sealed. Down the hall, the utility closet door had a heavy-duty U-lock clamped around its handles. They weren’t just trying to harass me. They were trying to trap me. I backed into my apartment, my heart pounding against my ribs. My phone lit up again. A text from an unknown number. “Enjoying my gifts? This is just the beginning.”

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The night before my wedding, my best friend Stella arrived with wine for an impromptu bachelorette party. When I opened the door, she hugged me, her clothes smelling of the cigarettes Matthew smokes. I have asthma; he quit for me eight years ago, but lately, the scent on him had grown stronger. Three days earlier, I finally asked him about it. He quickly turned his phone face-down, saying work was a mess and he had to leave town. I only saw his tired face and hurried to help him pack, ignoring the hidden phone and the smoke. As I thought back, Stella drank half the bottle, staring blankly at our wedding portrait on the wall. A tear rolled down her cheek. Dread filled me, but before I could speak, her phone buzzed. After ignoring it repeatedly, she grabbed her purse. “Work called—I have to go,” she slurred. “Aim the bouquet at me tomorrow!” She left in a rush, tear-streaked. But I saw the caller ID: my fiancé, Matthew. 1 The last shred of hope I was clinging to dissolved when a push notification lit up my phone. It was a video, shot from a hidden angle. In a dimly lit alley, a man held a woman locked in a fierce embrace. The man was tall and impeccably dressed in a suit; the woman, stunning in a slinky crimson dress. They looked like a scene from a movie, a perfect match. But it was the watch on his wrist that made my world stop. The diamond-encrusted face glinted, revealing the letters M & C etched around a cheesy little heart. My fifth-anniversary gift to Matthew. M for Matthew. C for Clara. And the woman he was kissing… dangling from her purse was a small, hand-knitted rabbit with a single red rose tucked behind its ear. I had made that for Stella. I’d clipped it onto her bag myself, just an hour ago. The comment section was a frenzy, a celebration of the “insane chemistry” between the “hot, mysterious couple.” Ten thousand comments, and every single one was a fresh twist of the knife in my heart. Twelve years ago, at seventeen, I’d said with a goofy grin, “Stella is the best person in the world to me.” When my parents tried to force me to change my college major, threatening to stop me from studying art, she was the one who helped me run away in the middle of the night. From that day on, she shouldered everything: rent, utilities, our living expenses, and my tuition. She worked at a downtown bar, singing and hustling to keep us afloat. When I wanted to drop out and get a job to ease her burden, she lit into me, screaming at me for the first and only time. Even then, the harshest words she ever said were aimed at herself. “Clara, do you want to end up like me? With people whispering ‘slut’ behind your back for the rest of your life?” Stella was two years older, but her family had bled her dry, so she never made it to college. She made her living singing in smoky bars. “Don’t you worry,” she’d said, her chin held high. “I can take care of you.” I remembered her expression, her voice, as clearly as if it were yesterday. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. How did we get here? How did we end up like this? 2 Eight years of love, twelve years of friendship—all turned to ash in a single moment. For a man? Was he worth it? Stella, who never bought herself so much as a new bracelet, who used the same cracked phone for two years, had bought me the latest model the day it came out without a second thought. And when I finally started making real money as an illustrator, I didn’t get a mortgage; I bought her a car, paid in full. We were the kind of friends who would give each other our last dollar. We’d empty our own pockets to see the other happy. If she and Matthew had just told me they had feelings for each other, I would have stepped aside. I would have let them go. But why play me for a fool? Was the thrill of the secret worth destroying me? I wiped my tears and opened Stella’s social media profile. Back when I was a struggling art student, she was already a local celebrity, a singer with a devoted following. Every time she posted a video, she’d demand I like and comment, and she’d pin my comment to the top to drive traffic to my portfolio. The moment I became an established illustrator with a steady stream of commercial work, she stopped. “Linking yourself to a bar singer is bad for your brand,” she’d told me. “It’ll cost you clients.” But now, everything was different. Her last post was from a performance three days ago. The video was shaky, but in the frame, besides Stella on stage, you could clearly see a man’s forearm in a crisp white shirt. I didn’t need to zoom in. I knew it was Matthew’s. Three days ago. The day he told me he had to work late because of a problem at the office. How strange that “working late” meant spending the entire night at a bar, listening to her sing. September 11th. Matthew was “working late” again. In the background of Stella’s video, his reflection was clearly visible in a TV screen. They were in a hotel room. And he was still wearing the watch I gave him. September 1st. Stella was out of town for a week, helping a friend open a new bar. Matthew was on a “business trip” for five of those days. He came back with a bandage on his forehead and scraped knuckles. He said he’d gotten into a fight defending some girl from a drunk. And today. Matthew was “working late.” Again. I started crying, then laughing, then crying again. The past and the present crashed together in my mind, a chaotic mess of memories and lies. For a moment, I wished I was delusional, that I had imagined it all, because anything was better than this reality. We were supposed to get married tomorrow. My wedding dress was hanging in the closet. The hair and makeup artists were scheduled to arrive in eight hours. My bouquet was sitting on my vanity. I had practiced the bouquet toss eight hundred times, determined to make sure Stella would be the one to catch it. Everything was ruined. They say that after a complete breakdown, you become unnaturally calm, almost numb. I opened my laptop and started drafting an email to cancel the wedding. My eyes drifted back to my phone. Should I call them? Confront them? Listen to them stumble through a string of pathetic excuses before finally admitting their disgusting betrayal, only to turn it all around and blame me? Just then, my screen lit up with a notification. A charge on our shared credit card. I clicked on it. It was from a hotel. The room, priced at $1,888 a night, was one of their “fantasy suites.” Matthew and I had only been there once, the night he proposed. He really knew how to spend my money. Any thought I had of ending this with dignity vanished, consumed by a white-hot rage. I’m the kind of person who gets even. 3 I slammed the delete key and walked to my art studio. If they were so in love, then fine. I’d give them the wedding they deserved. A stack of unused invitation sleeves sat in the corner. I found a simple template online, typed in the names of our guests, and printed a new, thick stack. It was much faster than the ones I’d hand-painted, one by one. As I slipped the new inserts into the fancy sleeves, I saw their names on the paper, and a sharp pain twisted my stomach again. For me, it had been love at first sight with Matthew. He was on stage, the new student representative, dressed in a crisp white shirt and wire-rimmed glasses. He spoke with a calm, steady voice, an aura of cool detachment that made you want to be the one to break through it. The line of people trying to win him over stretched from the lecture hall to the campus gates. I was just another face in the crowd, the quiet art major who was always too busy with projects to “accidentally” run into him. But Stella knew. The day after she figured out I had a crush on him, she cornered him in an alleyway near campus as he was heading home. She had a lollipop stick hanging from the corner of her mouth, her voice pure swagger. “My girl here wants to get to know you,” she said, jerking a thumb in my direction. “Give her your number.” Matthew’s gaze landed on me, and he sighed, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. My hand trembled as I scanned his code. As I put my phone away, he turned his arm toward Stella. “What about you?” Stella just shoved me forward and strolled away. “Don’t have a phone,” she called over her shoulder. And later… when did they exchange numbers? I sealed the last invitation, clutching my stomach as I curled into a ball by the desk. Every memory of Matthew and Stella together replayed in my head. The way he would turn his head to laugh at her jokes, the way he’d play along with her antics, how he’d challenge her to drinking contests and then drive her home. I was so naive. I thought he was just being nice to my best friend because he loved me. Once the pain subsided, I grabbed my wedding dress and took a cab to the hotel. This wedding was supposed to be my dream, a fantasy I had spent a year and a half designing and supervising every detail of. Matthew wasn’t interested in any of it, and I never asked him to be. I only wanted his opinion on the invitations and the party favors. Now, I had to tear that dream down with my own hands and face the brutal truth. I had all the photos of us taken down, leaving only the two bare names at the entrance. Matthew & Clara. I whispered his name, and the suffocating weight in my chest began to lift. More than Matthew, I hated Stella. She was the one who pushed me to follow my art, the one who was with me through every struggle. She was more than a friend; she was my family. And the deepest cuts always come from family. I spent the entire night on the top floor of the hotel, just sitting. When specks of light began to dance across the floor, I pulled back the curtains and realized the sun was rising. In the ballroom next to mine, another couple’s family was bustling about, their faces beaming with joy as they prepared for the big day. I looked down at my own shadow. I was used to being abandoned, used to being alone. It wasn’t so bad. At nine o’clock, the wedding motorcade pulled up to the hotel entrance. The other bride, surrounded by a crowd of loved ones, walked through the doors toward her future. My eyes drifted to where the cars had come from, and then I saw him, tucked away in a corner. Matthew. He was chain-smoking in the shadows, one cigarette after another, until a hand snatched the last one from his lips. Stella ground the cigarette out with the heel of her shoe and, without a word, slapped him hard across the face. “Matthew,” she hissed, “don’t make me lose all respect for you.” 4 Like a guilty child, Matthew grabbed her arm. “Don’t go,” he pleaded. “Just stay a little longer.” They embraced, holding each other so tightly it was as if they were trying to merge into one person, to melt into each other’s bones. Watching them, I felt like the villain, the one who had cruelly kept them apart. A laugh escaped my lips. I had been so considerate, stripping the wedding down to the bare essentials to save him from the stress. All he had to do was show up, say his vows, and exchange rings. I never imagined he’d use the free time I gave him for a final, passionate rendezvous with another woman. I waited until they disappeared inside the venue. Then, I walked downstairs. Just as I’d instructed, a large trash bin was placed by the entrance. Beside it was a box of the new invitations, every instance of “Clara” replaced with “Stella.” I knew them. They’d be hiding backstage, whispering sweet nothings, too wrapped up in their drama to notice anything else. For the first time all day, a genuine sense of relief washed over me. Vengeance, it turned out, was the best therapy. The staff followed my orders perfectly. As guests arrived, their original invitations were collected, tossed into the bin, and replaced with the new ones from the box. A confused murmur rippled through the wedding hall. Matthew’s face was a mask of thunder. He knew something was wrong, but not what. He just didn’t want to be here. Don’t worry, I thought. I’m going to make this a day you’ll never forget. The hour struck. The lights went down. And I walked onto the stage, dressed in my pure white wedding gown, and took the officiant’s microphone. As Matthew and Stella watched in dawning horror, I spoke, my voice ringing through the silent hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the wedding of Matthew and Stella.” A single spotlight hit Stella. She looked up, a bitter smile playing on her lips, as if she’d been expecting this all along. “Clara…” she began. Matthew snapped out of his shock and lunged for the microphone. “Clara! That’s not funny! This joke has gone far enough!” I simply picked up a second mic. “Let’s take a look at their incredible love story, shall we?” Stella grabbed my wrist, her eyes begging me. “Clara, you can’t—” On the massive screen behind us, the picture from the alley flashed into view—their passionate kiss, followed by the unedited video of their desperate embrace from just moments ago. Matthew froze, his face draining of all color. Then, his shock morphed into rage. “That’s photoshopped! Those are fakes!” I laughed coldly. “So let’s all give them a round of applause—the whore and the liar. May they last forever!” Matthew tried to salvage the situation, turning to the stunned guests. “Everyone, I am so sorry. My fiancée… she’s been under a lot of creative pressure lately. She’s not herself.” His grip on my wrist loosened. I shoved the microphone into Stella’s hands, my voice a low whisper only she could hear. “Stella, we’re done.” This was my last act of mercy—not blasting this all over the internet and destroying what was left of her life. As for Matthew… I’d made sure to invite his CEO and his wife. His career was over. Stella’s eyes were a swirling mix of emotions. “Clara, I’m sorry,” she whispered. Then, her tightly clenched fist opened. A single piece of paper fluttered from her hand, drifting on the air and landing at the feet of a guest in the front row. She raised the microphone to her lips, her gaze locked on Matthew. “You want to know what that is, Matthew?” her voice boomed. “That’s the receipt for my abortion!” Matthew looked as if he’d been struck by lightning, stumbling back a step. I had started to leave, but now I paused, a curious spectator to my own tragedy. Let’s see how this plays out. Faced with public humiliation, would Matthew choose his reputation or his one true love? This was better than any soap opera. His eyes darted to me, desperate. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. He shook his head violently. “You’re lying! When did we ever sleep together?”

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My mother-in-law deliberately fed my toddler something he was deathly allergic to. When I stopped her, she threatened to leave, to go back home and never watch him again. She wanted me to grovel and apologize, just like I always had. This time, I packed her bags, drove her to the Greyhound station, and wished her a safe trip. 1 The moment I walked through the door after work, my one-year-old son, Leo, came toddling towards me, crying. “Itchy, Mommy, itchy,” he sobbed. I looked down and saw his little body covered in angry, red hives. My mother-in-law, Carol, was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through TikToks on her phone as if nothing was wrong. “Mom,” I said, my voice tight. “What happened to Leo? Why is he breaking out again? Did you give him peanut butter?” Leo has had a severe peanut allergy since he was a baby. Even a small amount makes him break out in hives. A large amount could close his throat. Carol didn’t even look up from her phone. “A little,” she said, her tone defensive. “I just mixed a spoonful into his oatmeal. He needs the protein. He’ll never grow big and strong if he doesn’t eat peanuts.” I took a deep breath, trying to control my anger. “Carol, we’ve been over this a hundred times. He’s allergic. A minor reaction is hives. A major one could kill him.” Since his diagnosis, I’d been meticulous. Our house was a peanut-free zone. And Leo hadn’t had a single reaction. Until my mother-in-law came to live with us. No matter how many times I explained it, she refused to listen. For every one of my sentences, she had ten in return, her face a mask of stubborn defiance. Right now was no different. She didn’t think she was wrong; she thought I was attacking her. “You’re young, you don’t know,” she snapped, finally looking at me. “Mark was the same way with shellfish when he was a kid. He’d break out in hives. You just have to feed it to them a few times, and their body gets used to it.” “I’m his grandmother,” she added, as if that was the final word. “Would I ever do anything to hurt him?” Meanwhile, Leo was scratching himself raw in my arms, whimpering. I looked at her, immovable on the couch. “I don’t care how Mark was raised,” I said, my voice cold. “This is my son. And you will not do this again.” Besides, my husband Mark is still allergic to shellfish. What the hell was she talking about? Carol’s face hardened. “Fine. If that’s how you’re going to be, then I can’t watch him for you anymore. Find someone else. I’m packing my bags and going home.” There it was. The threat. Anytime I disagreed with her, anytime I pushed back, this was her trump card. And this was the ninth time she’d played it. 2 My husband Mark and I met in college. We stayed in the city after graduation, got married, and a couple of years later, had Leo. My own mother passed away when I was young, so she couldn’t help with childcare. That left Carol. And Carol knew she had me cornered. She knew I had no other family to turn to. For the past year, if I so much as breathed in a way that displeased her, she’d threaten to leave. Honestly, the first time she did it, I was stunned. All I did was suggest that maybe Leo didn’t need to wear a snowsuit indoors. She burst into tears, accusing me of disrespecting her, and started dramatically throwing her things into a suitcase. What was I supposed to do? Mark and I both worked full-time. Who would watch our son? So, I apologized. I begged her to stay. And she did, magnanimously. After that, I just looked the other way. If she wanted to dress him like he was about to summit Everest to watch cartoons, fine. What else could I do? I thought it was a one-time thing. But once she knew it worked, it became her go-to move. She started testing my boundaries constantly. My words became suggestions, then just background noise she ignored. It felt like she was disagreeing with me just for the sake of it. I’d say, “The pediatrician said no salt before he’s one.” She’d scoff. “Nonsense. How can he get strong without salt?” And then I’d find her sneaking it into his baby food. I’d say, “Please, no grapes or hard candies. He could choke.” She’d roll her eyes. “This is how I raised Mark, and he turned out fine. You young mothers are all so paranoid.” Then she’d add the kicker: “If you want me to be one of those new-age, helicopter grandmas, then I can’t do this. You can hire someone else.” And every single time, I caved. Every single time, she grew bolder. The allergy thing was the worst. He’d had at least five or six reactions since she arrived. And her excuse was always the same: “He’s just being picky. He needs to get used to it. It’s good for him.” Thinking back on it now, I was such an idiot. So young, so afraid of confrontation, so worried about money that I never even considered hiring a nanny. I kept telling myself I was protecting my husband from being caught in the middle. I wasn’t protecting anyone. I was a coward, and I was failing to protect my own child. All of that was about to change. Because this time, when Carol threatened to leave, I wasn’t going to stop her. 3 I took Leo straight to urgent care. He cried the whole way, scratching at his skin. The doctor gave him a shot of epinephrine and looked at me sternly. “You have to be more careful. Allergies can be fatal. We just had a kid in here last week who went into anaphylactic shock. He had to be intubated.” By the time I got everything sorted and Leo was calm and asleep in his car seat, it was after 8 PM. As I walked up to our front door, I could hear Carol on the phone with one of her sisters. “I work my fingers to the bone for them, and this is the thanks I get? You just wait. If she doesn’t get on her knees and beg me to stay this time, I’m really leaving,” she said, her voice dripping with self-satisfaction. “These kids today are so fragile, so precious. We never had these problems, did we? I tell you, I’ve spoiled her. Letting her think she can talk to me like that. I’m gonna teach her a lesson she won’t forget.” Her sister must have said something cautious, because Carol laughed. “Oh, please. Who else is she going to get? Her mother is dead. She has no one. You watch. In an hour, she’ll be back, crying.” I pushed the door open. Carol immediately hung up, her face setting into a hard mask. She sat on the sofa like a queen on her throne. Next to her was her old, beat-up suitcase. She didn’t even ask about Leo. “I can’t do this anymore,” she announced. “I’m going home. It’s a thank you to watch your child, not an obligation. Since you think I do such a bad job, you can find someone else.” She stared at me, chin up, waiting for the usual apology. Instead, I walked past her, put the sleeping baby in his crib, then came back, picked up her suitcase, and walked towards the door. Carol shot up from the sofa. “What are you doing? Put that down! You think you can stop me?” I turned, my face calm. “I’m taking you to the bus station. If we leave now, you can catch the last bus out tonight.” She froze, her mouth slightly open. The bus station? Tonight? The last bus? It took her a second to recover. “It’s too late!” she sputtered. “There won’t be any connecting buses to get back to my town! You want me to sleep at the station?” “Don’t worry,” I said smoothly. “I’ve already booked you a car service. It will be waiting for you when you arrive to take you the rest of the way. I’ll text you the driver’s number.” The color drained from her face. She finally understood I wasn’t bluffing. After a long pause, she scoffed, “Fine! Thank God! I can’t wait to be done with this!” I didn’t waste any more words. I called Mark and told him to leave work and get home immediately. Then, I put her suitcase in my car and drove her to the station, doing 80 the whole way. At the drop-off lane, I handed her the suitcase. “Have a safe trip, Carol. Text us when you get there.” Then, without waiting for a reply, I got back in my car and drove away, leaving her standing on the curb, her face a thundercloud of fury. 4 I was barely two blocks from the station when Mark called. “Sarah? Where’s Mom? I just got home and no one’s here. Where are you?” I kept my eyes on the road. “Your mom? I just dropped her at the Greyhound station. She said she wanted to go home, so I took her.” Silence. Then, “What do you mean she went home? Did you get into another fight? Why didn’t you talk to me about this? Who’s going to watch Leo now?” His voice was rising with panic. “Sarah, come on. Whatever it was, couldn’t you just say you were sorry?” The fire I had just managed to extinguish roared back to life. “Sorry? Why should I be sorry? Did I murder someone? Your mother fed our son peanuts again. He was covered in hives, the doctor said it could have killed him! Then I heard her on the phone, bragging to your aunt about how she has me under her thumb because my mom is gone. You think I should apologize for that?” Mark went quiet. After a moment, he said, weakly, “But what are we going to do for childcare?” “We’ll hire someone,” I said coldly. “Hire someone? With what money? Nannies cost a fortune! Five, six thousand a month…” I was done with his whining. “That’s your problem now. Instead of complaining like a child, why don’t you figure out a way to earn more money?” That shut him up. 5 When I got home, Mark was on the phone with Carol, who was clearly on the bus. Her voice was so loud I could hear it from across the room. “It’s not my fault, son, it’s that wife of yours. No respect. So the boy had a little rash. I’m old, I forgot, I put a little peanut butter in his oatmeal. And she just went crazy. You need to get her under control. I’m not coming back until she learns her place.” Mark saw me and quickly tried to end the call. “Okay, Mom, calm down. Just rest for a few days, and I’ll come get you.” “Don’t bother!” she squawked. “I meant what I said!” He hung up, looking stressed. “Sarah, I’m only going to say this once,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “Your mother is never setting foot in this house again.” His face darkened. “She didn’t mean it. You’re blowing this out of proportion. He just had a little rash. Boys can’t be so coddled.” He tried to put his arm around me. “Look, let her cool off for a few days. I’ll go pick her up, you’ll apologize, and we can all move on. We’re family.” I laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Apologize? Not in this lifetime. I’ve already called a nanny service.” His expression changed. “A nanny? We can’t trust a stranger! Sarah, don’t be ridiculous.” He sighed. “It’s just an allergy. It’s not that big a deal.” I didn’t argue. I just went into the kitchen and started making dinner. Mark, thinking he had won, relaxed. He even got back on the phone with his mom. “It’s okay, Mom, I’m handling it. Just get yourself a snack on the bus, don’t worry about the money… I’ll make sure she apologizes properly when you get back.” I served dinner. Mark ate happily. About twenty minutes later, he started shifting in his chair. Then he started scratching his arm. “What the heck?” he muttered. “I’m so itchy. I’m gonna go take a shower.” A few minutes later, he burst out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, his chest and back covered in red welts. “Sarah! What’s happening? I’m breaking out in hives! Am I having an allergic reaction?” He was scratching furiously now, making it worse. I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “Oh my god, honey, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot you were allergic to shellfish. I used oyster sauce in the stir-fry.” He stared at me, his eyes wide with dawning horror. “Sarah,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Did you do this on purpose?” I gave him a cool smile. “Yes. I did. What’s the matter? I thought boys shouldn’t be so coddled. It’s just a little allergy, Mark. Don’t be so dramatic.” He was furious, but he knew he had no ground to stand on. He spent the entire night itching and miserable. I slept like a baby. 6 The next day, I hired a nanny. Mark didn’t say a word. Her name was Maria, a kind, no-nonsense woman in her fifties. I explained all of Leo’s needs, especially the allergy. She listened intently and remembered everything. Within two days, our house was calmer and happier than it had been in a year. Leo adored her. He was cleaner, his smile was brighter, and our home was filled with peace instead of tension. I kicked myself for not doing it sooner. 7 Of course, Carol wasn’t going to go quietly. At first, Mark tried to hide the fact that we’d hired a nanny. He’d only video chat with her when Maria was out with Leo at the park. “So, is the house a total disaster without me?” Carol would ask, smugly. “I bet you two are at your wits’ end. Don’t come begging me to come back, though. I won’t do it.” She was setting the stage for her triumphant return, imagining us drowning in dirty diapers and takeout containers. But Mark would just mumble noncommittal answers, which only confused her. This wasn’t going according to her script. She never considered we’d hire help. In her mind, we were too cheap, too dependent. So she decided to wait. She’d give us a little more time to suffer. Then we’d come crawling back.

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For eighteen years, my adopted son hated me. He was convinced I was the one who killed his birth mother. So, he found a homeless man, riddled with sores from a life on the streets, to destroy me. The day my husband drove me to the lake house to “end things,” our son stood on the shore, watching me walk into the freezing water. His words were colder than the ice. “You know,” he called out, his voice clear and sharp, “every time I had to call you ‘Mom,’ it made me want to vomit. Consider this a final moment of pleasure. My way of repaying you for eighteen years of pretending.” Then, I blinked. And I was reborn as his short-lived, sainted mother. Looking down at my swollen belly, I turned and walked straight into the city’s free clinic. “Hi,” I said to the woman at the desk. “I need to schedule an abortion.” This child must not be born. 01 The water seeped into my mouth and nose, gritty and freezing. My hands were bound behind my back with zip ties, the plastic cutting into my wrists with every struggle. Primal survival instinct made me arch my back, fighting to keep my head above the surface. My vision blurred, but the two figures on the shore remained horrifyingly clear. My husband and my son. They stood side-by-side, their gazes as distant and detached as if they were watching a stray piece of driftwood float by. “Why…” I managed to gasp. The foul lake water rushed in, silencing the weak cry in my throat. Why? I taught you to read, to be a good man. I poured my life into you, and in return, you hire a vagrant to defile me and destroy my name? Why? I loved and respected you, managed your home and your political campaigns, and in return, you watch me die for a crime I didn’t commit? Eighteen years of a mother’s devotion. Twenty years as a loving wife. It was all a sick, elaborate joke. One hated me to the bone, the other saw me as disposable trash. The despair was sharper than the winter water stabbing at my skin. If there is a God, if I get another chance… I will burn their world to the ground. … I opened my eyes. Someone was on top of me, a warm hand sliding across my skin. To be subjected to this humiliation even in death? The rage that had been simmering in my soul erupted. I shoved the man off me with all my strength and, in the same motion, swung my hand across his face. CRACK! A sharp, stinging pain shot through my palm. I froze. This wasn’t a dream? In the dim glow of a bedside lamp, I saw the man’s face. It wasn’t the homeless man with his vacant eyes and open sores. It was my husband, Julian Ashworth. A bright red handprint was already blooming on his left cheek. He stared at me, his expression one of pure shock. “Catherine? What’s wrong? Is it the baby kicking again?” The baby? I followed his gaze down. And saw a distinctly pregnant belly. When I didn’t speak, Julian’s concern deepened. “What is it? Catherine, talk to me!” His handsome face was a mask of worry. A complete one-eighty from the cold indifference he’d shown me on the lakeshore. Almost without thinking, I raised my hand again. And slapped his other cheek even harder. 02 While Julian was still stunned, I scrambled away from him. I didn’t even bother with my shoes, just ran to the full-length mirror against the wall. The mirror reflected a face that was both familiar and utterly alien. A small, delicate face. Skin like porcelain, eyes misty and soft, a look of fragile vulnerability. This was the face of Catherine. The woman who, in my previous life, had existed only as a tragic, sainted memory for my husband and son. Their “white moonlight,” the one that got away. I stared at her. She stared back at me. A wave of profound, hysterical absurdity washed over me. I couldn’t stop the low chuckle that escaped my lips. It grew louder, wilder, until I was laughing so hard that tears streamed down my cheeks. Oh, God. You really do have a twisted sense of humor. I was reborn. And I was reborn as the origin of my own tragedy. The beloved ghost at the heart of it all. Perfect. This was just perfect. 03 In my past life, I died on what should have been the happiest day of my life. The wedding of my son, Leo, the boy I had raised as my own. When he and his new bride knelt before me during the reception, I felt that eighteen years of thankless, painstaking love had finally come to fruition. I was giddy with joy. I had a few too many glasses of champagne. Soon, the world was a pleasant blur. My assistant helped me back to my room to lie down. When I woke up again, I was naked, my body covered in disgusting bruises. The homeless man from the city shelter, reeking of sickness and filth, was on top of me. My mind went blank. Before I could even scream, the door was kicked open. My husband Julian, and my son Leo, stood there, leading a crowd of wedding guests behind them. I tried to explain, my words tumbling out in a panicked mess. “No… it’s not what it looks like! I was drugged… I was framed…” “Mom!” Leo’s voice cut through mine, thick with theatrical pain. His eyes were wide with disappointment. “How can you still be lying? Months ago, I saw you talking to this man behind the service entrance. I warned you then, I begged you to stop, for the sake of our family. I thought you would see sense, but instead, you do this? On my wedding day? You bring this filth into our home and shame our entire family!” His words were my death sentence. I had no defense. Amidst a storm of whispers and accusations, I was quietly driven to our remote lake house and “convinced” to end my own life to prevent the scandal from destroying Julian’s political career. But the story didn’t end there. Perhaps my rage was too powerful to simply dissipate. My spirit lingered, a ghost in the Ashworth mansion. Three months later, Julian remarried. His new wife not only looked startlingly like Catherine, but she also came with a son of her own. A boy named Ethan, who was the spitting image of a younger Julian. It was obvious who the real father was. Julian officially adopted him, announcing him as his true firstborn son and heir. Just like that, Leo went from being the sole heir to an afterthought. His stepmother whispered poison into Julian’s ear day and night. Slowly, Julian began to despise him. The household staff, masters of sensing a shift in power, started to cut Leo’s allowance and sideline his allies. Even the trust fund I had set up for him was cleverly rerouted by the new wife to her own son. It was only then that Leo seemed to remember the mother who had loved him unconditionally. A year after my death, he got blackout drunk. He stumbled into his stepmother’s bedroom, collapsed at her feet, and sobbed “Mom,” clutching at her legs. She immediately tore her nightgown and screamed that he was trying to assault her. Julian, in a fury, disowned him and threw him out of the house. The once-golden boy of the Ashworth family ended up freezing to death in an alley, his body ravaged by stray dogs before anyone found him. 04 I snapped back to the present. I looked at Julian, whose face was now impressively, symmetrically swollen. The hatred in my soul churned again. I couldn’t help it. I lunged at him and slapped him one more time for good measure. “Catherine! Have you lost your mind? Do you think I won’t do something about this?” Julian’s mask of gentle concern finally shattered. He clutched his face, his voice a low growl, his eyes flashing with a suppressed violence. Crazy? Fine. I’ll give you crazy. I threw myself at him, beating my fists against his chest, and let out a blood-curdling scream. “Yes! I am crazy! You drove me crazy!” Tears of pure rage streamed down my face. I dug my nails into his arms. “I’m pregnant with your child, but I’m still your dirty little secret, hidden away in this apartment without even a ring on my finger! Tell me, Julian! What’s the difference between me and some prostitute you keep on retainer?” He grabbed my wrists, his grip so tight I thought the bones would snap. He stared into my eyes, a complex storm of emotions swirling in his. Then, the most incredible thing happened. He lowered his head and pressed a soft kiss to my bruised wrist. “Catherine, your hands must hurt from hitting me.” He pulled my trembling body into his arms, resting his chin on the top of my head and letting out a long sigh. “So this is what this is about. You’re angry about not moving into the mansion. Sweetheart, we’ve already been over this.” His voice was a low, hypnotic murmur. “As soon as the baby is born safely, I will throw the biggest party this city has ever seen. I’ll introduce you as my fiancée. We’ll get married. You’ll be my wife, equal to Eleanor in every way.” I shoved him away. “Why do we have to wait? Why not now?” “Because Eleanor is a vindictive bitch!” he hissed, his expression turning serious and protective. “Her family has their claws in everything in D.C. If she found out about you and this baby right now, she would stop at nothing to destroy you both. Catherine, I’ve already lost you once. I can’t risk it again!” He cupped my face in his hands, his gaze intense. “You can resent me, hate me, hit me all you want. But my absolute first priority is keeping you and our child safe. Nothing in this world is more important than that.” He spent the next half hour patiently calming me down. Finally, as if worn down by my hysterics, he relented. “Alright, alright, stop crying, my little drama queen. I have to go to the coast to handle that disaster relief initiative. When I get back, the very first thing I’ll do is start the divorce proceedings and get you moved in. Is that good enough for you?” I finally stopped crying and gave him a reluctant nod. Julian gave detailed instructions to the housekeeper to take good care of me, then, with one last lingering kiss, he left. 05 In my past life, at this exact time, Julian had indeed gone to oversee a relief effort. He was gone for three months. Shortly after his return, Catherine had died in childbirth. He had come to me, Eleanor, holding a newborn Leo, telling me he was the orphan of a dear friend and that he wanted to adopt him. Back then, Julian and I had been married for five years and were struggling with infertility. I was desperate and heartbroken, so I agreed. From that day on, I loved Leo as if he were my own son. I never imagined I was raising a venomous snake at my own breast. But now? I raised a hand, slowly placing it over my swollen stomach. The monster inside, as if sensing my murderous intent, gave a restless little kick. Leo Ashworth. Why don’t you try being born into another family this time.

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While I was overseas burying my father, my daughter’s desperate texts flooded my phone: Mom, save me. I don’t want to give Seraphina my kidney. I just want to live. I took the first flight back. I arrived to find my cherished daughter locked in the cellar—while the two bodyguards I’d raised since childhood were upstairs spoon-feeding my adopted daughter, Seraphina Vance, like a princess. They had the nerve to act righteous. “Mrs. Kaling,” one said, “Seraphina’s immune system is weak. We only asked Aurora to donate a kidney. Her refusal is shockingly cruel.” The other added, “She has a spare. Seraphina’s life matters. If she stays stubborn, she can rot down there.” “We’ve also made Seraphina CEO. Aurora can start from the bottom… after she agrees.” I saw my daughter—chains cutting into her wrists and ankles, eyes hollow—and tasted blood in my throat. In three months, these fools thought they could take the Kaling family and torture my child. They didn’t know who they were dealing with. I am Lorelei Kaling. They will suffer. 1 In the elite circles of our city, the Kaling family is an anomaly. For generations, our power has been passed down from mother to daughter. When my daughter, Aurora, was born, she was frail. To ensure her safety, I went to an orphanage and carefully selected two boys to be her companions, her protectors. When she was thirteen, my husband brought home an orphan girl he’d found on the streets. She was all skin and bones, and my heart went out to her. I thought it would be good for Aurora to have a sister. So, I adopted Seraphina Vance. I never imagined that these playthings, these companions I had provided for my daughter’s amusement, would one day conspire to destroy her. … I rushed to unlock the chains. The raw wounds on her wrists were crusted with rust. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise as I lifted her limp body, preparing to race to the hospital. Suddenly, Seraphina threw herself in front of the doorway, her eyes red-rimmed as she knelt before me. “Mrs. Kaling, if you’re going to blame anyone, blame me,” she sobbed. “The boys were just worried about me. That’s the only reason they locked Aurora up.” “Maybe I’m not worth saving. That must be why she won’t help me. It’s okay. I’m grateful for every extra day I get to live.” She tried to push herself up, only to collapse back onto the floor in a delicate, theatrical swoon. Before I could react, the two bodyguards, Caspian and Julian, rushed to her side, gathering her into their arms. They flanked her, murmuring words of comfort. “Don’t say that, Seraphina. After all these years, Mrs. Kaling surely sees you as her own daughter. She’ll give you anything you want.” “That’s right. Even if it took both of Aurora’s kidneys to guarantee your health for a lifetime, what would it matter?” “You’re so pure-hearted. When you inherit the Kaling empire, we’ll be right here with you. We won’t let anyone bully you ever again.” At their words, Aurora, small and fragile in my arms, tightened her grip on my sleeve, terrified that I too would be swayed by their poison. I knew, all too well, that her feelings for Caspian had long ago blossomed into a teenage crush. To be humiliated like this, in front of him… I had no patience for their games. My only focus was the pain in my daughter’s eyes. “Enough!” I roared, my voice echoing in the cavernous room. “I’m taking Aurora to the hospital. Get out of my way. Now.” My shout made Seraphina shrink back into Caspian’s arms, trembling. Julian glared at me, his face a mask of indignation. “Mrs. Kaling, have you even spared a single thought for Seraphina since you’ve been back? She hasn’t even eaten dinner!” He reached out and grabbed my daughter’s injured arm. “Aurora Kaling, get down here. How long are you going to keep up this act? Seraphina is in tears because of you. How can you be so wicked?” I didn’t hesitate. I lifted my knee and drove it into Julian’s groin. How dare a piece of trash like him even touch my daughter? He crumpled to the floor, howling in agony. “Caspian, stop her! Don’t let them leave until she agrees to the donation! We promised Seraphina we would always protect her!” Caspian settled Seraphina gently before rising to face me, his calm eyes simmering with rage. “Mrs. Kaling,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “I’m sorry it has to be this way.” I was the one who had sent them to learn martial arts, to ensure they could protect Aurora from any threat. I never dreamed I would be the first to test their skills. I studied him. At six feet tall, his presence was undeniably intimidating. His fists were clenched, the veins standing out on his arms as he stared me down. It was clear that if I took one more step toward the door, he would not hesitate to strike. But as the head of the Kaling family, what kind of matriarch would I be without a security detail that had seen real combat? I let out a short, sharp whistle. In an instant, Caspian was slammed to the ground, pinned and unable to move. His pathetic little martial arts display could be saved for a street fight. Every second they wasted was a second my daughter’s treatment was delayed. They would pay for this. As I stepped over the threshold, Caspian’s furious voice followed me. “Mrs. Kaling, if you walk out that door today, I will never marry your daughter!” He saw me pause, and a triumphant smirk spread across his face. “You brought us into your home, called it charity… but wasn’t it all so you could groom us as a potential husband for your precious Aurora? Well, I’m telling you now, I love Seraphina. I’ve had enough of Aurora and her pathetic, self-important crush on me.” At Caspian’s dramatic confession, Seraphina launched herself toward him. “Let him go!” she cried, her small hands trying in vain to pry the guards’ fingers from his arms. When she realized it was useless, she turned and knelt before me again. “Please, Mrs. Kaling, let them go,” she pleaded. “It’s my fault. My immune system is so weak, the doctor said it could lead to kidney disease. The boys were just trying to help. The Kaling family has so much money. Even if she donates a kidney, with the proper care, she’ll be fine. If she doesn’t want to, I’ll leave. Just please, don’t hurt them.” Watching her performance, the tears streaming down her face, Caspian struggled against his restraints. “You win,” he spat. “Money always wins. Fine. If Aurora Kaling agrees to donate her kidney to Seraphina, I will consider marrying her. Nothing is more important than Seraphina’s safety.” I almost laughed. As if entry into the Kaling family was something he could negotiate. I ignored him and turned my gaze to Julian. “Is that how you feel, too?” If Caspian had been like an older brother to Aurora, Julian had been her best friend, her confidant. The sadness of a failed test, the joy of a delicious meal, even the first flutterings of her crush on Caspian—she had shared everything with Julian first. And now, this boy, who had always stood by her side, who had protected her without question, looked at me with a face twisted by loathing. “I should have known,” he sneered. “Aurora’s cruelty is inherited from you. You’ve controlled our lives for years, trapped us in this gilded cage. Did you think you could control who we love, too? Well, I’m telling you, just like Caspian said: Aurora isn’t worthy. She isn’t worthy to even compete with Seraphina.” I had my answer. I turned, settled my daughter more comfortably in my arms, and walked to the car. “Take off your socks,” I instructed my guards, “and stuff them in their mouths.” How foolish of me to have held out even a sliver of hope. I knew my daughter. Caspian’s rejection would wound her pride. But Julian’s betrayal… that would break her heart. They had feasted on my family’s generosity, grown strong on my family’s wealth, only to turn and bite the hand that fed them. Love? Affection? My daughter didn’t need it from them. Her future would be filled with something far more reliable: money. More money than she could count in a dozen lifetimes. I held her close, stroking the damp strands of hair from her face. I’m so sorry, my love. This is all my fault. Thankfully, her wounds were superficial. She had fainted from a combination of shock and hunger. The doctor cleaned her cuts, started an IV, and told me to let her rest. I gently stroked her hair, my heart aching, before stepping out of the room. I dialed my husband, a man I hadn’t seen in two years. Before I left the country, I had explicitly told him to look after our daughter. Now, after all this, he hadn’t even called to check on her. My relationship with Sebastian Croft was never a love story. For generations, the men who married into the Kaling family did so by taking our name. I was drawn to his face; he was drawn to my money. For years, we had an understanding: we lived separate lives, never interfering with the other’s affairs. I called him several times. No answer. So I cut him off. Every single one of his credit cards, frozen. It seemed that in my three-month absence, he had forgotten where his money came from. … The next afternoon, I returned to the hospital with a flask of chicken soup our cook had prepared. Aurora was awake. “My love,” I said, rushing to her side and wrapping her in a hug. “Are you feeling okay?” At the sound of my voice, she broke down, her body wracked with sobs as she clung to me. “Mom, they all said you didn’t want me anymore,” she cried. “They tried to force me to sign the consent forms. When I refused, they locked me in the cellar. I tried to escape, but they caught me and chained me up. Mom, I was so scared… it hurts so much.” Her body trembled uncontrollably. I held her, stroking her back and murmuring reassurances. “Don’t be afraid, my love. I would give up the whole world before I gave up on you. And the people who hurt you… I won’t let a single one of them get away with it.” She finally calmed down, sipping the soup I’d brought. In that moment of peace, the hospital room door was thrown open. It was my husband, the man who had been unreachable all night. “Lorelei, on what authority did you freeze my cards? Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to have my payment declined in front of everyone last night?” Of course. The only thing that would get his attention was a lack of funds. I met his gaze calmly, trying to gesture for him to take the conversation outside. He ignored me. “You come back and turn the whole house upside-down. It was just a little spat between kids, and you had to escalate it and bring in your guards. Look at her, it’s just a few scratches. A private hospital, a private room… she’s not that fragile. Aurora was acting out, and Caspian was just teaching her a lesson. It’s no big deal. Drop it. And leave the kids alone.” That’s when I noticed Seraphina standing behind him. She was wearing the same white dress, her eyes were just as red, and the bruises from kneeling on the stone floor were still visible. Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to fall, a picture of perfect, pitiable innocence. I glanced at her for a second before turning my attention back to my husband. “Sebastian, the girl in that bed is your daughter,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “Your daughter was locked in a cellar and chained like an animal. You don’t care, fine. But now you’re siding with the people who hurt her? Do you have a single shred of conscience left?” My voice rose, and he flinched. It was Seraphina who spoke. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kaling. I’m sorry, Uncle Sebastian. I just wanted to apologize to Aurora. Since she doesn’t want to see me, I’ll just go. It’s all my fault. Maybe you never should have adopted me.” With that, two perfect tears rolled down her cheeks, and she turned and fled. Just then, Caspian and Julian appeared as if from nowhere, carrying a plastic bag with a few sad, shriveled apples. They saw Seraphina run past them in tears. Julian’s face contorted with rage as he glared at me. “What did Seraphina ever do to you? Why can’t the two of you just leave her alone? We came in good faith to visit Aurora, and here you are, tormenting her again.” Caspian slammed the bag of apples onto the floor. “Mrs. Kaling, if you’re going to continue to blindly side with your daughter and bully Seraphina, then don’t be surprised when we stop playing nice. When this family needs a man to take charge, don’t say I didn’t give you a chance.” I looked at these two arrogant, delusional boys. I walked up and slapped them both, hard, across the face. “You think you’re even worthy of speaking to me?” They clutched their faces, their shock quickly turning to fury. Caspian strode forward and knocked the thermos of soup to the floor. Julian grabbed Aurora’s arm—the one with the IV—and started dragging her out of bed. “Stop faking it,” he snarled. “Get up. You’re going to go kneel before Seraphina and apologize. And you’re not getting up until she forgives you.” I saw the blood start to back up in Aurora’s IV tube. “Guards!” I screamed. “Get these animals out of here! If my daughter is hurt again, I swear I will destroy you all!” Fearing my shouts would bring my security team, Caspian clamped a hand over my mouth. “Uncle Sebastian, what are you waiting for? Help us! If her guards get here, we’re all finished!” The room descended into chaos. Sebastian, jolted into action, saw me struggling and helpless. He walked up and struck me across the face. The force of the blow snapped my head back, and my cheek instantly began to swell. “You dare freeze my cards?” he spat. “You think you’re so powerful? You’re just a woman, parading around, pretending to do business when everyone knows you’re sleeping your way to the top. You’re a whore, just like your mother.” The thought of my supposed infidelities seemed to enrage him further, and he hit me again, on the other side. “You gave me a useless daughter, and I’ve had to endure my friends’ mockery for years. Just hand over the company to me and stop making trouble. This is a man’s world. What can a bitch like you possibly do?” Aurora, pinned beneath Julian, saw what was happening and fought with all her might. “Don’t you touch my mother! Let her go!” As she was about to break free, Julian wrapped a hand around her throat and squeezed. “You’re both sluts. If anything happens to Seraphina because she ran out of here upset, I’ll make you pay.” My daughter, already weak, gasped for air and passed out. My face was numb, swollen. I didn’t have the strength to speak. Seeing I was no longer a threat, Caspian released me. I slid to the floor in a heap. As he moved toward my unconscious daughter, I forced myself up, holding up my phone. The screen showed an active call. “You’d better let my daughter go,” I rasped. “My private security detail will be here any second. When they arrive, none of you will walk out of here.” As if on cue, the sound of screeching tires filled the air. Outside the window, a convoy of black SUVs pulled up, and a team of highly trained operatives began pouring out, heading for our room. I spat out a mouthful of blood and looked at their three ashen faces, a slow, grim smile spreading across my own. “I’ll give you back your own words. Kneel and apologize now. It might not be too late for you.”

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My little sister was a ghost in the machine of Hollywood. A nobody, an actress so far down the D-list she barely cast a shadow. She was the kind of sweet, timid soul who’d get steamrolled in the industry and wouldn’t dare squeak in protest. Which is why I was currently sitting in a car with her, on our way to film a reality show. Someone had to have her back. On the show, I took on everyone and everything. I fought with the cast, the crew, the network executives. I got the live feed cut—twice—and was personally responsible for half the guests ending up in jail. The internet’s reaction? “Ainsley, we’re seriously worried you’re going to get yourself killed.” A joke. As if the heiress to the Stratton Enterprises fortune had anything to fear. The worst-case scenario? I’d have to go home and finally run the damn company. 1 Are you insane? Film a show with you? In your dreams. Sophie, you’re getting treated worse than dirt in this industry, and you want to drag me down with you? Here’s some advice: instead of plastering on a fake smile for the cameras all day, you should be figuring out how to milk that rich old man of yours for every cent. The crumbs that fall from his table could set you up for life. The words on the phone screen burned my eyes. “Ainsley.” Sophie’s voice was a whisper. She gently touched my hand, the one holding the phone. I typed back a single, eloquent word—Fuck off—then blocked and deleted the contact listed as “Cousin.” As I went to hand the phone back to Sophie, my thumb slipped, accidentally opening her social media DMs. The screen was still on. You’re such a clout-chaser. Wearing the same brand as my girl? You should try jumping off a building instead. It’d be more original. Hey, Sophie, you little bitch. Did you like the dead rat we sent? Next time you ‘accidentally’ fall into a male celebrity, we’ll make sure your whole family gets what’s coming to them. Heard you’re bringing your sister on the show. What kind of trash is the sister of a manipulative slut going to be? Can you two just disappear already and stop making us all sick? I actually laughed at that last one. They had no idea. I was the furthest thing from “good” they could possibly imagine. When I was a kid, I burned down my family’s winery playing with matches. In school, when bullies tried to shake me down for protection money, I put them all in the hospital. As an adult, I’d survived close encounters with crocodiles and pythons in the Amazon. When my family tried to force me into the corporate world by cutting off my credit cards, I sold three of my cars, invested the money in the stock market, and never touched a dime of their money again. My sister, Sophie, was the daughter of my dad’s best friend from the army. After they passed, we took her in. Before she came to us at fifteen, she’d been bounced around between relatives who treated her like a burden. It made her the polar opposite of me. I was the tornado that tore through the house, leaving chaos in my wake. She was the quiet, straight-A student who never caused a lick of trouble. But I never knew. I never knew that the girl who always told me she was “doing great” and begged me to be careful on my adventures was being tormented by our own family and harassed into oblivion by strangers online. While I was reeling, the “rich old man” my cousin had referred to was in the middle of one of his classic lectures. “You don’t come home for years, running off on one reckless trip after another. You almost got yourself killed! Look at your Uncle Mark’s son. So what if he lost a fortune on his startup? At least he’s doing something serious with his life! When are you going to stop giving me gray hairs?” The rage that had been simmering inside me boiled over. “He lost a fortune, I made back three. I guess the neighbor’s kid is always better, right? It’s fine if you don’t understand me, but do you have any idea what Sophie has been…” “Ainsley!” Sophie, who had been standing by like a nervous sparrow, grabbed my arm. Her eyes were wide, a mix of panic and pleading. My heart softened instantly. The words on the tip of my tongue changed course. “…do you have any idea that Sophie invited me to be on a reality show with her?” Sophie’s jaw dropped. ! My father stared. ? I was done standing by. I was about to find out which was stronger: this toxic little world she was trapped in, or my will to burn it all to the ground. My decision was final. The only thing Sophie begged me to do was keep our connection to Stratton Enterprises a secret, which suited me just fine. On the day of the shoot, the production team told us to arrange our own transportation. Our estate was in a remote area where Ubers were scarce. Sophie refused to be seen in any of the limited-edition sports cars lining our garage. In the end, we borrowed the beat-up Honda Civic our housekeeper, Maria, used for grocery runs. The show was called Getaway, a live-streamed reality series where celebrities invited a non-famous friend or family member to join them. Each episode lasted two days. A team captain was chosen for the first day to plan the entire itinerary. At the end of the episode, online viewers would vote, and the team with the lowest popularity would be eliminated. As the celebrity, Sophie was designated the first captain. The moment our sad little Civic pulled up to the entrance of the massive Westwood Park, a swarm of crew members surrounded us, and the livestream began. During the drive, Sophie had been anxiously reviewing the day’s schedule for the six cast members, muttering about restaurant reservations, landmark check-ins, and driving directions. Distracted, she didn’t see the low concrete post next to our parking spot. The moment she opened her door, it scraped against the post with a sickening screech, leaving a deep gash in the paint. “Oh, no.” Her face crumpled. “Maria is going to kill me.” Maria had been with our family for decades; she was more of a grandmother to us than a housekeeper. A papercut was enough to earn a lecture. Careless driving was a capital offense in her book. I shrugged, a silent gesture of ‘you’re on your own.’ The live chat, of course, interpreted it differently. [LOL, so she’s admitting they borrowed that piece of junk?] [Wait, are you serious? An actress has to borrow a car to get to a shoot, scratches it, and isn’t even going to fix it? Just gonna hand it back like that?] [Come on, guys, it’s all for show. These people make more in a day than I do in a year. This is just a pathetic stunt for attention. Look how naturally her sister is playing along. Another wannabe actress.] I glanced at the comments and looked away. Arguing with the legion of morons online would only make Sophie’s job harder. We were told the other two pairs of guests were already somewhere inside the park, and it was our job to find them. After walking for a bit, I draped my arm over Sophie’s shoulder, leaning on her slightly. My body was still healing from my last… excursion. She looked at me, her brow furrowed with concern. “Ainsley, are you tired?” I pinched her cheek. “Not a chance. I could probably carry you for a half-mile run right now.” A series of excited shrieks erupted behind us. I turned to see a small group of teenage girls trailing us, just behind the camera crew. “Hey,” I said with a wave. “Are you guys here for my sister?” They all shook their heads in unison. Undeterred, I pushed Sophie forward. “Let me introduce you. This is Sophie Stratton. A phenomenal actress. She’s got the talent, the integrity, and the grace. A future superstar. Get on board now, you won’t regret it.” Sophie covered her face with her hands and dragged me away. “Tch.” The sound, sharp with disdain, cut through the air. On a bench to our right sat a woman, her expression sour as she watched us. The sound had clearly come from her. I closed the distance in two strides. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Could you run it by me again?” Sophie rushed over and squeezed my hand. “Ainsley, she’s one of the other guests.” The man sitting beside the woman took her hand and stood up, carefully smoothing her dress before turning to the camera. “Hi, everyone. I’m Ryan, and this is my girlfriend, Morgan.” [OMG! OMG! It’s my favorite couple from ‘Love Unlocked’! I can’t believe it! The chemistry is still off the charts! My shipper heart can’t take it!] [Who’s that aggressive woman talking to Morgan? She looks like she’s about to start a fight. So trashy. Morgan is from a super-rich family and she’s way more humble than that.] [Sophie Stratton, you have some nerve. You relentlessly harassed Ryan on ‘The Actor’s Crucible’ until he was forced to quit. How dare you show your face in front of him again?] [Wait, what? She’s not even that pretty. How did she have the audacity to go after Ryan? Like sister, like slut, I guess. Both are disgusting.] [What was the network thinking? Can’t they vet their guests? This is so cringey!] After his introduction, Ryan looked at my sister. “Long time no see,” he said, his tone flat. Sophie gave a tight, nervous nod. Morgan clung to his arm, a sly smile playing on her lips. “She even wore a matching outfit for you, Ryan. I guess she’s still carrying a torch for you.” Sophie was wearing a simple white blouse and a black skirt. Ryan was also in a white shirt, paired with black trousers. It was the most basic color combination imaginable. I scanned the park around us. A grin spread across my face. “Well, in that case, it looks like half the people in this park are carrying a torch for your boyfriend, from the five-year-olds over there to the eighty-year-old grandpas by the fountain.” “Morgan didn’t mean anything by it,” Ryan said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder possessively. “She’s a fashion designer with her own independent label, so she’s just very sensitive to these things.” It was a statement meant to sound like a defense, but it reeked of a brag. Morgan’s gaze was pure contempt. “You’re so protective of your sister. But do you have any idea what she did? She chased my boyfriend so relentlessly on that show that he had to drop out, costing him the lead role in Declan Reid’s new film.” [What is this Ainsley person’s problem? Does she have any clue what a snake her sister is?] [He’s defending her! She’s defending him! This is true love! Real couples are the best!] [If he hadn’t been forced to quit, Ryan would have been named Best Newcomer that year for sure. Sophie, how are you ever going to repay him for that?!] [An unknown with no formal training won the whole thing? It was definitely rigged.] [If you have a powerful enough sugar daddy, you can get anything you want. Best Newcomer? Hell, you could buy yourself an Oscar.] The Actor’s Crucible was a performance competition show. I’d only seen the final episode, which I watched with my parents. Sophie had won the championship with four consecutive A-grade performances. The prize for the winner and runner-up was a custom-written high school movie directed by the legendary Declan Reid. I had no idea this utterly forgettable guy, Ryan, had even been on the show, let alone had some kind of history with my sister. Morgan scoffed. “Playing on your phone during a live broadcast? Sophie, didn’t you teach your sister any manners?” I glanced at the crew members, who were pointedly doing nothing. “The network hasn’t said a word. Why are you so worked up? Spend less time watching historical dramas.” Her eyes widened. “What is that supposed to mean?” Sophie ducked her head, trying to hide a smile. It meant exactly what she thought it meant. The emperor isn’t worried, but the eunuchs are losing their minds. I’d just spent the last two minutes on my phone, watching clips of Ryan from that show three years ago. He was even uglier then, with acting skills that were an absolute train wreck. There was one clip where he got a papercut and cried like he’d been shot. This guy? I shot a sideways glance at Sophie. If she’d genuinely ever had a crush on him, I was going to ascend to a higher plane of existence out of sheer disbelief. She instantly understood my look and shook her head frantically. “We barely even spoke. All those videos were heavily edited.” I relaxed. Ryan put on his best victim face. “It’s all in the past. We were all young…” I cut him off. “I just took a look at your highlight reel. You were ranked last in every evaluation. The mentors criticized you in every single class. My sister, on the other hand, went from a D-rank in the beginning to a perfect A-rank by the finale. When you quit, you gave an interview where you implied it was because she kept confessing her love to you, distracting you and dragging you down. I’m just curious—how exactly does someone at the bottom of the ladder get their leg pulled by someone at the top?” “And another thing,” I continued, not letting him breathe. “Let’s get specific. When and where did my sister confess her love to you? Tell us all the details. Oh, and by the way, that show had cameras everywhere, even in the bedrooms. So I assume this didn’t happen in the bathroom, right?” Ryan’s face turned an ugly shade of red. He stammered, unable to produce a single concrete detail. Of course he couldn’t. His entire strategy was to make vague, suggestive claims and let the online mob fill in the blanks. “It never happened at all, did it?” “Everyone knows how reality TV editing works. Slap on some slow-motion and a romantic BGM, and you could make it look like my sister was giving heart eyes to a golden retriever. You played the victim card, quit the show, and milked the sympathy for all it was worth. It got you the lead in two cheap web series. So how exactly did my sister ‘ruin’ your career? Have you ever watched yourself act? You even narrate the stage directions. You’re always talking about how you’d die for your art. Let’s see how you’ve been ‘honing your craft.’” I held up my phone, reading from his online bio. “Ah, here we are. Contestant on a matchmaking show. ‘Relationship expert’ on a panel. The resident villain on a celebrity house-share show. Got into a physical fight with a veteran actor. A regular cast member on three consecutive seasons of a dating show…” I couldn’t help but applaud. “They say a diamond shines from one place. You, my friend, are a shard of glass, reflecting light from everywhere.” Ryan was speechless. Morgan jumped to his defense. “Ryan is just trying to seize every opportunity to get noticed! Hard work pays off, and I know a visionary director will discover him soon enough!” I put my phone away. “If you really love acting, spend less time crafting a personality in front of the cameras and more time honing your skills behind them. If no one’s sending you scripts, then send out your resume. Audition. If you can’t get a lead role, fight for a supporting one. Stop blaming the world for your problems. If you want a blockbuster script, first ask yourself if you’re good enough to deserve it.” I remembered what Ryan had called her: a “fashion designer.” I gave her dress a deliberate, slow scan, then looked away after three seconds. It looked like a pink burlap sack adorned with a cheap lace trim. My eyes burned. My tone shifted. “Let me guess, you designed this yourself?” She tossed her head back, smug. “Of course. I design everything I wear. It’s all one-of-a-kind.” “If you like it so much, I can give you a few pieces,” she added with a smirk, her eyes raking over my outfit. “That generic jumpsuit and those common combat boots… what did that cost you, under a hundred dollars? You can’t even buy a t-shirt from my brand for that price.” “Oh, right, I don’t even know what you do for a living,” she continued, her voice dripping with condescension. “Does your monthly salary even cover one of my outfits? Don’t tell me you’re still mooching off your actress sister at your age.” A slow smile spread across my face. “Money has never been something I’ve had to worry about.” “But I am curious about your brand’s design philosophy. Is it… recycled waste? I mean, it’s great that you’re environmentally conscious, but I wouldn’t recommend continuing. I happened to look up your online store just now. Your bestseller has two sales, and most items have zero. I guess that’s one way to ensure everything is ‘one-of-a-kind’—by selling it to yourself. Your factory workers must get a lot of vacation time.” The live chat exploded. [I’m a 27-year-old entrepreneur in New York. I own a penthouse on Park Avenue and drive a Porsche and a Ferrari. I’m not saying this to brag, just to show you that with enough effort, I can also make up any bullshit I want.] [This sister is hilarious. She knows nothing about fashion and she’s trying to lecture Morgan on design.] [Morgan’s brand ‘Cherish’ has a boutique in Paris. She could just be a lazy trust-fund baby, but she’s talented and hardworking. Who does this Ainsley person think she is?] [Can the producers please shut these two up? I’m so sick of seeing their faces.] [Gotta be honest, though… Morgan’s dress is really ugly.] The crew finally stirred. The cameraman took two steps closer, making sure not to miss a single word. Sophie, desperate to stop me from getting more hate online, tried to pull me away. “Ainsley, let’s go find the other guests.” But Morgan wasn’t done. She grabbed my arm. “You want to talk design? Fine. I’m going to make you eat your words.” “Do you know who Solange Renaud is?” she declared. “She’s the youngest-ever chief designer for a major international luxury brand. She’s collaborating with my label at the end of the year. We’re co-designing a couture collection for the spring season. Don’t think you can just throw around a few buzzwords and act like you know anything. You look down on my brand because you could never afford it!” She shouldn’t have done that. She had just walked directly into my line of fire. I patted Sophie’s hand to calm her down. “Well, what a coincidence,” I said, drawing out the words. “I happen to know her.” “Impossible!” Morgan blurted out. “She’s never even been to the United States.” “I never said I met her here. In fact… I saved her life once.” It had been in North America, deep in a remote forest. She’d been recklessly searching for inspiration, got herself into trouble, and I was the one who got injured pulling her out of it. We’d been through a life-or-death situation together and had kept in touch ever since. Morgan burst out laughing. “Wow, you can just say anything, can’t you? Are you just telling us your dreams now? Hahahaha!” Sophie stepped in front of me, like a mother hen protecting her chick. “My sister doesn’t lie.” That only made Morgan and Ryan laugh harder. I pulled out my phone and dialed an international number. Solange kept odd hours; time zones were never an issue. The camera zoomed in, trying to get a shot of my screen, but the operator managed to keep it just out of frame to protect my privacy. The live chat was a blur of text. [No way. Solange Renaud is my idol. If Ainsley really knows her, I’ll eat my own shoes.] [I’m with you. She’s totally bluffing.] [LOL, I could call any of my friends with a French accent and claim it’s Solange. It’s not like we can see her face.] [I am Napoleon Bonaparte. Venmo me $50 and I will make you a general in my new army.] I rested my chin on Sophie’s head, my eyes on the speakerphone. Ring… Ring… After the third ring, the call was disconnected. [AHAHAHAHAHA, THE ACT IS OVER! Did the actor she hired decide the pay wasn’t good enough?] [That backfired faster than a firecracker in a hurricane.] [If the sister is like this, the other one can’t be any better. I’m starting to believe Ryan’s story now.] A second later, a video call notification popped up on my screen. A woman with warm brown hair and light eyes appeared. “Ainsley! I have wonderful news! I’m coming to America in mid-December!” The cameraman respectfully avoided my screen, but Solange’s voice, speaking in fluent, elegant French, filled the livestream. Her identity was undeniable. [AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH SOLANGE! It’s really her! I’m watching this live! That’s like, one degree of separation from greatness!] [HOLY SHIT. Ainsley wasn’t lying. Who the hell is she? I can’t find a single thing about her online. No school, no job, nothing.] [French major here, translating! Solange is coming to the US in December! So what Morgan said was true!] [OMG Morgan is so amazing! A true female icon!] [My deepest apologies, I cannot, in fact, eat my own shoes. I retract my previous statement.] I switched to French and explained I was in the middle of filming a show. She didn’t care at all. In fact, she insisted I point the camera at her so she could say hello to everyone. “Are you coming to collaborate with a brand called ‘Cherish’?” I asked. The face on my screen looked utterly baffled. She switched to heavily accented English. “Cherish? Collaborate? No, I am coming for a study trip. Remember the ancient legends you told me about, from the deep woods? I was so fascinated. I want to learn more about American folklore.” The triumphant smile on Morgan’s face froze, then shattered. She made a desperate lunge for my phone, trying to talk to Solange herself. The director’s voice finally cut in. “Could everyone please proceed to find the last two guests?” As we walked away, Sophie was practically beaming, shooting me looks of pure adoration. Morgan had crumpled into Ryan’s arms, sobbing. As a parting gift, I called over my shoulder, “Oh, by the way! Solange once told me that people have used her name to scam investors before. That’s why she has a strict policy against collaborating with small, independent brands.” Morgan’s sobs grew louder. The final pair of guests were cousins. The sister, Faye, was a stand-up comedian who, off-stage, seemed to have crippling social anxiety. Her brother, Finn, was a charismatic live-stream shopping host. He was all charm, calling everyone “bro” and “sis,” but something about him rubbed me the wrong way from the moment I saw him. With all six of us assembled, we boarded the production van and headed to the restaurant Sophie had booked. Morgan, who had been silent for the whole ride, decided it was time for an encore performance. She poked at the dishes on the table with her chopsticks. “This meat is so greasy. And this fish smells so strong. How is anyone supposed to eat this?” Ryan dutifully peeled a shrimp for her. “I don’t know who chose this place. It’s all stuff we don’t like.” Finn chimed in. “Honestly, that place next door is way more famous. Their food is incredible. This place is pretty mediocre.” Sophie could handle the criticism from Morgan and Ryan, but with Finn piling on, she started to believe she’d genuinely messed up. She looked mortified. She stood up, her head bowed in shame. “I’m so sorry. Why don’t I go out and get you all something you’d prefer to eat? This was my fault.” I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. “Sit down. And eat your food.” “But, Ainsley…” “Sit down,” I repeated. She obeyed. I placed a piece of braised pork on her plate. “The choice of restaurant, the dishes on this table—Sophie consulted every single one of you beforehand. She asked for your opinions and told you she was happy to change anything if you weren’t satisfied. Every single one of you said nothing, or said ‘whatever, it’s fine.’ “So, here are your options: either find another place to eat on your own, or shut up and eat what’s in front of you. You’re all adults. No one is here to coddle you.” “My sister is the captain today. You can offer suggestions, but don’t look for trouble. We’re filming a show, not providing you with a personal punching bag.” [Is Ainsley a mob boss? Acting like she’s some big shot protecting her underling. She thinks she looks so cool, but it’s just pathetic.] [Who’s using her sister as a punching bag? She’s the one who screwed up the arrangements. Don’t blame people for telling the truth.] [Everyone vote for the other two teams! If we can get their popularity low enough, we won’t have to see these two annoying bitches next episode!] “In fact,” I said, my eyes fixed on Morgan, “let’s settle this now. Does anyone have any objections to the afternoon’s itinerary? The scenic spots, the hiking trail? Speak now.” She avoided my gaze, searching for an ally. Her eyes landed on Faye, who had been silently eating this whole time. “Faye, you don’t look like the athletic type. Isn’t that a lot of walking this afternoon? And a mountain hike? Do you think you can handle it?” Without looking up, Faye replied, “Yes.” Morgan faltered, then tried again. “It’s okay, you know. If you don’t want to go, just say so. I can go back to the villa with you to rest.” Faye finally lifted her head, pushing her gold-rimmed glasses up her nose. “I want to go. I’m actually interested in all the places the captain planned.” I leaned back in my chair, watching Morgan with amusement. As I shifted, my foot bumped into someone. Ryan, sitting across from me, didn’t react. But Morgan slammed her hand on the table, glaring daggers at my sister. “Sophie, have you no shame? In public, with all these cameras on you, seducing my boyfriend right under the table!” Her voice was so loud that the entire restaurant turned to stare at us.

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My fiancée fell for the underprivileged student I was sponsoring. To prove her devotion, she defied her family and marched into my home to break off our engagement. My father was furious. My mother nearly fainted. Overnight, I became the laughingstock of our social circle. What no one knew was that we held a family meeting that very night. Everyone was unnervingly calm, analyzing the situation from every angle. My father took a sip of his tea. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Go abroad for a few years. It’s a strategic retreat.” My mother’s expression was placid. “Reinvent yourself. He’s playing the part of the tragic, sensitive soul. You become the one that got away.” I smiled. “In that case, I think I’ll start with a bout of depression.” 1 On the day I returned, my friends threw me a welcome-home party. The private room was filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses. Then, the door opened, and the jovial atmosphere froze. It was my ex-fiancée, Amelia, and her new boyfriend. I turned my head and met a pair of familiar, cool eyes. Amelia’s gaze lingered on me a moment too long, and the man behind her, a man named Ethan, began to look increasingly uncomfortable. Everyone exchanged nervous glances, some discreetly watching my reaction. After a brief, stunned silence, I casually gestured for them to join us. “You’re here. Have a seat.” I acted as if the ugly fallout from three years ago had never happened. A complex emotion flickered across Amelia’s face. She seemed to want to say something but ultimately just gave a quiet acknowledgment. Ethan sat beside her, his smile strained, a desperate attempt at nonchalance that failed to hide his stiffness. The unspoken tension was thick. The glances thrown his way were laced with scorn. I had pulled this man out of poverty, paid for his education, and in return, he had stolen my fiancée. Who could respect a backstabber like that? In the years I had been away, my family’s business had skyrocketed, quietly beginning to eclipse even Amelia’s powerful family, the Suttons. The social climbers in the room, whether out of a desire to defend my honor or for their own strategic reasons, collectively ostracized Ethan. He was treated like a ghost at the table. He looked to Amelia for support, but she, uncharacteristically, remained silent. I could feel her eyes on me, a mixture of curiosity and assessment. Even in the dim light of the room, Ethan’s face was a pale, tight mask of anxiety. I savored the moment before raising my glass, ostensibly to rescue him. “You two are late. Three shots as a penalty, no objections, right?” I said smoothly. “Don’t even think about skipping out. It’s the rule.” The others, after a moment of surprise, quickly played along. “That’s right! Liam’s back today. Don’t be a buzzkill!” Amelia said nothing, just downed the three shots with a clean, decisive motion. She turned the glass upside down, not a single drop remaining. Our eyes met, and in that moment, it felt like an apology for what had happened three years ago. I smiled faintly and turned to Ethan. He picked up his glass, his lips twitching into a forced smile, but he couldn’t meet my gaze. When I tried to clink my glass with his, he flinched as if I were a monster, the glass slipping from his trembling hand and shattering on the floor. That was the last straw for some of the others. “Seriously, Amelia, what’s with your boyfriend?” one of them snapped. “Liam is being a bigger man about this, and he’s the one acting all offended? Did he come here just to ruin the mood?” Amelia shot him a look, her lips tightening with annoyance, but she still defended him. “Ethan didn’t mean it. Just drop it.” Ethan mumbled an apology, his head bowed, his face a grim shade of grey, looking as if he were the one who had been wronged. One of my friends, whose family had no business ties with the Suttons, was about to lose it. “Oh, that does it—” I stopped him with a calm, friendly smile. “We’re all friends here. It’s not a big deal.” “What happened in the past is in the past. Let’s not bring it up again.” I looked at Amelia and Ethan, then downed my own drink, my eyes conveying a sense of peace and forgiveness. Amelia’s tense expression softened, and a hint of a smile touched her lips. Everyone understood. The hatchet was buried. The atmosphere in the room warmed up again. 2 Later, I stepped out onto the balcony for some fresh air. Behind me, I heard Amelia’s slightly hoarse voice. “How have you been, these past three years?” The wind rustled through my hair, creating an almost cinematic sense of a long-awaited reunion. I turned and caught the flash of surprise and something more complex in her eyes. “You drank a lot. Is your stomach holding up?” I asked, sidestepping her question to show concern for her. Amelia subconsciously touched her stomach, a flicker of a daze in her expression. She had always had stomach problems and was an incredibly picky eater. It had taken me a year to learn her preferences and create a personalized nutrition plan for her. I used to watch over her meals, my pockets always stocked with her medication and healthy snacks. And yet, I had lost her to the boy who would take her to eat street food. She masked the flicker of emotion, her gaze on me now unreadable. “You don’t hate me?” I shook my head. “It’s all in the past. There was never any irreparable damage between us. Besides, what’s that saying? Even if the deal falls through, the goodwill remains.” Amelia let out a small laugh, and the tension between us eased. “You’ve certainly become more magnanimous,” she teased. I smiled back. “We just weren’t right as a couple. That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, right?” The truth was, after we broke off the engagement, the relationship between our families had become dangerously strained. The past three years had been a cold war of corporate sabotage and bitter rivalry. Now, everyone in our circle knew how fiercely protective my parents were of me and how unstoppable my family’s business had become. The word on the street was: get on Liam’s good side if you can, but whatever you do, don’t get on his bad side. Since my return, my social calendar had been packed with invitations from people I barely knew. What was one more friend? Besides, there was no reason for our families to remain at odds. I suspected Amelia’s presence at my party was a calculated move by her family to smooth things over. The Sutton empire was vast but showing signs of wear. They didn’t need another powerful enemy. Recognizing the olive branch in my words, Amelia’s brow relaxed. She joined me at the railing, and we stood there, one facing the city, the other facing the party, talking about the changes and experiences of the last three years. The dynamic between us, two equals, was surprisingly comfortable. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of a white shirt disappear around a corner. A slow smile spread across my face. The next few months, I thought, were going to be very interesting. 3 After that night, Amelia started contacting me more frequently. She asked for the old nutrition plan, and I gave her all the details, reminding her to take care of herself. On the surface, she feigned annoyance at my fussing, but the warmth in her voice was unmistakable. I didn’t rush into the family business. Instead, I used my free time to revisit old haunts. My social media was filled with pictures of old friends, old places, old memories. Of course, having known Amelia since we were teenagers, a great number of those memories involved her. I’m pretty sure she was stalking my feed. She was always the first to like and comment. The principal really did go bald, didn’t he? Is that the same orange cat we used to feed? He still hasn’t graduated? I remember we tied a red ribbon on that old tree and made a wish. You never would tell me what you wished for. I would reply to the harmless comments and ignore the ones that crossed the line. One day, a new pop star went on a live stream and started trashing classic songs. He called one of my favorites “creepy.” That night, I posted the song on my feed. Minutes later, Amelia called, her voice tight with anger. She wasn’t a fangirl, but she had never missed a concert by this particular singer. That’s how much she loved his music. I listened quietly as she ranted, offering soothing words and agreeing with her. We ended up talking for over an hour. Until I heard Ethan’s voice in the background. “Amelia, are you still working?” She paused but didn’t hang up. Her tone was sharp. “What are you doing in here?” Ethan’s voice rose, laced with accusation. “You’re on the phone with him again, aren’t you?” At that point, I hung up. What came next was their private business. It wasn’t my place to interfere. I hummed the song softly, my eyes on the clock, my fingers tapping a rhythm on the table. Three minutes later, she called back. Her voice was tinged with exhaustion. “I’m sorry, Liam. You got dragged into this.” “It’s fine,” I said calmly. “I know Ethan. He’s a sensitive guy. Just spend more time with him, give him the reassurance he needs.” I paused, then added, “Our past is… complicated. It’s natural for him to be wary of me. Maybe we should keep some distance from now on.” There was a moment of silence, and I caught the flicker of impatience she tried to hide. “Haven’t I given him enough reassurance? He’s the one who’s never satisfied.” After we hung up, I raised an eyebrow. I may have been abroad, but I had kept a close eye on things back home. After the engagement was broken, Amelia had gone on a hunger strike to force her family to accept Ethan. Ethan, in turn, had knelt outside the Sutton mansion for days, begging to see her. The rebellious heiress and the resilient, sensitive soul, fighting for their love. The Suttons finally relented. It was a real-life fairytale, the talk of the town. People would get misty-eyed recounting the story. “Such a moving, epic love!” “Better check if your fiancée has a true love on the side! Make way, make way!” But fairytales end, and real life begins. The business partnership between our families collapsed. The Suttons couldn’t blame their precious daughter, so someone had to take the fall. They started looking at Ethan with contempt, finding fault in everything he did. If he wanted to marry into their family, he had to learn their ways, play the part of the dutiful husband. A career? Not a chance. The pittance he would earn would be an embarrassment. Social events? Don’t even think about it. They wouldn’t have people laughing at them for letting a backstabbing homewrecker marry into the family. Ethan, fresh out of college, had his career ambitions crushed before they could even begin. But Amelia promised to love him forever, so he willingly became the man behind the woman. What was a career compared to being a Sutton in-law? He clung to her, his possessiveness growing. He would get angry at the sight of any other man near her. Once or twice, it might have been cute. But it quickly became suffocating. A love born of hormones and rebellion rarely stands the test of time. I sighed and turned to the other student I sponsored, Nicole. She was now my assistant. “Can you understand his actions?” Nicole’s face was impassive, but a flicker of disgust crossed her features. “I will never understand it. He had a bright future, and he threw it all away for the empty promise of a woman’s love.” “Have Ethan and his family been out of touch for a while?” I asked thoughtfully. Nicole nodded. “I’ll take care of it.” 4 After that phone call, the tentative friendship Amelia and I had rebuilt seemed to crumble. I started ignoring her messages and calls. I deliberately avoided the parties she invited me to. The sudden distance sent Amelia into a panic. She went to Nicole, trying to arrange a meeting with me. Nicole sighed. “You haven’t heard? Someone’s been spreading vicious rumors about Mr. Green online.” “His depression has flared up again. His mother had to have him committed to a private clinic.” Amelia froze, her voice a dry rasp. “What depression?”

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It was one of those stories that did the rounds in the ER before it ever got to my floor, the kind of tale that makes you shake your head and mutter, “You can’t make this stuff up.” The patient was a sixty-two-year-old guy, Walter Henderson. He hadn’t been brought in by paramedics or dropped off by a worried spouse. No, Walter arrived at our hospital via a frantic call from the director of the local funeral home. Apparently, his family had him pronounced dead at home—some rushed paperwork from a local coroner’s assistant who never even laid eyes on the body—and shipped him straight off for cremation. Then, as they were prepping him, one of the morticians saw his chest move. A shallow breath, but a breath nonetheless. Then his eyelids fluttered. The guy nearly had a heart attack of his own, called the family, and told them to get their “dearly departed” to a hospital, stat. He even dialed 911 for them. By the time Walter rolled into our ER, he was conscious. A bit dazed, but awake. We hooked him up, ran an EKG, drew blood, and the diagnosis was clear as day: a massive, honest-to-God heart attack. The kind they call a “widow-maker.” Dr. Ramirez, our on-call cardiologist, immediately started prepping for an emergency procedure. He sat the family down. “Look,” he said, trying to be gentle but firm. “There’s a chance. A good one, actually.” He was being conservative, but we all knew what he meant: with aggressive treatment, Walter was very likely to pull through. “We need to get him to the cath lab right now, open up that artery.” For those who don’t speak medical jargon, that means threading a tiny tube up to his heart, inflating a little balloon to clear the blockage, and popping in a stent to keep the blood flowing. It’s practically routine these days. The family—four of them, looking more inconvenienced than grief-stricken—exchanged glances. Then the eldest son, a man with a perpetually twitching eye, shook his head. “No. He’s old. We don’t want him to suffer.” A collective sigh went through the ER staff. We all thought it was a damn shame. The guy was fighting, his vitals were holding. He had a real shot. Dr. Ramirez tried again, emphasizing the hope, stressing that this was his best and only chance. But you can’t guarantee 100% in our line of work, and that was the out they needed. They stuck to their refusal. But here’s the weird part. They didn’t take him home. They just… left him there, in an observation bay in the ER, hooked up to monitors they didn’t want us to act on. Their plan was clear: they were just waiting. Walter, however, had other plans. His life force was stubborn, clinging on with a tenacity that defied his family’s wishes. By the morning of the third day, he wasn’t just breathing; he was talking. A nurse was walking by when she heard him, his voice a dry rasp. “Hungry,” he croaked. “Need… something to eat.” The four family members sitting by his bedside didn’t so much as flinch. Then Walter said something that sent a chill down everyone’s spine: “I still want to live.” Our ER nurse, Sarah, couldn’t take it anymore. She went to the breakroom, got the oatmeal she hadn’t had time to eat, and fed it to him herself, spoonful by spoonful. Later, Sarah told Dr. Ramirez what happened. He marched back out to the family. This time, he didn’t mince words. “If you let us treat him, his chances of survival are very high.” They looked at each other, a long, silent conversation passing between them. Finally, the twitchy-eyed son stepped forward. “If we don’t treat him,” he asked, “how long does he have?” Dr. Ramirez glanced at the monitor, at the steady green lines. “There’s no way to tell.” The family huddled outside the ER doors for a good half hour. Their decision? Transfer him to hospice care. And that, my friends, is how Walter Henderson ended up with me. I work in the hospice unit. Dr. Ramirez has a soft spot for us; he’s always sending us the “interesting” cases. He called our nurses’ station that night. “Got a heart attack patient for you,” he said. “Family is requesting a transfer for tomorrow. Can you get a bed ready?” It was me on the night shift. I figured “tomorrow” meant after the morning shift change. I mean, it’s hospice. What’s the rush, right? I was just pulling a fresh set of sheets onto the mattress when they rolled in—the family, an ER nurse, and Walter on a gurney. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 12:05 AM. “Tomorrow,” just as promised. Those guys in the ER have a sick sense of humor. That’s when it really hit me: for some people, the end of life can’t come fast enough. After getting him settled, I checked his file. Not a single payment made. Zero. Our attending doc told the family to see me at the nurses’ station to pay a deposit. Given what he’d already racked up in the ER, it should have been at least a thousand dollars. The doc told them five hundred to be nice. The twitchy-eyed son came over to my desk. “Nurse,” he said, not even looking at me. “The doctor said to pay a two-hundred-dollar deposit. Can I just do fifty for now?” He answered his own question before I could even open my mouth. The doctor’s office is right behind the nurses’ station; I’m not deaf. I hate being treated like an idiot. I picked up the desk phone and called the doctor right in front of him. “Dr. Evans? Just confirming the deposit for Mr. Henderson. Was it five hundred?” Hearing the doctor’s confirmation, the son’s face soured. “What is this? You think we’re gonna skip out on the bill? Fifty. Take it or leave it.” My shift was already a nightmare. I had three other patients actively dying. I didn’t have the time or the energy to haggle. I took the fifty bucks. So much for the theory that you can’t bargain at a hospital. The family made their wishes crystal clear on the intake forms: NO oxygen. NO suctioning. NO monitors. NO resuscitation. Two of the four stayed the first night. By morning, they seemed disappointed he was still breathing and promptly left, telling us to call them “when it’s over.” But Walter wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t just breathing; he was still asking for food. “Nurse, I’m hungry,” became his mantra. His family hadn’t ordered him a meal plan. When I called, his wife, Brenda, cut me off. “He won’t be able to digest it. It’ll just make him suffer more. You guys do what you think is best… just don’t let him be in too much pain.” Thank God Walter couldn’t hear her. One person saying, “I want to live,” and his own wife asking us to manage his final moments. The disconnect was staggering. “Don’t let him be in too much pain.” Well, feeding a starving man seemed like a pretty good way to alleviate suffering. The aides felt sorry for him too. We all started sneaking him bits of our own lunches. But we couldn’t sustain a grown man on stolen pudding cups and leftover Jell-O. I had to call the family again, insisting they arrange for regular meals. The son answered. Before I could say a word, he snapped, “We know, we’re on our way.” He thought I was calling to announce the death. “No, sir,” I said quickly. “Mr. Henderson is stable. I’m calling because he needs you to bring him food.” There was a pause on the other end of the line, thick with suspicion. “I get it,” he finally spat. “The longer he lives, the more money you make.” I hung up, stunned. Were they starving him to… save money? To stop the hospital from “profiting”? If they’d just taken him home, we wouldn’t have even gotten the fifty bucks for the bed. It made no sense. This wasn’t a case of a family who couldn’t afford care; these people were well-fed, well-dressed. This was something else. Then, a new visitor started appearing. Walter’s mother, Eleanor. She had to be in her late eighties, a tiny, stooped woman with paper-white skin and a faint scar across her throat. Every other day, she’d take the free city bus, carrying a plastic bag with Tupperware containers inside. She’d arrive at seven in the morning and sit by his bed until five, patiently feeding her son. One afternoon, doing my rounds, I overheard her whispering to him. “It’s okay to let go now, my son. I’m not long for this world either. What is it you’re holding on for?” Walter didn’t listen. He hung on for another week. By then, a nasty rattle had developed in his chest—fluid building up in his lungs. The doctor suggested some medication, or at least suctioning to help him breathe. The family refused. We couldn’t just watch him drown in his own phlegm. So, we started suctioning him on the sly. We never charged for the catheters or the tubing. We couldn’t. There was no doctor’s order, and the family had explicitly forbidden it. Then things got even weirder. One day, they hired a pastor to come into the room and perform what looked like an exorcism, shouting about releasing his spirit to the heavens. It was quite a show. I couldn’t help but think that whatever they paid that man could have covered Walter’s food for a month. I was about to give Walter his lunch that day when his wife, Brenda, appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing?” she demanded. I’m a nurse. What does she think I’m doing? Normally I’d have a snappy comeback, but I felt like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Oh, Mr. Henderson seemed uncomfortable,” I stammered. “I thought a little food might help him feel better.” “Where did you get that?” she asked, eyeing the container. I hesitated. Did she not know her own mother-in-law was visiting? “His mother brought it,” I said truthfully. Brenda’s face tightened. She told me I was interfering with God’s plan and to hold off on the food for now. As I put the container on his bedside table, a little white lie popped into my head. “It’s okay, ma’am,” I said with a reassuring smile. “His mother told me the pastor blessed this food.” After that day, Eleanor stopped coming. I felt a pang of guilt. I’m sure Brenda put a stop to it. It was my big mouth. So, we went back to our potluck method of feeding Walter. He wasn’t picky. We didn’t have a blender to make things easier; one of the aides would just break up pieces of bread rolls for him, and he’d swallow them dry, one by one. Without proper nutrition, he started to waste away. His limbs swelled with edema from protein deficiency. The family of another patient who passed away even left us a half-full can of protein powder. “For the man in room 4,” they said. “He looks like he needs it more than we do now.” One night, I was doing my rounds when I heard a loud banging. It was Walter, hitting the bed rail with a weak fist, waving me over. I thought he was in pain, or hungry again. It was neither. He was struggling for breath, but his eyes were urgent. He didn’t have a phone. He wanted me to call his family. All of them. He wanted them to come. It felt like he was ready to say his goodbyes. “Okay, Walter,” I said gently. “Let me finish my rounds, and I’ll call them right away.” He shook his head violently. Now. He wanted me to call now. I ran back to the station, found Brenda’s number, and dialed. I explained the situation, that Walter was asking for them, that it seemed important. I heard a small, sharp sound on her end, like a humorless laugh. “Tell him to wait,” she said, and hung up. They never came. I had to tell Walter. He just stared at the ceiling, silent. He never asked me to call them again. Four days later, Brenda finally showed up, alone. Our station is right across from Walter’s room. Through the closed door, we heard it: the distinct, sharp crack of a palm hitting a cheek. We almost called security. This was elder abuse, right? Neglect is one thing, but this? As the charge nurse, I had to intervene. I walked in, using my rounds as an excuse. Brenda was holding Walter’s hand, her face a mask of loving sorrow. “Oh, look, honey, the nurse is here. You be good now. I have to go.” The performance was flawless. But I heard what I heard. I had no proof, just a sickening feeling in my gut. Outside the room, she turned to me, her voice all business. “So, in your professional opinion, how much longer does he have?” I was speechless. She pressed on, her eyes gleaming with a weird, intense curiosity. “Will it be in the next couple of days?” What did this man have? A secret fortune? Did he wrong them in some unforgivable way? I’ve seen hundreds of deaths. I’ve seen families demand we keep doing CPR on a man whose ribs were cracking. I’ve seen peaceful, dignified passings. But I’d never seen a family so eager to push someone into the grave. Walter’s long-neglected body finally gave out. The lung infection, left untreated, took him in the end. He died at two in the morning. The on-call doctor notified the family. I performed the post-mortem care. There were no tubes or lines to remove. I just cleaned him and packed his orifices. He hadn’t had a bowel movement in days, so he passed cleanly. A small mercy. We called the family twice to come and get the body. They finally strolled in around seven a.m. No tears. Nothing. Just three people looking at a stranger. A little while later, their son came out of the room, sweating, watching a YouTube video on his phone titled “How to Dress a Body for a Casket.” Then he went back inside. We heard scuffling sounds. Brenda rushed out to the nurses’ station, exasperated. “We can’t get the suit on him,” she said to Maria, the day-shift charge nurse. “The three of us have been trying. His arms are too stiff. Is there a trick to it?” Rigor mortis sets in a few hours after death. By now, Walter was stiff as a board. It would be another day before the process reversed. That’s why many families dress the deceased before they’ve even passed. Maria, bless her heart, was about to stand up and offer to help, even though it’s not our job. But then Brenda’s eyes fell on Maria’s prominent belly. “Oh, my goodness, honey,” she said, her tone suddenly full of concern. “You must be five or six months along. No, no, you can’t come in there. It’s bad luck. We’ll figure it out.” Later, Maria came back to the station and leaned against the counter. “Thank God for this gut,” she whispered to me. “I swear, this pregnancy belly just saved me from having to do a son’s job for him.” It was such a strange moment of consideration in a sea of cruelty. Why care about a pregnant stranger’s superstitions when you treated your own husband like that? In the end, they gave up on the suit and just laid it over his body. While settling the final bill, Brenda picked up one of our pamphlets on body donation. She read it for a moment. Then she looked up at me and asked, “He’s only been dead a few hours. Is it too late to donate?” I just stared at her. My coworker later said they must have been planning it all along, to save on funeral costs. But I don’t think so. I saw her face. It was a completely random, last-minute thought. A final, bizarre act in a story full of them. Donation requires consent from the spouse, adult children, and living parents. They got Eleanor on the phone. She hesitated for a long time before finally agreeing. Everything was moving forward, and then, at the very last step, they changed their minds. They backed out. Maybe, in the end, some flicker of sentiment, some deeply buried emotion, made them stop. Maybe they just couldn’t bear the thought of giving him away. A month or so later, I heard that Walter Henderson had made his second trip to the local funeral home. This time, he didn’t come back.

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At a party with my fiancée Jenna and her friends, she said she had to step out. Two hours later, she still wasn’t back. As I went to look for her, I heard her best friends speaking in Spanish—a language they thought I didn’t understand. “This idiot has no idea he’s being cheated on,” one laughed. Another added, “I bet Jenna and Leo are really going at it. She said Creed isn’t as big as Leo anyway. Poor fool—we’re tearing him apart and he doesn’t even know.” I stood frozen, my mind blank. Just then, Jenna walked in, flushed and satisfied. “How was it?” her friend asked in Spanish. “A thrill?” “Completely,” Jenna replied huskily. “I couldn’t get enough.” 1 Leo followed her in, casually draping an arm over her shoulder like he always did—the quintessential guy-best-friend. But now, I saw it. A cluster of angry purple hickeys blooming on the pale skin of her neck. I collapsed back onto the sofa, the air punched from my lungs. A cold wave of despair washed over me. Her friends, like a pack of hyenas, kept prodding her in Spanish, demanding details of her tryst. Jenna, perhaps pricked by a sliver of guilt, instinctively pushed Leo’s hand away and glanced at me. She crossed the room and sat down beside me. “Hey, what are you so nervous about?” one of her friends teased. “He can’t understand a word we’re saying. If we were speaking French or something, then you’d have to worry!” “Yeah, with Spanish, he’s totally lost. Right, guys? Hahaha!” “You all are so mean, ganging up on the poor gringo.” Hearing that, Jenna seemed to relax. She leaned in and pressed a light, meaningless kiss to my lips. “Creed, honey, don’t mind them,” she said in English. “We all grew up together, so we always slip back into Spanish when we’re hanging out. It’s just a habit.” My hand, hidden by my side, clenched into a fist so tight my knuckles ached. What they didn’t know was that my mother is from Puerto Rico. I grew up speaking Spanish. I understood every damn word. Seeing my silence, they took it as indifference and dove back into their game. “Come on, Jenna, tell the truth. Is Leo bigger than him? I’ve got money riding on this.” Jenna’s lips curved into a smug smile. “Of course, he is.” Friend #1: “Look at that satisfied glow. You’re practically purring.” Friend #2: “God, this is so much fun! Who knew our secret language would be this useful? Look at that idiot, just sitting there like a lost puppy, not understanding a thing.” Leo shot me a look of pure contempt and then mouthed to Jenna. “Jenna, just marry me. Why are you with him?” Jenna just laughed, her hand moving to my shoulder, kneading the tense muscle as she spoke in a mocking tone. “Marry you? Don’t be ridiculous.” “I know the difference between reality and a good time. You’re for fun, Leo. A thrill. You’re my stress relief in bed. But Creed… Creed is the one I love.” “Could you put me first in everything? Could you treat me like a princess? No. You have a temper. Only Creed can do that. I had a fever once when he was on a business trip overseas, and one phone call had him on the next flight back.” The memory, which once warmed me, now felt like acid in my veins. All my devotion, all my love… and this is how she repaid me. With betrayal. “Shit,” Leo suddenly said. “I forgot to wear a condom. You might be in trouble.” “Damn it, Leo! How could you be so stupid? Go buy me a Plan B, now!” “Hey,” he said with a wicked grin. “Why don’t we make Creed go? If we’re going to play, let’s go all the way.” “You…” Leo picked up his wine glass and downed it in one go, a silent declaration that he was in no condition to drive. In the end, Jenna turned to me. “Creed, honey, could you run to the pharmacy for me? I need you to pick up a box of the morning-after pill. We might… need it tonight.” 2 The knuckles of my clenched fist cracked. There wasn’t a decent person in the entire room. I had so badly misjudged Jenna. In the three years we’d known each other, she’d cultivated this image of a sweet, innocent girl. She’d always said that cheating was the one thing she could never forgive. It was all a lie. She was the cheater. I lifted my head, my eyes locking with hers. The cold fury in my gaze must have startled her, because her smile faltered. “Creed? What’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?” She reached out to touch my forehead, but the lingering scent of another man on her skin made me recoil in disgust. “Jenna,” I said, my voice flat. “I think we need to postpone the wedding.” Real panic flashed in her eyes. She grabbed my arm. “Creed, what are you talking about?” I pulled my arm free. A bitter smile touched my lips. “Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal.” “I just think… we’re rushing things. We’re still young. Maybe you should have some more fun before we talk about settling down.” Her panic melted into a relieved, radiant smile. She threw her arms around me, burying her head in my chest. “I knew you were the best,” she murmured. “Thank you for always thinking of me.” She had no idea that I was already done with her. She shot a triumphant look over my shoulder at Leo and her friends. “Wow, what a keeper! A real simp.” “His ancestors must be so proud.” They were laughing at me, calling me a fool, a pushover. I didn’t care. Let them laugh. Anyone who makes a fool out of me will end up becoming the joke themselves. I turned and walked out the door to buy her damn pill. The moment I was gone, I heard them fall into each other’s arms, the sound of their passionate kissing echoing in the hall. “Damn, girl. Two guys at once. Only you could pull that off.” “Oh, shut up. Like you’re any different.” “Well, I’ve got to go. My god-tier hookup is waiting for me at the hotel, all showered and ready.” Hearing that, I quickened my pace. Outside, the sky had opened up. Rain soaked through my clothes, leaving me looking as pathetic as I felt. When I returned with the pills, the room was filled with raucous laughter. They all looked at me, not a trace of shame on their faces, and continued their conversation in Spanish. “How about we go hiking tomorrow?” “Ugh, no. Too much effort.” “It won’t be tiring if we find a quiet spot off the trail,” Leo said with a wink. “For some… exploring.” He nudged Jenna’s foot with his, and her eyes lit up. They all watched me, their smiles dripping with condescension, treating me like their personal plaything. The next day, Jenna took me on a trip to a state park outside the city, saying we were going to go hiking. At the trailhead, her friends were already joking around. “You guys are wild,” one said in Spanish. “Bringing Creed along while you two sneak off? Aren’t you afraid he’ll find out?” “If we don’t tell him, who will? It’s not like he knows the trails.” “That’s what makes it so thrilling! The risk, the danger! Hahaha!” With that, Jenna grabbed my hand and led me down the path. It wasn’t long before she stopped, feigning an upset stomach. “I need to find a bathroom, quick. Can you wait here and make sure no one comes this way?” A dull, numb ache spread through my chest. I couldn’t believe the woman I loved could be so shameless. She was carrying a backpack, and I knew what was inside. Lingerie. Toys. I had heard her packing it last night while I pretended to be asleep, whispering to Leo on the phone about what positions they should try. I hadn’t slept a wink. Instead, I had sent a message to my boss. I told her I was ready to take the transfer to the Paris office. I was moving to France. I would never see Jenna again. 3 She was practically bouncing on her feet with anticipation. Watching her hurry away, my heart twisted. I followed her, keeping a safe distance, and hid behind a large oak tree. And there, I watched it all unfold. I watched Jenna and Leo tangle together on a blanket spread over the grass. She pulled out a slinky, silk nightgown. Leo told her he wanted to be the one to put it on her. Their shameless laughter echoed through the woods as they began their sordid affair. Jenna kissed him fiercely. “The grass is kind of scratchy,” she complained. Leo just chuckled, nipping at her ear. “You have to try everything once, right? Isn’t this kind of thrill what you live for?” “You’re terrible!” “Hahaha! And that idiot has no idea. He’s standing guard for us right now, completely clueless.” “You’re so bad! Making me do this. If Creed finds out, you’re in deep trouble.” “Oh, you wouldn’t let anything happen to me. You’d miss this way too much.” I stood frozen, a wave of disbelief washing over me. Hearing them describe it was one thing, but seeing it with my own eyes… the pain was a physical, stabbing sensation that no one else could possibly understand. “Okay, we need to hurry,” Jenna said after a while. “Creed’s still waiting.” “No way. I’m not done with you yet.” I had never seen this side of her. So wild, so unrestrained. I couldn’t watch anymore. I turned to leave. My mind was a chaotic mess. I took a wrong step, my foot slipping on the muddy ground, and I tumbled down a steep embankment. My reflexes kicked in, and my hand shot out, grabbing hold of a thick tree root just in time. “Help!” I yelled, my voice raw. “Somebody, help me!” I shouted until my throat was hoarse, hoping they would hear me. Nothing. Gritting my teeth, I held onto the root with one hand and fumbled for my phone with the other. I called Jenna. It rang and rang. She was lost in her own world of pleasure. Finally, just as I was about to lose hope, she answered, her voice thick with annoyance. “Creed? I’m kind of busy right now. Don’t call me, you’re ruining the mood. My stomach hurts.” “I don’t know, I must have eaten something bad last night.” I didn’t waste time. “Jenna, you need to come help me. I fell. I’m about to fall off the ledge.” Her response was cold and dismissive. “Oh, stop being so dramatic. It’s not that steep. You city boys are always so delicate.” My grip was failing. The root snapped. I plunged downwards, tumbling over and over, my body slamming against rocks and earth until I finally came to a stop. A searing pain shot through my leg. It was covered in blood. I nearly passed out. Through the haze of pain, I realized the call was still connected. I could hear Jenna’s soft moans through the phone. She must have heard my screams, the sickening thud of my landing, and she had done nothing. Her priorities were clear. Between love and lust, she had chosen lust. In that moment, something inside me died. I closed my eyes, my face a mask of ashes. I was done with her. Completely and utterly done. 4 She never came looking for me. It grew dark. She never called to see if I was okay. I dragged my broken body down the mountain, step by agonizing step. It was an ambulance, called by another hiker, that finally took me away. Jenna and her friends were long gone. It wasn’t until late that night that she finally remembered me. When she called, her voice was dripping with accusation. “Creed, where are you?” A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” “You went to ‘find a bathroom’ and disappeared for hours. What was I supposed to think?” The anger I had suppressed for so long finally boiled over. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you accusing me of something? After I was done, I came back to find you, but you were gone! I looked everywhere. I lost cell service. I was worried sick! I even fell and hurt my leg looking for you!” Hah. She hurt her leg looking for me. The irony was suffocating. I told her which hospital I was in. Less than half an hour later, she limped into my room, followed by Leo and her pack of loyal friends. Seeing my bandaged leg, Jenna’s face crumpled with guilt. “Oh, Creed, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I never should have dragged you out there.” She leaned over me. “Does it still hurt? I’m not leaving your side. I’m staying right here with you.” But I couldn’t stand the sight of her. The thought of her touch made my skin crawl. She wouldn’t let go, hugging me tightly, as if her performance of regret could undo the damage. I couldn’t push her away, so I relented. “You’re hurt too. You should get some rest.” “No, my injury is nothing. I only care about you.” Her persistence was exhausting. I finally gave in. Thinking my anger had subsided, she let go and started peeling an apple for me. As she fed me slices, she started chattering with her friends in Spanish. “Luckily, I’m smart enough to fake a limp. It makes me look pathetic. It’s the perfect excuse for taking so long.” “Tsk, you’re a genius.” “I know, right? Look at my Creed. He’s already forgotten all about yesterday.” “That damn simp. He forgave you that quickly.” “Of course, he did. Because my Creed loves me.” My body went rigid. The air in my lungs turned to stone. Why was her entire life a lie? For a fleeting moment, I had almost believed she was really hurt, had almost considered forgiving her. I was a fool. This woman was incapable of telling the truth. Then, right there in front of me, they started reliving their little adventure in the woods, laughing about the details. They bragged about their sexual histories, throwing condescending glances my way. The day I was discharged from the hospital was the day of our engagement party. Jenna was breathtaking in a stunning evening gown. Leo stood right behind her. He took her hand, his voice laced with emotion. “Jenna, are you really going to marry him? What about me? What am I?” “You’re my plaything.” “But I love you.” “And I love Creed more. After we’re married, this is over between us. I’m going to change. I’m going to be a good wife.” I watched the scene on the security monitor in my apartment as I packed my last suitcase and chatted on the phone with my boss. “The flight leaves in about two hours. I’m heading out now. See you in Paris.” I hung up, zipped my suitcase, and walked out without a backward glance. But before I left, I had one last gift for Jenna. At the party, Jenna was growing anxious, constantly scanning the crowd for me. She pulled out her phone, but before she could dial, my best friend, Mark, intercepted her, a glass of champagne in his hand. “Congratulations, Jenna!” he said with a wide grin. “My buddy Creed… he takes relationships very seriously. Don’t you worry, he’ll be here on time.” He paused, then added, “Oh, but he does have one flaw. He absolutely cannot stand betrayal.” Jenna managed a tight, forced smile. Just as she was about to reply, Mark snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot to tell you the craziest thing! We’re all from the same area, you know? Creed too. Before he moved to New York, he grew up in the same region as you. His town was right next to yours.” “Look, here’s a copy of his old ID. I’m not kidding. I can even prove it.” And then, Mark switched to fluent, perfect Spanish.

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That night, at the Sinclair Holdings annual gala, the grand ballroom was a sea of champagne flutes and celebratory chatter. Every executive, every employee was there, basking in the year’s success. Everyone but Isabelle Sinclair, my childhood friend and my boss. She stood alone on the frost-kissed terrace overlooking the city, clutching her phone, waiting for me. A vigil she was destined to keep alone. Because I was already gone. The day before, Alex, the bright-eyed protégé she’d personally mentored, framed me for leaking company secrets—a final, vicious move to shove me out of Sinclair Holdings. And Isabelle, the woman I had built this empire with, had believed him. She’d slapped me across the face in front of our entire team and suspended me indefinitely. My heart, already fractured, finally turned to dust. I resigned. I walked away without a word. What I didn’t know then was that in the aftermath of my departure, Isabelle would come undone. She would leverage every contact, burn through every resource, and spend three years searching for me like a woman possessed. Ethan, where in God’s name are you? I was wrong. Please, just come back and see me. I promise, we’ll get married. 1 The Sinclair Holdings annual gala. From a shadowed corner of the ballroom, I watched Isabelle adjust the knot on Alex’s bowtie. She smiled, her fingers lingering on the silk, the two of them so close they looked like they were breathing the same air. A perfect couple. Whispers eddied around me. “Isabelle and her young assistant… they look good together. Still, I feel for Ethan.” “I heard he was suspended. Explains why he’s not here tonight.” An older colleague clapped me on the shoulder. “Ethan, my friend! Why aren’t you asking the boss for a dance? The whole company knows you’ve been chasing her for more than a decade. From the garage startup to this skyscraper. If you don’t make your move now, you’ll be waiting another year.” I forced a smile that felt like cracking glass and said nothing. His eyes followed my gaze to the terrace doors, where Isabelle and Alex were now sharing a private laugh. He sighed, patted my shoulder again, and led his date to the dance floor. I had loved Isabelle for fifteen years. I was there when her “company” was just two desks in a rented room. I was beside her as we forged Sinclair Holdings into the titan it was today. We’d survived on all-nighters fueled by stale coffee and ambition, shared slices of cheap pizza over project blueprints, and held each other on freezing street corners at 3 a.m., too exhausted and too exhilarated to go home. All of that changed the day she hired Alex. Suddenly, her warmth, her focus—they were no longer mine alone. When Alex mentioned he wanted to “learn about venture capital,” she’d take him to late-night meetings with investors, patiently walking him through financial statements line by line. For his birthday, she bought him a gleaming silver Porsche. The combined value of every birthday gift she’d ever given me wouldn’t buy one of its tires. For years, I’d tried to convince her to go see the Northern Lights with me. Her response was always the same. “What’s the point of going to a place like that? It’s a waste of time. You should be focused on closing the next deal.” I understand now. It wasn’t that the lights weren’t beautiful. It was that she didn’t want to see them with me. She even chose nursing Alex through a common cold over me. The day she was supposed to pick me up from a minor surgery, she canceled because Alex was sick. I ended up taking a cab, bleeding through my bandages on the way. When she finally saw me later, there was no apology. Just a cold reprimand. “You’re a thirty-year-old man, Ethan. Can’t you even take care of yourself?” 2 The moment my heart truly broke came three months ago, during the Harrison Corp crisis. It was an all-out corporate war. Alex, trying to prove himself, went rogue and walked right into a trap set by our rival, nearly costing the company a hundred-million-dollar contract. I was the one who got on a red-eye flight to London, calling in every favor I had, working for seventy-two hours straight to salvage the deal. Harrison Corp wasn’t happy. They sent a message—a dozen thugs who cornered me in an alley outside my hotel. They left me with two cracked ribs and a concussion. I spent ten days in a London hospital. Isabelle never visited. She never even called to ask if I was okay. Her only communication was a single, ice-cold email: You’re the COO. Cleaning up messes is your job. Stop using your injuries as an excuse. Alex is young; he can’t handle a blow like this to his confidence. My job. He’s young. She was worried about his confidence. Fine. But I was her fiancé. Her partner for a decade. When I finally got back to the office, she didn’t ask about my recovery. She demanded to know why I hadn’t completely crushed Harrison Corp in retaliation. I was quiet for a long moment. Then I asked, “Do you honestly believe that my life is less important than Alex’s ego?” She slammed her coffee mug on the desk, shattering it. “When did you become so damn cold-blooded, Ethan? You could have done more! If you can’t handle the pressure, then maybe we should put this engagement on hold.” It was the third time she’d used our engagement as a weapon. I met her furious gaze. “Put it on hold?” I asked softly. “So you can get engaged to Alex instead?” Her face contorted with rage. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Alex is my assistant! Is it a crime to mentor someone? My God, you’re so incredibly paranoid!” I just smiled. There was no point in arguing. We didn’t speak for two months after that. A cold war waged across the executive floor. For her birthday, I managed to acquire a limited-edition Patek Philippe she’d been wanting, pulling strings with a contact in Geneva. As I approached her office to give it to her, I heard their voices from inside. It was Alex. “He hasn’t even tried to talk to you after one little fight, Isabelle. Doesn’t that tell you something? Maybe he doesn’t care anymore. Maybe he’s already found someone else.” And then, Isabelle’s voice, sharp and dismissive. “The biggest regret of my life was agreeing to marry him. He’s small-minded. He was never worthy of me.” I stood frozen in the hallway, the blood turning to ice in my veins. A decade of my life. A decade of devotion. And to her, it all boiled down to one thing: unworthy. 3 I placed the watch box gently on the floor in front of her office door and walked away. I heard later that Alex gave her an identical watch—no doubt the one I had left. She accepted it with a smile, then turned around and gave it right back to him. “You’re young,” she’d told him. “You need a good watch to make an impression.” There was no conceivable way he could have afforded that watch on his own. The only person in the company who knew the truth was my assistant, Sarah. She was furious and wanted to confront Isabelle, but I stopped her. “Who do you think she’ll believe, Sarah? Me, or him?” Sarah fell silent. She was right to. If Isabelle had ever trusted me, how could Alex have succeeded, time and time again, for three years? From “accidentally” leaking my travel itineraries to competitors, to altering figures in contracts I’d negotiated, and now, this final act of framing me for corporate espionage… He’d set me up ten times. Ten times, Isabelle had chosen to believe him over me. Three times, she had threatened to end our engagement. I wasn’t a man without limits. I had just loved her more than I loved my own pride. But not anymore. I was too tired to love her. The well had run dry. 4 Back in my office, I gathered the few personal items I kept there. The things Isabelle had given me over the years: a simple watch she’d handed me off her own wrist once, an old fountain pen she no longer used, and the tie clip from our engagement. I lined them up neatly on the polished surface of my desk. It was laughable, really. Over ten years, the gifts I’d given her tracked our journey from poverty to power. From a street-cart necklace to a watch worth a down payment on a house. From her first sputtering scooter to the Rolls-Royce she drove now. Each one chosen with care. And from her to me? These three secondhand items. In the three years Alex had been here, she had showered him with gifts. Even the old pen she gave me was an afterthought, tossed to me during a meeting when mine ran out of ink. The Montblanc she gave Alex? She’d flown to Hamburg herself to pick it out for him. I smiled, a hollow, empty thing. I slipped on the old blazer I’d worn for my first interview with her, the fabric worn thin at the elbows. I came with nothing. I’d leave with nothing. It felt right. I had helped build this company from the ground up. I had saved it from the brink of collapse more times than I could count. I didn’t owe her a thing. Next to the tie clip, I placed my resignation letter and the key to the apartment we once shared. Then, without a backward glance, I walked out. Standing on the pavement outside the towering Sinclair Building, I looked up at the penthouse office, its lights still blazing against the night sky. “Goodbye, Isabelle.” I hailed a cab and gave the driver the name of the airport. The moment the car pulled into traffic, a weight I didn’t know I’d been carrying simply lifted. For the first time in years, I could breathe. 5 Onstage at the gala, Isabelle was a vision in a floor-length crimson gown. One of the board members leaned in, speaking quietly. “Isabelle, Ethan isn’t here yet. Several of our partners from the West Coast are asking for him.” Isabelle’s smile tightened, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. The board member pressed on. “Could it be that he’s still upset about your fight? Maybe he’s boycotting the event to make a point?” Isabelle scoffed. “He wouldn’t dare. If he doesn’t show up tonight, he can forget about me speaking to him for the next six months.” With a flick of her wrist, she pulled out her phone and dialed my number. The call went straight to voicemail. Everyone was watching. The public rejection hung in the air, a stain on her perfect evening. Her face darkened. She tried again. And again. On the third try, it was clear the phone had been turned off. “Stop calling. He’s not coming.” The voice cut through the murmur of the crowd. It was Sarah, my assistant, her expression like stone. Isabelle’s face went rigid. “Where is he?” she demanded. Sarah let out a short, bitter laugh. “Now you remember Ethan exists? Don’t worry. My guess is you’ll probably never see him again in this lifetime.” Isabelle’s brow furrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?” Sarah slapped a manila envelope into Isabelle’s hand. “Ethan’s gone. This is for you.” Isabelle tore it open. Inside was a single key and a one-sentence resignation letter. Her hand trembled, and the color drained from her face, leaving her as white as a ghost.

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