Category: English

Two in the morning, and the community group chat exploded. 【Wife wanted. With love.】 【This is the lady from apartment 1202. I have been diagnosed with a terminal illness, and I can’t bear to leave my husband and son alone. Therefore, I am arranging a new marriage for my husband.】 【Requirements for the woman: Age 20-25, height 5’6″ or taller, slim build, earns $10k+ a month. Must be an only child from a local family, and must be child-free by choice.】 【A test of true love awaits. Qualified neighbors, please contact me directly.】 I stared at my phone, completely floored. You really see all kinds of crazy on the internet these days. A second later, my phone started vibrating like a jackhammer. Leah had tagged me. Three times. 【Ava from 1302, can’t you tell I’m talking to you?】 1 I was baffled. My parents bought this apartment for me. I’d only been living here a month, and I’d already run into a lunatic like this. The other night owls in the group started chiming in: 1501: 【What is this, some kind of performance art?】 803: 【This is why you shouldn’t stay up late. I’ve scrolled straight into the twilight zone.】 702: 【Dream on! Maybe if you wish hard enough when you go to sleep.】 1502: 【Is this for real? Even with a terminal illness, that’s no excuse for this kind of delusion. A princess isn’t going to marry a toad.】 … Someone quietly added: 【Has anyone checked who posted this?】 But it was too late. Leah started tagging everyone in a frenzy. 【I have no idea what you mean by ‘performance art’! I’m a faithful wife, so don’t project your own dirty thoughts onto me!】 【My soul is going to heaven, so what do you mean ‘twilight zone’? Are you cursing me? I hope your whole family gets hemorrhoids!】 【What I do in my sleep is none of your business! You’re just bitter my husband didn’t choose you!】 【Do you think a terminal illness is a joke?】 【You people aren’t just unhelpful, you’re vile and abusive! A bunch of animals!】 The people who had commented were verbally bludgeoned into silence. I watched it all unfold, determined to stay out of it. But Leah was like a rabid dog, sinking her teeth into me and refusing to let go. She sent me a dozen friend requests through the group chat. 【Ava, accept it! Now!】 【I’m a sick person! I can’t stay up late! Have you no compassion?!】 【Don’t play dead. I know you’re awake.】 【You leave for work at 8 AM and get home at 10 PM. You just got out of the shower! I know your routine.】 【ACCEPT IT!】 A wave of goosebumps washed over me as the notifications flooded my screen. Was this woman insane? Had she been spying on me? Annoyed, I swiped to dismiss the notification but accidentally tapped “Accept.” Instantly, a massive wall of text appeared in the chat box, as if it had been waiting to strike. 【Ava, once you’re with my husband, you’ll have to quit your job.】 【Our Leo wakes up at 8:30 for preschool and gets picked up at 3:30. Your current schedule won’t work for school runs.】 【And getting home at ten to cook is way too late. My husband has a sensitive stomach; he can’t go hungry.】 【Of course, your new job can’t pay any less than $10k a month. Otherwise, you won’t be able to support my family properly.】 I laughed out loud. 【With demands like that, what’s the dowry?】 She flew into a rage. 【What dowry? Did you even read my post!】 【I am a SICK WOMAN! This is a matchmaking service out of CHARITY! There is no dowry!】 … I couldn’t be bothered with her meltdown. I clicked on her social media profile. She posted at least ten times a day, all pictures of her husband and son. The most recent post was a photo of a cancer diagnosis. The caption read: 【My darlings, even from heaven, Mommy will always be watching over you.】 It was an early-stage cancer with a very high cure rate. Instead of seeking treatment, she was busy finding her husband’s next wife? Summoning what little kindness I had left, I tried to reason with her. “Ma’am, your priority right now should be getting treatment.” For her body and her mind. But I must have hit a nerve. She completely lost it. A 60-second voice memo landed in my inbox, a piercing shriek that nearly shattered my eardrum. “Ava! I’m not dead yet! You don’t get to tell me what to do!” “As long as I’m alive, you’ll always be the other woman! The mistress! A dirty little secret that can’t see the light of day!” “Even after I’m gone, my son will only ever call you ‘Auntie’!” “If you get any funny ideas, I’ll haunt you from beyond the grave!” I rolled my eyes. Right. Never try to reason with crazy. Block. Delete. 2 The next morning, I ran into Mrs. Gable, the cleaning lady, in the elevator. She worked part-time for me, a quiet and diligent woman. I casually asked her about Leah from 1202. Mrs. Gable’s face paled, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “That one’s a lunatic!” “She’s been paralyzed for four years, the whole family is scared of her. Now she has cancer. Steer clear of her, dear. Don’t get involved.” She looked like she wanted to say more but held back. I could guess the rest. This woman was trouble. But I never expected this. I spent the morning meeting with clients. When I got back to the office at noon, my manager, David, called me into his office, his face like a thundercloud. He slammed a termination form down in front of me. I blinked, confused. “David, you’re quitting?” His face was beet-red, his neck swelling with rage. “No, you’re quitting!” “If you have a problem, you bring it to me! You don’t send your family here to harass us!” I was completely lost. “My family?” “Some woman! She stormed in here this morning, screaming at the top of her lungs, accusing the company of being immoral, of destroying families!” “She yelled that you had a terminally ill person at home, with a husband and child to care for, and yet you had the nerve to show up to work!” He was shaking with anger. “I’ve mentored you for three years, Ava. If you want to leave, fine. But don’t stoop to these kinds of cheap tactics!” It clicked. Leah. I immediately set the record straight. “David, my parents are healthy, I’m single, and I don’t have kids. The woman who came here is a psycho. I’ll handle it.” He looked skeptical, so I pulled up the group chat history. When he saw the “Wife wanted” post, his expression soured as if he’d swallowed a bug. 3 At three in the afternoon, I was in a meeting when my phone started buzzing nonstop. David shot me several dirty looks. I offered an apologetic smile and slipped out, hiding in the restroom to take the call. “Leo’s mom? School’s out. When are you coming to pick him up?” Leo. That was Leah’s son. I fought to keep my voice steady. “I’m not his mother!” The voice on the other end immediately turned accusatory. “As his mother, you’ve never once picked Leo up yourself. That’s not very responsible, is it?” “He’s been looking forward to you picking him up all day. He told everyone how beautiful you are. Are you really going to break his little heart?” “No matter how busy you are with work, a child’s youth only happens once!” My patience snapped. My own youth only happens once, too. Seeing that reasoning was pointless, I cleared my throat, plastered on my most sincere, professional smile, and purred into the phone. “Hello, ma’am. Have you considered refinancing your home loan?” “We offer low interest rates and fast approval. I see here that you have an excellent credit score…” Before I could finish, she slammed the phone down. I smirked and dialed back immediately. “Hi there, I really think you should consider our company’s offer…” Finally. Blocked. When David heard what was going on, he broke protocol and let me go home early. But as I reached my front door, I got a call from an unknown number. A cold, female voice drifted through the speaker. “Ava. You didn’t work late today. Looks like you listened to what I said yesterday.” “But Leo gets out of school at three-thirty. You’re not cutting it as a new mom!” “I can watch you now, but what about after I’m gone?” “Who knows if a tramp like you will abuse my child!” The voice was low and raspy, and it made my scalp tingle. I slammed the phone off, my eyes darting down the empty hallway. The motion-sensor lights were off, leaving everything in shadows. A chill crept up my spine. How did Leah know when I got home? 4 Inside, Mrs. Gable had already cooked dinner and left. I poured myself a large glass of red wine and downed half of it. Then, I grabbed a trash bag and scraped the leftover food into it. I mixed in some foul-smelling fermented tofu, a rotten egg… Clutching the bag, I staggered downstairs to apartment 1202. After putting on a mask and gloves, I smeared the putrid liquid all over the door, the keyhole, and the doorframe. An ungodly stench that assaulted the senses instantly filled the entire floor. I sat down in front of her door and began to wail. “Leah, how could you be so cruel!” “I’m only twenty-five! I’ve never even been in a serious relationship, and you’re forcing me to marry that pig of a husband!” “When I said no, you went to my office and made a scene!” “Do you know how hard it is to find a job right now? You’re trying to ruin my life!” The smell and my crying drew the neighbors out. They started to speak, then bent over, gagging. I thoughtfully handed them spare masks. “I’m so sorry… I had a little too much to drink, I’m just so upset…” Between sobs, I recounted everything—Leah spying on me, the scene at my office. After hearing my story, a few of the older women were filled with righteous indignation. “So you’re the Ava that Leah called out last night?” “That Leah is a piece of work! Look what she’s done to this poor girl!” My crying intensified. “I didn’t know what else to do! I was so stressed, I just had a couple of drinks and came to confront her.” “If she calls the cops, please, tell them I wasn’t looking for trouble. I just drank too much and acted impulsively!” The neighborhood watchdogs, filled with a sense of justice, puffed out their chests. “Don’t you worry, dear. We’ll vouch for you!” I dabbed at my tears, moved by their support. “But…” someone hesitated. “I’ve lived here for years, and I’ve never actually seen Leah.” The others nodded in agreement. “That’s right. She just hides away and torments people from the shadows.” “One time, I have no idea how I pissed her off, but she started threatening me with pictures of my grandson playing in the park!” “Me too! I once said something in the group chat about not guilt-tripping people, and she spent all night harassing me with calls from different numbers!” I stopped crying. A fuzzy idea began to form in my mind. Before I could grasp it, an old man stomped his foot in anger. “Call the police! We have to report her! We can’t let her terrorize the building like this anymore!” The police arrived quickly. After listening to the neighbors’ jumbled explanations, the officer looked at me, exasperated, and knocked on the door of 1202. I was still deep in my performance, tears streaming down my face. “Officer, Leah not only tried to force me to marry her husband, but she also went to my company and caused a huge scene…” The officer suddenly turned, a complicated look in his eyes. “You’re saying she went to your office and caused a scene?” I sensed something was off. Following his gaze, my eyes widened in shock. The one who opened the door was a chubby little boy. And Leah… was in a wheelchair. Paralyzed. Then who was the woman who stormed into my office this morning?!

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The real heiress, Chloe Miller, was found and brought home, making me, the fake heiress, feel incredibly awkward. So, I packed my bags overnight and returned to the small, backwater county town where I was supposed to have been born. I transferred to a school overrun with delinquent boys and girls. Looking at my coat, ruined by milk tea splashed on it, I sighed slightly, pulled out the purchase record, and held out my payment QR code. “$48,000. Pay up.” 1 Chloe Miller had returned home. I was still in my silk pajamas, sleepily walking downstairs, when I saw a girl who looked remarkably like Mother. She wore a faded shirt, surrounded by my parents. My brother, far away abroad, also expressed his impatience to rush back. I stood on the stairs, making eye contact with Chloe from a distance. Then we both offered each other an awkward yet polite smile. I had always known I wasn’t my parents’ biological daughter. My wealthy parents weren’t fools; our blood types didn’t even match. But because Chloe hadn’t been found, I could only be kept and raised by their side. I treated them like my real parents, and they cherished me like their real daughter. But likewise, over these years, we never gave up searching for Chloe, and finally, at this moment, she was home. Looking at the family reunion scene downstairs, I was genuinely happy for them. That night, I went to the study to discuss things with my parents. Chloe’s adoptive parents, my biological parents, had passed away in an accidental car crash. Although their family was poor, they tried their best to give Chloe the best life possible. The baby swap back then was an accident. Mom and Dad said our family could afford to raise a hundred daughters and wanted me to stay with them. But I shook my head and said, “That depends on Chloe. If it were me, I wouldn’t want to see the adopted daughter of this family.” “Besides, I’ve taken her place for so long; it’s time to let her come home without any worries. Coincidentally, I also want to see the place where my biological parents lived.” Mother patted my shoulder, sighing. I hugged Mother comfortingly and whispered, “It’s just for a year. I’m already a junior in high school; I will definitely come back to the capital for university.” “If Chloe doesn’t mind by then, I’ll come back.” Finally, my parents silently nodded. So that night, I dragged eight suitcases out of the Miller house. I wasn’t really so noble and stubborn as to want nothing. I took almost all my things, plus the pocket money I had saved over the years, and a large sum for tuition and living expenses given by Father and Mother Miller before I left. So I quickly rented a standalone small villa in the best area of this county town. After all, I was a minor, so I brought along my favorite butler. The rental and school enrollment procedures were handled by him. Lying in bed, I made a rough plan for the future with a good mindset, sent a message to my parents to let them know I was safe, and fell into a deep sleep. 2 Clearwater County No. 1 High School was the only key high school in this small county town with no airport or high-speed rail. I wore designer clothes, my small heels clicking, following behind the grade director. It was break time, and gazes from all directions shot toward me. The school wasn’t big to begin with, and rumors spread fast. When I sat down in my seat, the girl next to me stared at me and asked, “Where are you from? Why aren’t you wearing the school uniform? Are these things on you real?” She spoke very fast, so fast it sounded a bit aggressive. Just as I was about to speak, I heard the homeroom teacher’s voice, calling me to the podium to introduce myself in heavily accented Mandarin. So I walked onto the podium, put on a polite, official smile, and wrote my name on the blackboard with chalk—Serena Miller. “Hello everyone, my name is Serena Miller. I transferred from Capital High School. Please take care of me.” Below, there was instant chatter. “Capital? For real?” “Looks so rich, damn. Gonna go suck up later.” “Fake, right? So pretentious. If she’s really rich, why not go to Class 1 instead of our class?” “Looks okay, wearing makeup, huh? Finding her a bit annoying.” I raised my eyelids, scanning the room casually. After seeing the few people I wanted to see, I returned to my seat with satisfaction. I guess the show is about to begin. 3 First period was English. I propped my head up, looking at the textbook boredly. For me, English was almost like a native language, let alone the difficulty level of high school English. All thanks to the good education I received in the Miller family since childhood. Thinking of this, I frowned, wondering how Chloe was doing in the Miller family. I was still zoning out when suddenly the girl next to me stood up with a “swish” and began reading an English paragraph from the textbook aloud. I snapped back to reality, realizing the English teacher was calling on people to read. The girl who had been questioning me earlier was the one reading English now. I glanced at the name on the textbook; her name was Jenny. Jenny read very loudly, pronouncing every word correctly. The English teacher praised her and asked her to lead the reading. Jenny smiled, her somewhat plain and sallow cheeks showing a hint of vitality. Holding the book, she glanced at me. That glance was a mixture of smugness and pride. She began leading the reading, and the whole class followed her, reading sparsely. The voices of other students following her reading got smaller and smaller, noisier and noisier, but Jenny still read very loudly. Even though her English sounded terrible to me. Hearing a part, I couldn’t help but chuckle. I didn’t make a sound, nor did I stare at her. I just propped my head, looked at the book, and curled my lips. But Jenny had been staring at me since who knows when. She suddenly stopped and loudly said, “Serena Miller, why aren’t you reading!” I frowned. In fact, many people weren’t reading along with her, but she singled me out. I looked at Jenny. Behind her glasses, her dark eyes stared fixedly at me, her sallow face looking a bit ferocious. The English teacher also asked me to stand up. “New student, you need to integrate into the class. You read this paragraph alone.” The smile on my lips grew wider. I didn’t even look at the book and recited the paragraph just now in fluent, standard American English. The whole class slowly quieted down. The English teacher also opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say. After finishing reading, I shrugged and looked at Jenny, saying, “I didn’t read because my kindergarten oral English was much better than yours is now.” Jenny’s face instantly turned bright red. Her face flushed patches of green and yellow, biting her lip hard, daring not to look at me. Coincidentally, the bell rang for the end of class. The English teacher breathed a sigh of relief and hurriedly let us take a break. A few heavily made-up delinquent girls walked to my side. They had curled bangs and hair ends, swapped school pants for short skirts, with uniformly bright red lips. The leading girl held a lollipop in her mouth, smiling at me, saying, “Hey, why did you come to our school?” I lowered my head to flip through the book, saying casually, “Came because I wanted to.” The delinquent girl tutted and poked my shoulder hard with her finger. She was dissatisfied, “What are you pretending for?” My patience ran out, and I slapped her hand away hard. I had learned taekwondo, and my hand strength was great. Her hand swelled up visibly. “You motherf*cker! Want to die, huh!” The delinquent girl immediately started shouting. Her few followers behind her all wanted to come up and shove me. I pulled out a scalpel, twirled it on my fingertips, and stopped it precisely one centimeter in front of the delinquent girl’s eyeball. She screamed in fright. Even the followers behind her and Jenny next to her were shocked, retreating a few centimeters, fearing I would cut them with the knife. I put away the scalpel, a smile with unknown meaning on my lips, looking the delinquent girl up and down. As my scrutinizing gaze continued, the delinquent girl’s face became more and more embarrassed. I’ve navigated the upper-class social circle for so many years; dealing with this kind of low-class, unmannerly delinquent girl was simply a piece of cake. Because a sweeping, disdainful look could easily make them break defense. Let’s go. I fanned perfectly in front of myself in a slightly disgusted way, covering my mouth, “A body full of smoke and cheap perfume smell, stay away from me next time, want to vomit.” The eyes of everyone in the classroom had long been on us, waiting to watch a good show. Hearing me say this, they instantly burst into laughter. “Damn, dying of laughter, so good at cursing. Look at Sarah’s expression, too funny.” “Can anyone handle this new girl?” “Don’t mention it, watching her teach Sarah a lesson is quite cool hahaha.” “Shh, Sarah will definitely retaliate, just wait and see…” So she is Sarah. I stared at her, seeing the hatred and anger in her eyes clearly. So, what abilities do you have, Sarah? Come on, let me see. 4 The next few days were relatively calm. My actions last time scared Sarah, and seemed to scare Jenny too. She no longer dared to strike up conversations casually, only secretly looking at my teaching aids while I did problems in class, then buying an identical one the next day. I didn’t listen in class and did problems; she started imitating me. I wrote whatever, she wrote whatever; I didn’t listen in class, she didn’t listen either. In fact, I had been tutored one-on-one by famous teachers for all subjects, plus I was relatively hardworking since childhood; the progress of this school was too slow for me, so I brushed up on questions myself. This method was effective for me, but it was counterproductive for Jenny. But I wasn’t kind enough to remind her. I shook my head, no longer paying attention to her, ready to go downstairs to buy a pack of coffee to refresh myself. Because the right size school uniform hadn’t been issued yet, I could only wear my own clothes. A Louis Vuitton coat. Along the way, many eyes were cast on me; I walked calmly as if I hadn’t seen them. However, before reaching the convenience store, I was surrounded by a group of people. Leading them was Sarah’s group, with a few more yellow-haired delinquent boys added. Sarah crossed her arms, a cigarette clipped between her fingers. This area was obscured by a grove and also had a dilapidated sports equipment room; no wonder they were so arrogant. Sarah laughed wildly, “Told you not to provoke me, understand?” The boy next to her grabbed my clothes, trying to pull me to a more remote place. I was surprised by their wanton behavior, but thinking carefully, it was reasonable. In this remote county town, as long as these people’s families had a little connection, plus they were all minors, even if the bullying of others was severe, there wouldn’t be any substantial harm. And the bullied were mostly those whose parents were busy making a living, with average family conditions. Even if they could resist once or twice, they would still be bullied later. I looked at this boy pulling me, a head of mop-like yellow hair, a body full of smoke smell making me a bit nauseous. I shook off his hand and slapped him backhand. “Slap!” I used not a little force; the crisp slap sound made everyone a bit stunned. Probably didn’t expect me to dare to fight back in this situation. Sarah was particularly angry; her eyes wearing cheap colored contacts stared at me fiercely, cursing a series of dirty words I couldn’t understand in dialect. Probably realizing they couldn’t beat me, she conveniently took the milk tea from the girl next to her and splashed it on me. I dodged symbolically; most of the milk tea still splashed onto my coat. I looked at my coat ruined by milk tea. Sighed slightly, took out the purchase record, extended the payment code. “$48,000, pay up.” I heard the sound of them gasping. Sarah’s face showed a fleeting panicked look, then immediately calmed down. She stubbornly said: “Want me to pay? Are you worthy? What can you do to me if I don’t pay?” The delinquent boy I slapped next to her was already eager for action; he held a small knife, half-frighteningly waving it down at me. I wasn’t stupid; turned around and ran behind. At the same time, a group of blue figures were also running towards me. It’s the police. The first glance I saw this group of people downstairs, I edited an alarm text message on my mobile phone in my pocket. The police uncles happened to see the scene where the delinquent boy holding a knife wanted to stab me; several police officers rushed forward and caught him backhand directly. This frightened the other delinquent boys and girls quite a bit; they scattered and wanted to run away. The outcome of running away in front of the police is… An hour later, a neat group of people stood in the police station. This incident made a huge noise; the police came to the school to arrest such a large group of people; the school’s reputation was basically ruined. So the principal and several directors all hurried over. Sarah was crying and calling her parents. From the words, I could roughly understand that her father was a small official in this place. I suddenly understood; no wonder so arrogant. Finally, Sarah’s dad hurried over, glanced at me gloomily, and went to communicate with the police. Finally, the police reluctantly told me that Sarah and her group didn’t cause any substantial harm to me, only verbal education. The one holding the knife could only be considered attempted assault, plus being a minor, at most detention for two days. I heard the sound of the principal breathing a sigh of relief. They certainly didn’t want any students in the school to go to jail; spreading it would affect the school’s reputation. I looked at this group of people, triumphant Sarah, gloomy Sarah’s father looking at me, muddling principal and homeroom teacher… Turns out, Chloe lived in such a place for so long. Very hard, right, sister. It’s okay, it’s okay. I said softly in my heart. The bullying you suffered, sister will get it back for you one by one.

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The school bully turned the entire student body against me. The lovestruck rich kid got me fired from my jobs and killed my scholarship. The creepy manipulator tried to play me, planning to use me and toss me aside just to amuse her. Chloe Sinclair smiled, her expression innocent yet cruel. “Get on your knees and beg, Harper. Crawl around the football field three times like a dog. Maybe then I’ll tell them to back off.” At that exact moment, my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing in my pocket. [Babe, say you’ll be mine.] [No one will ever hurt you again.] [Baby, stop working those dead-end jobs.] [Let me take care of you. Isn’t that what you want?] [Do you like the new collar, Mistress?] Chapter 1 I was the disposable antagonist in a story where everyone loved the heroine. Unfortunately for the script, I was prettier than her. And I was smarter than her. So, when I secured the Valedictorian spot yet again, knocking Chloe Sinclair down to second place, she cornered me in the girls’ bathroom. She smiled sweetly, then slapped herself across the face—hard, twice. She mouthed the words to me: Are you ready for hell? A second later, Asher Sterling kicked the door open. Chloe threw herself into his arms, sobbing fake tears. Asher held her fragile frame, whispering comforts. When he looked at me, his eyes were dead cold. He didn’t say a word. No threats. No screaming. He just looked at me. A few hours later, I learned exactly what happens when you cross Northwood Academy’s princess. Chapter 2 My locker was stuffed with rotting trash. My textbooks were shredded. People “accidentally” spilled iced coffee on me in the halls. I got locked in the gym equipment room. Teachers ignored my raised hand. When I tried to speak to classmates, they covered their noses and walked away like I was a disease. So this was bullying. Fine. I decided to isolate them first. I stopped talking. I stopped participating. I walked with my head down. I cleaned the trash silently and taped my books back together. And then? I aced the midterms. My GPA climbed even higher. I beat Chloe by a landslide. Chloe’s eyes were red and puffy all afternoon. After school, a group of guys I didn’t know dragged me behind the abandoned bleachers. They didn’t hold back. Kicks, punches, pulling my hair. Someone burned the ends of my hair with a lighter. They tore my uniform. I saw a phone recording everything. Asher stood there, watching. Impassive. Like he was watching someone step on a cockroach. Until someone pulled out a pocket knife and brought it to my face. I felt a spike of panic. This face was my best asset. It would be a waste to ruin it. I forced my head up and locked eyes with Asher. I let tears fill my eyes—terrified, fragile, beautiful. Asher paused. I saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes. A spark of attraction he couldn’t hide. He looked away, his voice bored. “Not the face. Carve it somewhere else. Leave the girl some dignity.” They pinned me down. The blade cut into the skin of my stomach. I bit my lip until it bled, refusing to scream, just letting silent, tragic tears roll down my face. When they finally got bored and left, I stood up. I looked down at the word carved into my skin. SLUT. Just because I took the top spot from the princess? What if I took everything else she owned, too? Chapter 3 Asher Sterling’s family practically owned the city. He didn’t stay in the dorms; he had a luxury penthouse near campus. I found a way in. I stripped down, slid under his silk sheets, and waited. When the lights flicked on, Asher looked surprised for a split second. But he didn’t look away. His dark eyes raked over me, cold and predatory. I shivered, making my voice tremble. “C-can you make them stop? Please…” Asher smirked, lazy and arrogant. “Sure. If you’re obedient.” I played the part perfectly. The scared little rabbit. I cried and begged him to be gentle, while in the blind spots he couldn’t see, my eyes traced his features with greedy precision. Flawless skin, broad shoulders, old money aesthetics. I’d never tasted anything this expensive before. In stories like this, the best toys belong to the heroine. A nobody like me shouldn’t even be in the room. But Chloe handed him to me. It would be rude not to enjoy the meal. Chapter 4 Asher kept his word. The overt bullying stopped. Chloe was furious. Asher just shrugged. “She learned her lesson. She’s boring now.” To appease Chloe, Asher pulled strings to get me transferred out of the AP classes and into the remedial track. When I saw Chloe in the halls, I acted terrified. But in private, Asher and I were inseparable. We were addicted to each other. He showed his teeth, thinking he owned me. I played hard to get, just enough to keep him chasing. We talked, too. Asher was a cliché. Dead mom, emotionally distant billionaire dad. He only loved Chloe because she gave him a candy bar when they were six. Standard playbook. I became his sunshine. Good morning texts. Encouragement. Stupid little memes. It cost me zero dollars. Eventually, he started replying. [You coming over?] [No.] [Which dress?] [The red one.] [I saw a necklace that suits you. I’m saving up my tips to buy it.] […] On his birthday, I bought the necklace. I also brought a cheap cake I got with a coupon. Asher’s reaction was terrifying. He stomped on the gift box and grabbed me by the throat. “Who told you to celebrate this? You think because I sleep with you, you matter?” He squeezed until I saw spots. Then he threw me onto the couch. In the original story, Asher’s mom died in childbirth on his birthday. His dad blamed him. He never celebrated. He hid. Even Chloe knew better than to disturb him today. I coughed, gasping for air. Then I looked up and forced a smile through the pain. “But… it’s the day you were born. Birthdays are for cake. And wishes…” Asher kicked the coffee table. “Are you deaf? I said I don’t celebrate!” I asked calmly, “Because of your mother?” He froze. Then the rage exploded. He dragged me up. “Harper, do you have a death wish?” I looked right into his eyes. No fear. “She gave her life so you could exist in this world, Asher.” He stopped. “So, for this one day,” I whispered, “I want you to be happier than anyone else on earth. For her.”

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Scrolling through the Westlake University student forum, I saw someone asking for help with a Startup Challenge assignment. Out of habit, and frankly, a bout of professional curiosity, I logged in with my old student account and offered some guidance, tweaking a few financial models and market strategies. The group was ecstatic. They hailed me as a “super-alum” and a “guru,” constantly chasing me for feedback and urging me to polish the smallest details. Two months later, with the project nearing perfection, the group chat went dead silent. Curious, I scrolled back through the messages and discovered they’d created a new, private chat— “She’s not even on the official roster. Let’s keep the competition win quiet and not loop her in on the presentation.” “Exactly. The final team list only has our names. She better not show up at the finals tomorrow trying to take credit.” “Fewer people means an extra fifty grand split between us!” I leaned back from my screen and smiled, a cold, almost cruel expression. So, this was never just an assignment. The irony? Tomorrow, I happened to be the one sitting in the center of the judging panel. 1 They created a private chat but forgot that one of the accounts belonged to the University’s shared system. As soon as I logged in, the new group messages started flashing: “Some guru. We were just stroking her ego. She doesn’t know anything.” “Right? She just moved a few numbers around. We’re the ones who pulled the all-nighters writing the pitch, doing the PPT, and running the errands. Why should she get a cut?” “Yeah. We stick to the story that this was just a term paper. Nobody speaks up in the old group. Just let it fizzle out.” A term paper? They lured me in with a lie and now they were going to double down on it. A sharp annoyance sparked in my chest. I opened the old group and posted a message from my personal account: “After spending all this time guiding you, I need to remind you: the core financial models and market projection data in that report are far too granular. The sourcing and depth mimic a real-world commercial pitch.” “They are suitable for a regular class assignment, but they are absolutely inappropriate for a serious business competition. The judges will immediately question your data provenance.” In the two months I’d spent with them, I had rarely spoken with such professional gravity. If they stopped now, if they pulled the plug and went back to collecting open-source data, I would pretend this never happened. I wouldn’t make things difficult for them tomorrow. But the new chat immediately exploded. Mia Jenkins, the youngest of the group, sent a terrified emoji. “Does she know we’re competing?!” Trent Harrison, the captain, scoffed: “Don’t panic. ‘Remind us’? She’s trying to play the high-and-mighty professor. Who is she showing off for?” “She’s just mad she’s getting cut out of the money. She’s trying to scare us.” Another male team member, Luke Keller, quickly chimed in: “Trent’s right. She just can’t stand to see us succeed using her stuff. She wants all the glory.” I rested my chin on my hand, a weary smile spreading across my face in my quiet office. So they knew. They knew this was my stuff. When I first joined, their proposal was a hot mess. I constantly walked them through theory and practice, but they still handed in error-ridden drafts. I had no choice but to take over and fix them myself. In the end, I had sacrificed my own sleep to write almost every word of the final submission. Their so-called all-nighters, their “PPTs,” and their “market research errands” were little more than Googling free templates, slapping them together, and forwarding them to me as genuine effort. Now, they had made it to the finals with my work, and they were trying to erase me completely. Ten minutes later, Trent replied in the old group: “Fine. Since you want to be direct, I won’t hold back. All your ‘guidance’ was just basic theory anyone can Google. We already knew it. What was the point of your help?” “Now you hear we made it to the finals, and you pop up with threats, trying to strong-arm your way into a prize money split.” Luke rolled his eyes—the emoji practically oozed condescension: “Couldn’t pull a team together yourself, so you crash-landed into our group to mooch off our hard work. Now you want a cut? Talk about audacity.” The insults grew more personal. I frowned, replying bluntly: “I joined because you asked for help with an assignment on the forum. It had nothing to do with the competition or the prize money.” As soon as I sent it, Luke sent a middle-finger emoji: “Still playing dumb? Why else would you volunteer to help us?” “Unless… you saw one of the cute guys in the team photo and got a little crush?” Skylar Dean, the other girl on the team, jumped in: “The Captain’s the best-looking guy on the team, right?” Trent’s response was a full-out smirk: “Oh, Professor? Was it me you were after?” “Well, let me burst your bubble. I’m picky. With you? Tsk. I’d have to be blind to hook up with you.” He then posted the only selfie I had on my social media profile into the group chat. We had only communicated in the forum group, but Trent had my personal cell number and knew my accounts. In the early stages, when they had zero seed money, I personally Venmo’d Trent $5,000 to get them started. Last month, when his mother was diagnosed with cancer, I saw him soliciting help in the group. I pulled strings to get her a specialist appointment and sponsored over $10,000 toward her medical bills. I remembered what it was like to be a struggling student. Trent had sent me tearful voice messages thanking me, saying the chemotherapy was working wonders thanks to the specialist. Now, he had forgotten every favor I’d ever done for him and was insulting my appearance and slinging vile, sexually suggestive words. In that moment, I truly regretted joining the group. Two months of hard work wasted on a bunch of ingrates. “I’ve said my piece. If you insist on going through with the competition, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Right after I hit send, Trent removed me from the group. 2 I didn’t dwell on it. I went back to my own pressing work. When I finally took a break, I found a new, viral post on the university forum. It tagged my old student account. “WARNING: Scammer Alert—Do NOT Fall for This ‘Alum’!” “This student, posing as an alum mentor, manipulated her way into our Startup group. Her advice and models were stolen from other people’s successful projects.” “Out of respect, we didn’t call her out. We busted our butts and made it to the finals on our own merit. Now she’s demanding a $20,000 ‘consulting fee’ and 90% of the prize money. She threatened to make us regret it if we didn’t pay up!” My body went instantly numb. In forty short minutes, the thread had hundreds of replies. The student comments were a storm of outrage. “She gave you stolen work? That’s blatant plagiarism!” “The audacity. Trying to demand a $20K fee for stolen work. The Challenge rules clearly forbid using outside professional advisors, let alone paying them.” “She’s just a student! Not a real advisor. She must be loving this attention.” One comment asked for clarification: “Wait, I read ‘Anya Rossi’s’ comments on other threads. Her advice was actually sound.” Luke immediately jumped in: “We have proof! Check the screenshots! Also, just so everyone knows, Anya pursued our captain. He rejected her, and she’s been harassing him nonstop. It’s disgusting.” I felt faint. Our two months of innocuous professional dialogue had been maliciously screen-capped, cropped, and pasted together with vicious black captions. Dozens of images painted me as a serial plagiarist who aggressively demanded money and prize shares. Worse, they manufactured evidence that I had sent Trent vile, inappropriate messages, outright soliciting a sexual relationship with him. The final, sickening blow was the transferred funds. The receipt for the $5,000 I had sent Trent had been mirror-image Photoshopped. Now, it looked like he had transferred the money to me—a “go-away payment” because he couldn’t stand the harassment. I immediately tried to respond. My account had been restricted. All posting and commenting functions were blocked. I remembered Trent bragging that his roommate was a forum administrator. My personal cell buzzed. Trent sent a laughing-crying emoji. “See, Professor? This is all your fault.” “From the start, you kept saying ‘This is rough,’ and ‘That won’t fly.’ You forced us to refine the financials until Mia was crying from stress. Luke wanted a 50% market growth projection, and you forced that conservative 15% on us—he literally smashed his mouse in the dorm.” “You’re a student, too! We called you ‘Professor’ out of courtesy, but you actually started believing your own hype.” “Truth is, we were sick of your micromanaging. If you hadn’t interfered, our project would be even better!” Before I could process it, he deleted all the messages. The post was a preemptive strike, a shield against me reporting them. The retracted messages were to erase evidence. I had underestimated them. They had orchestrated this entire play, right down to my expulsion. “Trent, aren’t you worried about what happens at the finals tomorrow?” “Still trying to scare me?” His next message was instantly retracted, too, but then he sent: “But thanks for the reminder, Anya. You better not show up at the Westlake Hall tomorrow. If you do… we’ll release everything we have. You wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation and be ostracized, would you?” My reputation? I saved the screen-recorded video to my cloud, then re-read their viral post. The entire team—Trent, Luke, Mia, Skylar, and the two others—were all playing the victims, complaining that I was autocratic, demanding money from them, and screaming at them when they refused. They wanted to destroy my reputation? As a judge for tomorrow’s competition, why on earth would I not show up? 3 The moment I stepped into the Westlake Hall lobby, a hand shot out and shoved me against the wall, pulling me into a secluded corner. “You’ve got a death wish, don’t you? I told you not to come.” It was Luke who had pushed me. Beside him, Trent—immaculate in a sharp suit, ready for his presentation—looked me over, his eyes lingering. He made a lecherous, clicking sound with his tongue. “Tsk. The photos don’t do you justice. You have a great figure.” “I’ll catch you later, Professor, but you need to get out of here right now.” “If you don’t, we’re adding a lot more dirt to that forum post.” I took them all in. The difference between these six aggressive, panicked faces and the sunny smiles in the team photos was jarring. It was a sharp reminder: never judge a person by a picture again. This mistake had brought me nothing but trouble. “Trent, we can discuss the forum post later.” “Now, step aside. The final round is about to start.” The six of them glared, none willing to move. Only Mia timidly whispered: “But the finals are invitation-only. Her name isn’t on our team roster. How did she get in?” They suddenly realized something was wrong, glancing back at the security guard checking invitations. The competition was about to begin, and I didn’t have time to argue. Just as I was about to state the truth, Trent’s expression warped into one of grotesque understanding. His smile grew even more sickening. “Oh, I get it. Did you sleep with a judge or one of the angel investors?” “Look at that hourglass figure. Exactly the type those old guys go for.” I narrowed my eyes. “Trent, watch your mouth! That’s slander. I can call the police!” They all burst into laughter. “Go ahead, call them! We have all the proof.” Luke smugly pulled out his phone, holding it high for me to see. The sight made my blood run cold. They had taken my selfie and used AI to generate dozens of obscene, large-scale deepfakes. Every image showed “me” completely naked, with my name written underneath. The man opposite “me” in the photos was blurred, a placeholder for anyone they wanted to suggest. “You’re insane! This is a serious felony!” “What felony? That’s your face, isn’t it? Anya Rossi is your name, isn’t it? How can the facts be a crime?” The situation was escalating terrifyingly fast. I grabbed my phone, intending to dial 911, but Luke snatched it away with lightning speed. “Give that back!” “Try and take it.” Luke swaggered, stuffing my phone deep into his pocket. My heart sank. A few male students walked past and greeted them: “Trent, I thought your team had six people. Who’s this… oh, the plagiarist alum! Did you guys cave? Are you giving her the fee and the prize money?” Trent adopted a solemn, pained expression: “No way. She got in here using… some underhanded methods.” Luke deliberately shook his phone, letting the screen flash the images. Students within ten feet gasped. “Holy cow! She’s got no bottom line! She actually used the casting couch to get to the finals!” Luke winked cheekily: “The top prize is $1.5 million. If you’re a hack who only knows how to plagiarize, but can sleep with an old guy and walk away rich, what good is a ‘bottom line’?” Skylar poked his arm: “Are you sure it was only one time?” The whole group, even Mia who was usually quiet, erupted into knowing laughter. A shiver of horror ran down my spine. There were two other women on this team, yet they were all—for the sake of a larger split of the prize money—insulting me with the most despicable means possible. The passersby were clamoring for the photos. “I’m sending this to the College group chat! It’s never been this exciting!” “Which college are you in, Professor? We’ll make sure not to post this to your department’s fishing-for-a-sugar-daddy chat.” I’m not a tall woman, and I was now completely encircled by a dozen people, with no escape. I paused. My fists clenched. Then, a cold, almost cruel smile touched my lips. “When did I ever say I was a student?”

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Liam Thorne sent a video to the group chat of me walking out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel. Every rich kid who ever chased me was in that chat, but Liam was undoubtedly the prettiest. [Liam, you’re a legend. What does the Ice Queen taste like? Let us have a turn?] [Liam really took one for the team. Sacrificing his body to seduce the valedictorian just to get revenge for his childhood sweetheart.] [Cold-hearted b*stard. Telling the nerd you have cancer right before finals? Her eyes have been red for days.] [Dumping her right after graduation.] I heard Liam send a lazy voice memo, his tone nothing like the pitiful act he put on for me. I skipped class constantly to be with him at the hospital; my grades plummeted. Liam lay weakly in the hospital bed, pulling out a forged cancer diagnosis, his eyes full of deep emotion. “Aria, I’m sorry. I’m dragging you down. Don’t spend any more money on my treatment.” He knew I was broke from trying to save him. Liam waited for me to give up on him. He never expected me to pull out another fifty thousand dollars—my life savings. The group chat blew up again: [B*tch! What does he have besides a pretty face! Why did Aria fall for him!] [She sold her apartment for him! That was her mom’s only legacy!] [Shameless scum. Carter, did you tell Aria the truth yet?] [Sh*t! Idiot! You sent that to the wrong chat! Liam is in this one! Delete it, quick!] The messages were retracted one by one. In the hospital bed, Liam’s face went pale. 1 Academics were always easy for me. Since I was little, if I wanted to be first in my grade, I was. I also inherited my mother’s good looks. Aside from being poor, I had almost no flaws. In middle school, my mother married a wealthy businessman. She left me a bank card. “Don’t contact me. I’ll wire you money every year.” She told everyone she was single; she didn’t want my existence to affect her second marriage. I felt nothing. I took the card and told everyone I was an orphan. I was born emotionally detached. My mother didn’t like me. She preferred daughters who could call her “Mommy” sweetly, even if it was a stepdaughter. Photos of a girl soon appeared frequently on her social media—the daughter of the businessman’s ex-wife. Her name was Bella Cruz, and she was stunning. My mother hugged her, while Bella pouted, wearing a fake, reluctant smile. For the first time, seeing someone else smile stung my eyes. Life was bland and boring. My only joy was finding people who could stir my emotions. So, I moved. I bought a small, 600-square-foot apartment in a good school district and transferred to Bella’s high school. 2 Just as I felt the first time I saw her, Bella loathed me. She led her little clique to bully me constantly. I didn’t argue with her. I just deliberately skipped school the week before the eight-school joint exam. Our school, Eastwood High, had been suppressed by the neighboring prep school for a long time. My grades were consistently first in the year; the administration would never want to see me miss the exam. When my homeroom teacher called, I gathered my courage and said, “Ms. Baker, can I transfer classes?” “Transfer?” Ms. Baker quickly picked up on the wrongness in my tone. She softened her voice. “Is someone in the class bothering you? Don’t be afraid, I’ll handle it for you!” I stammered, “No, no. It’s just… I don’t fit in very well.” Hanging up the phone, I put away the insecurity and cowardice I had feigned. I knew I was never a good person. I always pay back what I’m owed. Two days later, Ms. Baker called me to the school. The school had cameras everywhere. Ms. Baker spent a whole day checking the footage. After discovering that Bella had been targeting me openly and secretly for two months, she immediately reported it to the administration. The school took it very seriously. Bella stood under the flag during the assembly, red-eyed, choking back tears as she read her apology. She lost face completely and hated me to the bone from then on. “It’s all her fault! If her grades weren’t so good, the teachers wouldn’t protect her like this!” “Fake b*tch! Pick-me girl!” “Carter! Tell me! Will you help me or not!” Outside the corner coffee shop, Bella was crying and hugging a boy. The boy whispered comfortingly, “Don’t cry. Liam and I will definitely help you.” “Really?” Bella looked up, her nose red from crying. “What do you want me to do?” “Find someone to ruin her, take her virginity, then post the photos in the group chat. I want to see what right that b*tch has to be arrogant then!” Bella’s voice was venomous. The tall boy held her in his arms, smiling cynically. “A poor girl with no background is worth my princess crying like this? Wait till I train her to lick your feet on the ground.” 3 My boring life suddenly became much more interesting. For example, suddenly many people wanted to be my friends, all of them rich or noble. “Aria, that Michelin-star restaurant is great. I’ll take you.” Carter Reeves was in Class 11, 6’1″, a master at flirting. He was one of Bella’s helpers, her cousin. Good-looking, good family, loved to play the field. He pursued me openly. Because he was the only guy I occasionally responded to, rumors spread that we were dating. Ms. Baker called us to the office; the homeroom teacher of Class 11 was sitting next to her. Carter’s teacher was a stern man. He looked at Carter coldly. “Focus on your studies. If your grades are bad, don’t drag others down. I called your parents; write a 1,000-word reflection by tomorrow.” “Also, I talked to your parents yesterday. They don’t agree with you studying art. Don’t think art is a shortcut. Your art teacher told me you have too many ideas and aren’t suited for exams.” Carter clenched his fists tightly. His teacher rattled on like a machine gun. Noisy. When his teacher said again that Carter shouldn’t affect my studies, I interrupted him, my eyes devoid of emotion. “Sir, he won’t have any effect on me. I will take first place.” The teacher choked, about to explode, but Ms. Baker blocked him like a protective mother hen. “Alright, alright, you two can go.” 4 Later, Carter’s pursuit became even more intense. Always giving bags, money, finding boring topics. If he were chasing my mom, it would work. Too bad my mom had many suitors in the past; I was tired of these tricks. I looked at Carter wearily and rejected his advances. “Your grades are too bad.” Carter looked aggrieved. “Aria, not everyone finds studying as easy as you do.” “But you’re talented at drawing.” Carter’s face changed; the cynical expression vanished, and he sat up straight. “You really think I’m talented? The teachers say I draw nonsense, not following the rules.” “Mm.” I hummed a response. “You don’t think it’s useless?” He asked again. Then, he began to complain that his family wouldn’t let him paint and wanted to send him abroad. I interrupted him. “Okay, I’m going home.” If he were an experienced playboy, he would know not to expose his weakness to a woman who didn’t love him yet. He would be manipulated. “Aria, do you want me to teach you to draw?” Carter’s eyes were the best feature on his face—peach blossom eyes, full of affection. I liked beautiful things. I looked at him, smiling. “Your eyes are beautiful. Teach me to draw your eyes.” His ears turned red, his hand holding the brush trembling for a second. No matter how wild, he was only eighteen; sometimes, innocence slipped through. I looked at his ears and chuckled lightly. This was the person who said he’d make me lick feet on the ground? Just so-so. I compared his drawing with the horrific thing I just drew and said regretfully, “Looks like I have no talent for painting.” Carter laughed. “Aria, you’re really cute.” I put down the brush. “The painting got dirty. I don’t like dirty things. Same with men.” Carter’s face changed; he looked into my eyes. And I looked at the new drawing under his hand. The eyes in the drawing were mine. Those eyes were calm, without any love or ripples. He forced a smile and left in a hurry. I felt a malicious gaze. Bella stared at the brush on the ground. Carter treated his brushes like treasures, but today he left one behind. I picked up the brush and threw it in the trash. Maybe he’ll switch out soon. I hope the next one is more interesting.

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In my past life, my husband was pushed into the sea and drowned by the woman he always loved. While I was still in shock, trying to handle his funeral arrangements, the police arrested me. The surveillance footage showed me pushing him overboard. But at that exact moment, I was in my cabin with my stepfather, discussing business. I had a perfect alibi. I asked my stepfather to testify for me. Instead, he told the police my company was facing financial ruin and I had planned to kill my husband for the insurance money. Was this man really my father? The result, of course, was a conviction for murder and a death sentence. Until my final breath, I couldn’t understand why everyone said I killed him. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the ship, just before my husband fell. I went straight to security. I told them I was going to murder my husband soon and that they needed to arrest me immediately. They thought I was crazy and ignored me. Desperate, I started smashing things and acting like a lunatic until they finally detained me. Only then could I breathe a sigh of relief. 1 “Excuse me? You said you’re going to kill someone?” I tapped the face of my watch frantically. “Yes! It’s 5:05 PM. In twenty minutes, my husband, Chase, is going to go overboard by my hand. You need to arrest me. Now.” The air in the grand atrium seemed to freeze. The security officer looked me up and down like I belonged in a straitjacket. “I’ve never had a killer confess before the crime. Are you high? Or just off your meds?” “I’m not lying! Detain me now, and in twenty minutes you’ll see I’m telling the truth!” The officer frowned, his disdain obvious. “Look, ma’am, if this is some kind of roleplay you and your husband are into, fine. But don’t disturb our work.” He started to walk away. Panic surged through me. I grabbed a large ceramic vase from a pedestal and hurled it at the floor. Smash! The sound of shattering pottery echoed through the hall. Tourists screamed and turned to stare. “Are you crazy?!” the young officer shouted. He reached for me, but I started grabbing anything I could reach—ashtrays, decorative plates—throwing them like a maniac. “What is security doing? Grab her!” “We paid thousands for a luxury cruise, not to watch a mental breakdown!” The crowd’s anger boiled over. I acted like a woman possessed, smashing everything in the lobby until the Head of Security arrived with backup. They tackled me to the ground, twisting my arms behind my back and slapping on the cuffs. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” the young officer told his boss, panting. “She walked up, said she was gonna kill someone, and when I didn’t arrest her, she started destroying the lobby.” The cold steel against my skin made me feel safer than I had in years. “Take her to the brig. Watch her. Don’t let her cause any more trouble.” The brig was empty. I closed my eyes and counted the seconds. In my last life, this was a family trip. Chase’s “one that got away,” Sarah, had begged to come along. I had refused at first. But Chase insisted. He said Sarah was getting married soon and moving to Europe; this was her final send-off. I reluctantly agreed. I didn’t know that while they were watching the sunset on the deck, they would argue, and Sarah would shove him overboard. I had tried to get the crew to save him, but the sun had set, and the waves were too rough. By morning, he was gone. Before I could even mourn, the authorities came for me. “We have probable cause to detain you for the death of Chase Miller.” I was shocked. “Sarah pushed him! I saw it from the balcony! You have the wrong person!” But they showed me the footage. It was me in the video. I looked to my stepfather, Richard, for help. He just shook his head. “Chloe, you have to pay for your crimes.” I couldn’t believe he was lying. I was with him when Chase fell. It was all a lie. “Chloe Vance, just confess. Everyone on deck saw you do it.” One person can lie. But a whole deck of witnesses? A security camera? I went to my execution screaming that it was Sarah. Now, I sat in the brig, waiting. 2 Tick. Tock. Suddenly, a dull thud vibrated through the hull, barely audible over the engine’s hum. Screams erupted from the deck above. I knew it. Chase had gone over. Moments later, heavy boots pounded down the hallway. The young officer kicked the door open. He froze when he saw me. “How… you’re still here?” Before he could finish, a mob of tourists pushed past him. “That’s her! She’s the killer! I saw her push him!” “Don’t let her escape! We all saw it!” A guy in a flashy shirt was holding up a phone, live-streaming. “Yo, chat! We caught the killer! Like and subscribe to see justice served!” I turned away from the camera, rattling my handcuffs against the pipe I was tethered to. “What’s going on? I’ve been chained here the whole time.” The mob paused, confused, looking at my restraints. “Ask the guard,” I said loudly. “I caused a scene in the lobby. He arrested me. He has the key.” The young officer nodded slowly. “Yeah… I locked her up twenty minutes ago. The key has been in my pocket. She couldn’t have been on deck.” In my last life, I was too busy trying to save Chase to notice the trap closing. This time, I had the ultimate alibi. The crowd murmured. “Did we get the wrong person?” “I saw her smashing vases earlier. It took three guys to take her down.” “Move, let us through! We need to find the real killer!” The streamer looked disappointed. “False alarm, guys?” Just then, Sarah pushed through the crowd, her face twisted in grief and rage. “Chloe! You heartless monster! Chase wanted a divorce, so you killed him?!” “Everyone! The man in the water is her husband! She killed him!” Sarah sobbed theatrically. “Poor Chase… he was willing to give up everything to be free of you, but you wouldn’t let him go!” The crowd’s mood swung instantly. “It was her husband? That’s sick.” “If they were divorcing, she definitely had a motive.” “Look at her face, she looks guilty as hell!” I tried to speak, but the streamer guy kicked me hard in the ribs. I was chained and couldn’t dodge. I curled up on the floor, groaning. The chat on his screen went wild. User123: Kick her again! Justice for Chase! AlphaMale88: Typical toxic ex. She needs a lesson. Encouraged, the mob surged forward. I took hits, my hair pulled, my face scratched. “Enough!” The Head of Security slammed his baton against the doorframe. “Back off! This is a holding cell, not a octagon. Back off or you all go in the brig!” The crowd retreated. I pulled myself up, wiping blood from my lip. “I didn’t kill anyone,” I said, my voice cold. “If you don’t believe me, check the security tapes in this room.” 3 The young officer scrambled to the console. He pulled up the footage. It showed me sitting there, handcuffed, the entire time. The crowd went silent. Sarah’s eyes darted around nervously. “You can’t just check this room! Check the deck! The crime scene!” The Head of Security pulled up the deck feed. On the screen, Chase and I were standing in a secluded corner of the deck. We were arguing. Suddenly, the “Chloe” on the screen screamed, shoved Chase violently over the rail, and ran away. The video ended. My mind raced. The woman on the screen looked exactly like me. Same height, same build. But it was Sarah who was with him. How did she turn into me? The internet chat was confused too. SimpSlayer: Wait, how can she be in two places at once? CSI_Miami_Fan: Is she a twin? Or is that a deepfake? LawyerUp: If she has an alibi in custody, the video evidence is compromised. Reasonable doubt. “It’s the same person!” Sarah shrieked, pointing at the screen. “Look closely! It’s Chloe!” “When one spouse dies, the other is always the prime suspect!” “She probably bribed these guards! Don’t let her trick you!” Before I could defend myself, my stepfather, Richard, burst into the room. Slap! His hand connected hard with my cheek. “Chloe! I didn’t raise you to be a murderer!” “I told you I would fix the company’s debt! You didn’t have to kill Chase for the insurance money!” Richard threw a stack of documents onto the floor. The streamer zoomed in. CryptoKing: Holy sht! Two life insurance policies! Twenty million dollars!* TradWife4Life: She did it for the money. Disgusting. Sarah smirked through her fake tears. “Witnesses, video evidence, and motive. It’s over, Chloe. You’re going to rot in prison.” “A life for a life!” the mob chanted. Even the young officer looked at me with disgust now. Suddenly, my phone rang. The guard looked at his boss, who nodded. He uncuffed one of my hands so I could answer. “Are you going to order a hit on us too?” Sarah sneered. I ignored her. It was my assistant. I listened to the report, and a smile spread across my face. Richard wiped his fake tears. “Chloe, admit it. I can’t protect you anymore. I demand the police prosecute you to the fullest!” If I hadn’t lived through this before, I would have been heartbroken by his betrayal. I laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “Dad. You loved Chase so much. Is it because he’s actually your biological son?” Richard froze. “You crazy bitch, what are you saying?” “I raised you! I treated you like my own! And this is the thanks I get?” I looked straight into the streamer’s camera lens. “Stop acting. I know everything. Chase is your illegitimate son.” “Isn’t that right… Chase?” 4 The room went dead silent. ConspiracyTheory101: Wait, is the victim… not dead? OceanLover: If he fell into the ocean at night, he’s shark food. She’s bluffing. Sarah stepped forward. “Chase is gone! How dare you disrespect the dead!” Richard clutched his chest. “You are accusing me of… this is insane! I would never hurt my own daughter!” “Daughter?” I scoffed. “If I was your daughter, would you be so eager to see me executed? You just want me out of the way so you and your son can enjoy the payout.” “We can do a DNA test right now. Let’s see who his real father is.” The crowd murmured. Richard’s reaction was too suspicious. Richard gritted his teeth. “I raised you! That’s more than blood! And now you treat me like a dog!” Sarah jumped in. “Richard is a saint! You’re the monster! You killed his son!” I laughed. “No, Sarah. You killed him.” “Or tried to.” “You weren’t in your room like you planned. You got greedy.” Sarah turned pale. “I… I was in my room!” “Really? Because I have proof you weren’t.” I lunged at her. The crowd screamed and scattered. Sarah shrieked and dodged, but the man in black standing behind her—her “bodyguard”—wasn’t fast enough. I tackled him. His cap flew off. His mask slipped. The face beneath was scarred, horrific. But I recognized the eyes.

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New Year’s Eve. I’d just crossed two thousand miles, flying in from my remote deployment, only to hear a girl at the arrivals gate call out my fiancé’s name into her phone. “Jamie, I’m off the plane! Where are you?” The voice, syrupy-sweet with that particular tone of new-love entitlement, came from right behind me. I froze, turning instinctively. “I know, I know, your base keeps you busy… but I’m here now. You can’t leave me alone for the holiday, can you?” Her coaxing tone was unsettlingly familiar. Three years ago, I’d said the exact same words to James Davies. Back then, he’d just been transferred to the Naval Base in San Diego, and I was still at medical school in Seattle, making every visit a cross-country haul. I shook my head, silently chiding myself for the sudden paranoia. It’s a huge world. There are thousands of men named James. But then, her voice sharpened, the words ringing clear: “Commander Davies, if you don’t come get me, I swear I’m going to hang a banner right outside your unit gates!” James Davies. My fiancé. The same rank. The same command. … On impulse, a sudden, cold dread overriding my reason, I pulled out my phone and sent James a text. [James, can you get leave tonight? I’m in the city.] No reply. The girl linked arms with a friend and drifted toward the checkout aisle of a small airport convenience store. She flashed her phone. “See? Five minutes, and he’s already checking my location.” Joking, she reached for the condoms, grabbing a handful of Trojans. Her friend gave her a suggestive look. “Seriously, Sutton? Going that wild?” “Sutton, you and James are seriously obsessed with each other. Were those complaints just a humblebrag for my benefit?” Sutton giggled, a brazen, youthful sound. “I’m not leaving anything for the other little vultures, am I?” Other customers glanced over, some stifling smiles. Sutton didn’t care, swaying her hips as she and her friend walked out. I paid for my water and followed them. It was the dead of a cold December, and Sutton was wearing a backless dress under a thin coat, her bare legs jarring against the icy wind. She looked barely twenty, all sunshine and carefree abandon. The exact opposite of me, a Naval Medical Officer, usually dressed in serviceable fabrics and always, always bare-faced. When they reached the curb, Sutton’s friend hailed a ride. Sutton continued walking, humming a tune as she went. Every corner, our paths aligned. When I finally recognized the melody, my steps slowed involuntarily. It was the song James had sung at a base talent show years ago—the one he’d claimed he only ever sang for me. Sutton pulled out her phone and dialed. “Jamie, I’m almost there. Wait for me outside?” Whatever he said in response, she pouted playfully. “I’m layered up, I’m not cold at all. If you don’t believe me, come check for yourself.” “You can even put your hands inside my coat, under my top, and on my…” I looked down at my phone. Still no reply. A cold draft slipped into my sleeves, and I shivered. My fingertip hovered over the screen, then I pressed the call button. A mechanical female voice coolly replied: “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable.” I understood. When he was on assignment or in intensive training, his phone was held by the command. That had to be it. “James!” Sutton suddenly broke into a little run and flung herself into a man’s arms. I tilted my umbrella up, looking forward. One glance, and I was pinned to the sidewalk. The man, in civilian clothes, hugged Sutton tight, then playfully ruffled her hair. “You, you menace.” He had the face that was etched into my very bones. At seven, we grew up together on the base housing complex. He pressed a miniature military challenge coin into my hand. “Maeve, every medal and coin I ever earn will belong to you.” At fifteen, he awkwardly told me to throw away love letters from other boys. “They’re not as good as me.” At nineteen, the night before he deployed, he stood outside my window until dawn, insisting he had to see me. At twenty-three, he was selected for Special Warfare, disappearing for three months of radio silence on a critical mission. The first thing he did when he got back, twenty pounds lighter, was find me at the hospital. Last month, he handed me his savings account card, accumulated over five years of active duty pay. “Maeve, once this promotion goes through, we’ll submit the marriage packet.” Twenty-one years. Childhood sweethearts. We were two steadfast pillars, growing side-by-side. Our love was my Anchor—my source of stability and truth. But in this one second. Everything turned to ash. The rain pounded a frantic rhythm on my umbrella. It wasn’t until they turned, embraced, and walked toward the side entrance of the base housing that I managed to pull myself from my stunned paralysis. My phone buzzed. It was James. [In a training cycle. Just got my phone back. What’s up?] The sudden downpour had drenched my shoes. The damp cold crept up from my feet. My legs felt like they were encased in concrete, and I couldn’t move. I adjusted the green field jacket I was wearing—the one he’d given me, the exact shade of his fatigues. My hand shaking, I dialed his number again. It connected, then was immediately rejected. James sent a new text: [My CO is right here, can’t talk. Text it out.] I bit down on my lip, typing word by word. [Training cycle, or spending time with another woman?] As I was about to hit send, a screeching halt sounded behind me. “Watch out!” I couldn’t react in time. A rogue delivery bike clipped me, sending me sprawling. The world spun as I landed hard on the slick, wet pavement. The sharp, cold dampness soaked through my clothes. The pain, sluggish and delayed, crawled from my knee up to my heart. The young Marine who’d crashed scrambled to help me up. “Ma’am, are you okay?” Seeing his uniform, his face pale with panic, I waved him off. “I’m fine. Just go.” My phone screen was shattered, and my unsent accusation was lost to the void. I found a cheap motel nearby and took a scalding shower. I bought a new phone, slipped my SIM card in. James’s latest message popped up: [Night drills tonight, no video call. Talk tomorrow. Be good.] I blinked, my eyes dry and gritty, sitting numbly on the edge of the bed. I simply could not understand. Why? Why would James cheat? And the girl—did she know she was a homewrecker? I opened my social media. Though I didn’t know the spelling of her name, I found her quickly in James’s ‘Following’ list on Instagram. Her profile picture was taken inside James’s barracks room. The perfectly folded blanket in the background was the “hospital corner” fold I’d spent hours teaching him. He’d hugged me then, saying, “Maeve’s folding is the gold standard. I have to keep it like this forever.” Sutton was a travel influencer with a decent following. I scrolled down. The earliest post linked to James was from June. Sutton clinging to a man’s arm, the background the hiking trail near the base. Caption: [First date with my military man! So happy!] That trail. It was the place we walked every time I visited. The place he’d promised: “Maeve, this trail is for us. Every step here will be a memory of you.” In July, Sutton was at the beach with James. It was my birthday that day. James had told me he was out on maneuvers. His actual dynamic was with Sutton, experiencing her “first time scuba diving.” I felt a chill deep in my bones. James’s face wasn’t fully visible in any of her pictures, but I recognized the jagged scar on his forearm—the one he’d gotten shielding me from broken glass when we were teenagers. I opened a private chat and sent Sutton a message. [Hi. Do you know James has a fiancée? Did he lie to you and say he was single?] Less than half an hour later, Sutton posted a new story. The picture was of a cocktail dress, impossibly short. [My battle armor for tonight. Gave someone a sneak peek, and he loved it.] I clenched my jaw, shaking with cold. Just last month, when I came to visit the base, James had gently pushed away my hug. He frowned. “Maeve, you smell like hospital disinfectant.” Sutton replied to my DM. [Maeve Sterling, the doctor. I know who you are.] [Love is a competition. Winner takes all.] [And right now, it looks like you lost.] I laughed—a sharp, mirthless sound. The night before James’s enlistment, he’d met me on the old training field behind the complex. In the moonlight, dressed in a brand-new uniform, he gave me a crisp salute. “Dr. Sterling, I promise you, no matter where I go, you are always my home base.” His eyes had been fierce and bright. “Maeve, I’m coming back, and we’re getting married.” For years, many doubted our long-distance military romance, yet we never broke. When he was on dangerous assignments, I couldn’t ask or guess, just clung to the nightly news updates. From Ensign to Lieutenant, then a Commander in Special Warfare. He’d said: “Once you finish your medical fellowship, you can apply to the Naval Hospital right here on my base.” Only a few months left. Happiness was just a few steps away. Yet today, he let a stranger declare me the loser. Sutton sent another DM. It was a secretly recorded video clip. James, in civvies, looking slightly drunk, his eyes glazed over in the dim bar light. Sutton’s voice, flirtatious: “Jamie, what’s your fiancée like?” The bar music was loud, but it didn’t drown out his reply. “Don’t even bring her up. Every day is the same routine.” “She’s boring.” He looked toward the camera, his gaze holding the familiar tenderness that was once only for me: “So, what are we doing that’s fresh tonight?” The camera shook, followed by the sound of an intimate kiss. The phone screen went dark, reflecting my own pale, horrified face. I scrambled to the bathroom and dry-heaved a few times, then booked a one-way train ticket back home. While packing, a searing pain gripped my lower right abdomen. Sweat beaded on my forehead. Suspecting acute appendicitis, I hailed a cab straight to the Naval Medical Center. It was peak flu season, and the ER was overflowing. I crouched outside the consultation room, too pained to stand upright. At three in the morning, I finally got my ultrasound report. The physician asked, “Acute appendicitis. Needs surgery. Where is your family?” James’s call came in right then. I rejected it. He called back persistently. In the quiet examination room, the distinct ringtone was impossible to ignore. I answered, and his voice was frantic, bordering on hysterical. “A friend sprained her ankle. How do I treat it right now? What’s the emergency protocol?” I heard Sutton’s muffled, low sob on his end. The last flicker of warmth inside me died. I said coldly, my voice flat: “Treat it however you want.” “Maeve Sterling! You’re a medical officer! Listen to yourself! How could you say that?!” James’s angry shout assaulted my ears. I curled into a ball, fighting the excruciating pain. I remembered him saying: “All my first aid knowledge came from you. I’ll only ever use it for you.” James continued, “She’s crying in pain. Just tell me what to do.” My eyes burned with unshed tears. I tilted my head back, forcing the hot liquid to retreat. The military surgeon across from me produced the consent form. “Ma’am, if no next-of-kin can make it, you can sign for yourself.” James was silent for a few seconds. “You… you’re at the hospital?” Without waiting for my answer, he stated confidently, “On a night shift, right? Since you’re not sleeping, is it really that hard to answer me? What kind of petty game are you playing?!” The tears finally broke through, streaming down my face. I laughed softly. “You’re right.” “It’s a petty game.” “James. You and I are finished.” James hung up first. His final sound was a scoff. “Fine, don’t talk. It’s not like I need you.” The dead connection and the relentless rain outside blended into an overwhelming cold. I put the phone down and offered the surgeon a tired apology. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have let you hear that.” My voice was hoarse. “My family won’t make it. I’ll sign for myself.” When I woke up, I was lying alone in the recovery room. The incision throbbed faintly. My phone had several new messages—from my Commanding Officer and my parents. After updating my CO on the surgery, I requested two extra days of leave. Facing my parents, however, was harder. My mother’s voice was anxious. “Didn’t you say you’d be home today?” “What happened?” The true collapse of an adult often means maintaining a façade of normalcy even when your heart is dead. I took a deep breath and said lightly, “The Naval Center had an emergency medical seminar. I decided to stay an extra couple of days to attend.” After repeated reassurances, my mother reluctantly hung up. I was finally drifting off to sleep when a knock came, and the door was pushed open. James walked in. He placed a bouquet of flowers by the bedside and reached out to touch my face. “Maeve, last night you just…” His fingers smelled of rubbing alcohol mixed with a familiar, floral cologne. The same scent. I’d smelled it on Sutton yesterday. I turned my head, pulling away. He lowered his hand. “I didn’t know you were here. I couldn’t reach you, so I called your CO. That’s how I found out you were admitted.” He looked at the back of my head, his tone laced with exasperation. “Do you really have to be like this?” He pulled out a small, velvet box and pushed it into my hand. “Happy New Year. Don’t be angry anymore, okay?” My palm was icy cold. Just five minutes before I was wheeled into surgery, Sutton had posted a story. A pile of gifts surrounded her. She unboxed them one by one: a designer handbag, a new phone, a couple’s resort package… Only the miniature, customized military medal, sitting to the side, prompted her to pout. “Ugh, what’s this? I wanted the real thing.” The person filming laughed indulgently. “Fine, if you don’t want it, I’ll give it to a buddy on the base.” I extended my hand off the bed rail, letting the velvet box drop onto the tiled floor. My throat was dry. “James, we’re done.” “Done?” He shook his head in disbelief, a single, sharp laugh escaping him. “I already submitted the marriage packet. And you’re telling me we’re done?” “Maeve, you’re not a child. Don’t be so unreasonable.” As he spoke, the phone in his pocket vibrated constantly. He pulled it out and quickly texted a reply. The room was too quiet. I saw the look on his face—gentle, patient—and knew exactly who he was texting. I repeated: “We’re done. Withdraw the paperwork.” His face darkened completely. “Stop joking. This isn’t funny.” I braced myself and sat up, handing him the flowers from the nightstand. “Take these, too.” They must have been a last-minute buy from the hospital gift shop. Tucked inside were two tulips, which I’m severely allergic to. James stood motionless, a flash of impatience in his eyes. I looked at him, truly looked, for a long moment. How did the face I’d etched onto my heart suddenly look so alien? “Stop this nonsense,” he said, his voice flat. I let out a low sigh. “James, I saw Sutton.” “If I don’t end this, are you expecting me to allow her to be a side piece for the rest of her life?” He froze.

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My wife, Chloe, was practically vibrating with excitement as she told me. Her mother was gifting an investment property to every son-in-law. “My mom is so generous!” she beamed, her face flushed with pride. But when the meeting was held, three sets of deeds were handed out, and mine was conspicuously absent. I looked at Chloe, but she immediately avoided my gaze. “Mom must have her reasons for this, Alex. Don’t make a scene. We’ll look ridiculous.” I simply nodded. The first thing I did when we got home was cancel my mother-in-law’s reservation for that exclusive, eight-figure treatment slot at the Swiss longevity clinic. 1 The computer screen cast a cold, detached light on my face. With a light click of my finger on the mouse, a dialogue box popped up. “Are you certain you wish to cancel this booking? This is a top-tier, highly limited slot. Once canceled, restoration is not guaranteed.” I clicked confirm. The action was swift, clean, and without a trace of hesitation. A confirmation email from Zurich slid into my inbox, looking less like a receipt and more like a death warrant—only the condemned wasn’t me. I shut the laptop. The world instantly went silent. The liquid magma that had been churning in my chest for hours instantly cooled, solidified, and hardened into black obsidian. I walked into the kitchen, retrieving the broccoli and beef tenderloin I’d bought that afternoon. The water ran, washing the vegetables with mechanical precision. The knife struck the cutting board in a rhythmic thud, thud, thud. Every step was the same as it had been for the last three hundred and sixty-five days. A calculated, domestic routine. It was as if the elaborate, humiliating farce of the afternoon had never happened. The sound of the lock turning signaled Chloe’s return. Her movement as she slipped off her shoes was a beat slower than usual. When she entered the living room, her eyes deliberately skirted past me. She carried a scent of nervous guilt mixed with an eager-to-please desperation. I slid the sliced beef into the hot skillet. The oil spat a little, and the savory aroma instantly filled the air. Chloe hovered at the kitchen doorway, her voice small and careful. “Honey, you didn’t have to cook. What are you making? Smells amazing.” I didn’t turn around. “Just something simple.” My voice was flat, like a stagnant pool that refused to ripple. She awkwardly rubbed her hands together. “It really does smell great.” Dinner was set: two dishes and a soup—all her favorites. She served my plate with an unusually deferential posture. At the dinner table, the only sound was the faint clink of silverware, the silence heavy enough to choke on. Finally, she couldn’t stand it. “Alex, about this afternoon… try not to let it get to you.” I picked up a floret of broccoli and didn’t respond. “My mom, she’s older, a bit forgetful, you know? She just loves the spectacle, making everyone fuss over her.” Her voice sounded so hollow, every word a pathetic excuse for her own cowardice. “She didn’t mean anything by it, so please don’t hold it against her.” “Later, I promise, I’ll make it up to you.” Make it up? With what? Her meager bank salary? Her cheap, shaky affection? I finally swallowed the bite of food in my mouth and looked up at her. “Got it.” Just two words, but they were an ice wall, stopping every other feeble word she had planned. She stared at me, visibly startled, as if she expected hysterics, or at least a tearful interrogation. This cold, terrifying calm was new. Just then, my phone blared, shattering the peace. The name “Mom” flashed on the screen, a cruel irony. I let it ring, the sound echoing through the dining room again and again. Chloe’s face was tightening with panic. She urged, “Alex, pick up! It has to be Mom.” I slowly and methodically set down my fork and wiped my mouth with my napkin. Then, right in front of her, I answered the call. Patricia’s sharp, abrasive voice immediately spewed from the speaker. “Alex! What the hell is this! You think you can give me attitude? Who do you think you are, putting on a show for everyone! You ungrateful snake!” I remained silent, listening. My lack of response seemed to fuel her, and she ramped up the abuse. “I know you’re mad about the properties. But what right do you have to be? What have you ever done for this family? You’re a liability, a kept man who—” I didn’t let her finish. I ended the call. Immediately after, I went to her contact, selected it, and dragged it to the blocked list. The entire action was smooth and deliberate. Chloe’s eyes were wide and fixed on my screen. She jolted up, the chair scraping the floor with a harsh noise. “Alex! What are you doing! That’s my mother!” It was the first time she had ever shouted at me like this. Her face was bright red with agitation. “How could you hang up on my mom and block her number? That is so disrespectful to your elders!” I looked at her face, slightly contorted by anger, with cold indifference. “Disrespect?” I let the word hang in the air, the tail end dripping with scorn. “When everyone in your family gets a gift except me, is that respect?” “When your mother publicly humiliates me, and you don’t dare to utter a single defense, were you respecting me then?” The barrage of rhetorical questions was a series of pointed knives, slicing through her mask of feigned innocence. Chloe’s face turned instantly white. She opened her mouth, her throat working, but no words came out. After a few excruciating seconds, she finally found her voice, but her bravado had completely evaporated. “But… but that’s different. She’s my mother, she’s older… We’re family, you shouldn’t keep score…” There it was again. The same tired excuse. This woman would never learn to take responsibility, always hiding her cowardice and selfishness behind the cheap shield of “family.” I didn’t want to waste another second. I walked into my study, pulled a document from the drawer of my safe, and slammed it down onto the dining table in front of her. “Chloe, open your eyes and look closely.” She looked down and saw the bold title: PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT AND ASSET DISCLOSURE. My voice was icy, devoid of all emotion. “We’ve been married five years. The funds and stock options in my name have appreciated by seven figures. That’s a number your yearly salary wouldn’t reach if you worked for a hundred years without spending a dime.” “Your first startup failed, sinking two hundred thousand dollars. I was the one who filled that hole.” “Your father’s heart bypass last year. The best imported stent, three hundred grand. I pulled the strings to get the surgeon, and I paid the bill.” “Your mother complained about her back last year. I bought her that bespoke, German-engineered stress-relief chair. Ten thousand dollars.” “Everything in this house, everything in your lives, has been supported by my effort and my capital. Your mother says I haven’t contributed? What was all of that? Feed for the damn dogs?” Chloe’s face went from chalk-white to a sickly grey. She stared at the document, then at me, her lips trembling, as if she were seeing me for the very first time. Watching her pathetic reaction, the last flicker of warmth in my heart died out. “Chloe, I paid for you and your family because I thought you were my wife and they were my in-laws.” “Now I understand. I was never family to you. I was just an outsider, someone you could all casually humiliate and exploit.” “The game is over.” 2 First thing the next morning, my older sister-in-law, Stella, called. Her tone was hostile and commanding. “Alex, you and Chloe need to get back to the main house immediately. Mom has something to say.” She hung up without even bothering to say “brother-in-law.” I looked at the dead phone screen and a cold smile touched my lips. The family inquest had begun swiftly. Chloe was a nervous wreck beside me, her face profoundly distressed. “Alex, maybe… maybe we should just go? Mom is definitely still furious. If we just apologize, say a few sweet things, this will all blow over.” I glanced at her, said nothing, and walked into the bedroom to change. She interpreted my action as a surrender and a look of relief washed over her face as she followed me. “That’s right. Family doesn’t hold grudges. I promise, I’ll speak up for you this time.” I selected a black collared shirt—simple, but making my whole demeanor sharper, colder. The man in the mirror had eyes as keen as a knife edge. Chloe looked at me, momentarily stunned. “Alex, why… why are you dressing so formally?” I turned to face her. “I’m going to a funeral. I should be appropriately dressed.” Chloe’s face instantly crumbled. At the main house, a heavy, suffocating atmosphere hit us the moment we opened the door. The living room couch was fully occupied. My mother-in-law, Patricia, sat in the center seat, her face so dark it looked like it might drip acid. Stella and her husband, Marcus, were on one side. My younger sister-in-law, Jenna, and her husband, Scott, were on the other. The setup for the three-way inquisition was clear. As we walked in, all eyes focused on me like floodlights. Marcus spoke first, his tone oily and mocking. “Well, well, the second son-in-law decided to grace us with his presence. So busy, aren’t you? Not like us. Mom says jump, we jump.” He subtly flashed the new wristwatch on his wrist, the smugness radiating off him. Patricia had bought him the watch yesterday with some of the money from the property sale, a reward for his eager flattery. I ignored him, walking directly to the single armchair and sitting down with casual confidence. Chloe followed, looking like a scolded child, standing awkwardly beside me, afraid to sit. Patricia gave a heavy grunt and slammed her teacup down on the table, the noise jarring. “Alex Philips, you finally decided to show your face! Do you have any respect left for me!” She finally launched her attack, her voice shrill and piercing. “I called you yesterday, and you dared to hang up on me and block me! Who do you think you are! That is utterly tasteless!” I watched her performance quietly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on my lips. My serenity seemed to enrage her further. “Don’t think I don’t know what this is about! The properties! Well, let me tell you, those properties are for the contributors!” She pointed at Marcus, raising her voice. “Your older brother-in-law, he’s sweet, he talks nicely, he keeps me happy every day!” Then she pointed at Scott. “Your younger brother-in-law, he has a good, stable job, earns well. We’ll rely on him in our old age!” Finally, her finger almost jabbed my face. “And you? What have you done, Alex? Five years of marriage, you quit your job, you sit at home and do nothing! What is your contribution? Why do you deserve a property?” Her words were cruel nails, driven one by one into the heart. I felt Chloe stiffen beside me. She was desperately making silent gestures at me, her lips mouthing, “Apologize, just apologize.” I did not comply. I actually laughed out loud. My laughter was soft, yet it cut through the dead silence of the living room with chilling clarity. Everyone froze, confused as to why I was even capable of amusement. Patricia’s face was dark with fury. “What is so funny!” I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and opened my photo gallery. Then, I stood up and walked step-by-step toward her. My voice was low, but clear enough for every person in the room to hear. “Patty, you asked what my contribution is? Allow me to remind you.” “Last March, when you complained about your back, I pulled strings to get you that bespoke, German-engineered stress-relief chair from Linden & Haas. Cost: ten thousand eighty-six dollars.” The screen showed a clear receipt. “Two years ago, for Richard’s seventieth birthday, you insisted on the best hotel in the city. Twenty tables. The bill was eighty-six thousand, and I paid it.” Another bill screenshot. “Three years ago, Chloe had that fleeting idea to start a company. She was scammed, lost everything, and racked up debt. I pulled out half a million dollars of my own capital to pay off her creditors and keep the bank from seizing our home.” I paused, letting my gaze drift over Chloe’s pale, stricken face. “Four years ago, Marcus’s brother needed money for a down payment. You told Chloe to get it. She didn’t have it, so she took fifty thousand dollars from me. Marcus, you remember that, don’t you?” Marcus’s face instantly paled, his eyes flickering away from mine. My gaze returned to Patricia. Her expression had moved from rage to shock, and finally to an undisguised, sickened pallor. I leaned in slightly, speaking close to her ear, in a voice only we could hear: “Oh, and one more thing. That three hundred thousand dollar imported stent currently keeping your heart beating? If I hadn’t pulled strings to move your surgery date up from a year out to the following week, you wouldn’t be sitting here yelling at me right now.” Patricia’s body spasmed, her pupils violently contracting. I straightened up, put my phone away, and let the smile drop, replaced by an expression of cold resolution. “Patty, does that count as contribution?” The living room fell into a deathly silence. The tension was suffocating. Every face was a mask of disbelief and shock. They were so accustomed to my gentle nature and my compliance that they forgot even a rabbit would bite if cornered. Patricia’s lips were quivering. She tried to speak, but no sound came out. I didn’t want to look at their faces anymore. “Since none of you can see my contribution, I’m done making them.” “I’m tired of catering to this family. I’m out.” “Good day.” With that, I turned and walked out. The sound of my shoes striking the hardwood floor was sharp, like a march of triumph. Chloe finally reacted, scrambling to grab my arm. “Alex, Alex, don’t go! Let’s talk about this!” I shook her hand off without looking back. “Let go.” The word was quiet, but it carried an undeniable, forceful authority. She froze in place. I opened the door. The sun outside was blinding, but it tasted like a freedom I hadn’t known existed. Behind me, the Smith house was steeped in silent, shocked inertia, with Patricia’s face turning from pale to blue. 3 I half-expected Patricia to have a stroke and be hospitalized immediately. But she didn’t. Perhaps the mention of the heart stent had truly unnerved her. She simply felt dizzy, took a couple of her nitroglycerin pills, and dismissed it. In her mind, my rebellion was just a childish tantrum. If they just ignored me for a few days, and Chloe cooed at me a little, I would crawl back and apologize. She was waiting for me to come back and beg for her forgiveness. The next week passed in a tense, cold quiet. Chloe tiptoed around me every day, taking over the cooking, the laundry, and the cleaning. But I remained aloof, exchanging less than ten sentences with her all week. Our house had become an icebox. Until Friday night, when Patricia called Chloe’s mobile again. I was reading in the living room, close enough to hear Patricia’s imperious commands clearly. “Chloe, ask Alex what the status is on that Swiss treatment. It’s been over a week. Why hasn’t anyone from the clinic contacted us? Tell him to hurry up, don’t drag his feet!” Chloe held the phone, her face pale, a fine sheen of cold sweat on her forehead. She stammered an answer: “Mom… Mom, I know, I’ll… I’ll ask him in a minute.” When she hung up, she slumped onto the sofa, looking like a dog whose spirit had been broken. She didn’t move for a long time. I turned a page in my book, not lifting my head. Finally, she shuffled over to me, her voice close to tears. “Honey… about Mom’s clinic slot…” I looked up, as if I had just heard her. My expression was perfectly neutral. “Oh, that.” “I canceled it.” The four words detonated like a bomb in Chloe’s ear. She sprang up from the sofa, her eyes wide as saucers, her face a picture of absolute disbelief. “C-canceled it? Why? Alex, are you out of your mind!” She rushed toward me, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me violently.

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My mother is the housekeeper for the Sterling family. I moved into their estate when I was twelve. At eighteen, Mrs. Sterling, the lady of the house, said to me: “Boys get restless at this age. I don’t trust the girls out there. Keep Chase company for me.” She said if I could keep Chase from running wild during his four years of college, she would send me abroad and give me ten million dollars as startup capital. I dutifully wrote it down in my notebook: Mrs. Sterling is a good person. Not only does she let me sleep with her son, but she also pays me for it. 1 I came to the Sterling estate when I was twelve. It had been raining in the mountains for days. The tractor wheels were caked in mud, flinging it onto me every few bumps. I sat in the back wearing a plastic raincoat, clutching several large woven bags filled with everything I could take from home. The most important thing was my grandmother’s photo. I held it tight inside my raincoat, hugging it just like Grandma used to hug me. A neighbor from the village escorted me—trains, planes, and finally a taxi to the Sterling estate. Looking at the towering iron gates and the magnificent mansion behind them, my neighbor scratched his head. “This house is scary big. You knock yourself. Tell your mom I got you here safe.” My mom had paid him, so he had to make sure the job was done. I nodded and banged heavily on the iron gate. An impatient voice crackled from the intercom: “What are you banging for? Can’t you see the doorbell?” I looked at the button on the wall. Sorry, this country bumpkin really didn’t know. But the person was surprisingly nice; despite the gruff voice, the gate buzzed open a second later. Smack. My jaw dropped, and the photo of Grandma slipped from my arms onto the wet ground. Dear God, no one told me city boys looked this good! He was taller than me, paler than me, even his lips were redder than mine. Nothing like the dirty potatoes running around in the mud back home! Chase Sterling looked me up and down with disgust, from my messy hair to my mud-splattered pants. “Auntie Laura is so clean. You’re her daughter, how are you so slopp…” But he stopped mid-sentence when he saw my grandma on the ground. In the large black-and-white photo, my grandma was smiling kindly. For some reason, he started stuttering. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know. My mom took Auntie Laura out for a few days. Come in first. It’s raining, you shouldn’t let your… elder’s photo get wet.” I picked up Grandma and waved to my neighbor. “Uncle, I’m going in. Safe trip back!” Inside, Chase led me to a room that was spacious and beautiful. I couldn’t help it—I burst into tears. Chase panicked. “Hey, don’t cry! I haven’t even bullied you yet, why are you crying?” I pointed at the photo, sobbing harder. “My grandma’s gone. She never lived in a house this nice. I miss her.” “I-I’ll find a good spot for your grandma too.” He bustled around, wiping the photo clean, respectfully hanging it on the wall, and even lighting a nice-smelling candle in front of it. “Sorry, we don’t have incense or anything. This is my mom’s scented candle, it’ll have to do. I’ll have someone buy the real stuff tomorrow.” The candle smelled amazing. I giggled through my tears. “No need, no need. Grandma loves things that smell good.” Chase sighed in relief. “Don’t be too sad, or your grandma won’t be at peace.” I nodded. “Young Master, you’re so good. Good-looking and good-hearted.” He blushed, then turned green. “Don’t call me Young Master. This isn’t the feudal era.” I pointed at Grandma. “She said so. She said my mom serves a Young Master in a rich family to raise me, and I have to be polite.” Thinking about how Grandma would smack me for being rude, my eyes reddened again. “Was she lying? Isn’t my mom a maid?” Chase got anxious. “How can Auntie Laura be just a maid? She raised me. She’s like half a mom to me. By rights, you should call me Brother. Understand?” 2 Two twelve-year-olds. He dared to say it, and I dared to listen. I started chirping “Brother” behind him like a little chick. When my mom came back, she grabbed the feather duster from the living room and chased me upstairs. “Who told you to bring that photo? And you hung it on the wall! I’ll beat you until you’re hanging on the wall!” I cried as I ran. “Grandma said she was afraid I’d forget her and made me bring it! It’s the biggest, clearest photo we have! And I didn’t hang it, Brother did! Hit him!” Chase had been trying to stop her, but he froze. My mom glanced at Chase, dropping the duster. “No manners. Don’t call the Young Master ‘Brother.’ Call him Chase.” Once my mom left, we pointed at each other simultaneously: “You said you weren’t a Young Master?” “Your grandma isn’t dead? Why did you cry like that?” I scratched my head. “Can’t I be homesick? You have good things, don’t you think of your mom and grandma?” He rubbed his nose. “Anyway, don’t call me Young Master. If you do, I’ll ignore you.” Later I learned Mrs. Sterling was a very traditional lady from an old-money family. I was the first outsider in the house who actually didn’t call Chase “Young Master.” I also learned my mom had raised Chase since he was a baby. In his heart, she really was half a mother. He was petty; he was jealous. He was afraid that with me here, my mom wouldn’t dote on him anymore. But the moment we met, he thought my grandma was dead. His desire to bully me died right there. And when I sweetly called him “Brother,” could he really be mean? He couldn’t. So at twelve, when Mrs. Sterling reminded my mom I should address him properly, my mom said righteously, “Ma’am, I work for you, but my daughter doesn’t.” Chase and I gave my mom a thumbs up behind her back. At thirteen, he shoved two latest-model iPhones into my hands, telling me to teach Grandma how to video call when I went back for New Year’s so I wouldn’t howl like a wolf every time I missed her. At fourteen, Grandma sent a live goose. I wanted to keep it. With his voice cracking from puberty, Chase told Mrs. Sterling he wanted to get in touch with nature. Every morning, it was hard to tell if the honking was the goose or him talking. But at eighteen, I started to get unhappy. 3 Chase was handsome and well-mannered. In high school, amidst a sea of boys who thought swearing was a personality trait and freaked out over tampon wrappers, he was a clean, refreshing miracle. I had been tagging along calling him “Brother” for four years. The whole school thought I was his cousin living with his family. Girls who liked him came to me to curry favor, asking me to slip him love letters. Receiving the first one, I knew I was in trouble. My heart felt like it was being scratched by a hundred claws. I tossed and turned in bed all night. In the dead of night, with dark circles under my eyes, I stood by his bed and asked, “Chase, tell me, do you want to date early?” Bad news: Chase swore. “F*ck, Harper, are you crazy? Cosplaying a ghost at 2 AM?” Good news: Chase didn’t want to date. He squinted, looking at me seriously. “Dating affects studies. Harper, Auntie Laura brought you here to study. If you dare date before eighteen, I’ll break your legs.” Hehe, as long as you don’t, I won’t. I’m not stupid. I read enough YA novels to know that everyone loves the moon high above. And Chase was my moon. I didn’t want him shining on anyone else. So I spread the word around school: Chase Sterling doesn’t date in high school. Chase Sterling hates people who don’t focus on their studies. That month, even the girls at the bottom of the class started grinding. But three years of high school went by so fast. In the blink of an eye, we graduated. 4 Holding a score almost identical to Chase’s, I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t a twelve-year-old brat anymore. I knew Chase and I were impossible. If I followed him to college for another four years, would I never be able to get over him? Chase didn’t care about that. He looked satisfied. “Didn’t waste all those tutoring sessions. Tell me, which of these two universities do you want to apply to?” He was always like this. Asking my opinion first, then telling his mom it was his idea. I replied sullenly, “I don’t know. I’ll ask Coco.” Coco Chen was my best friend, the kind you go to the bathroom with holding hands. Throughout high school, she was the only one who, thanks to me, got to eat lunch with Chase. But that night, I saw Coco’s photo in the study. Mrs. Sterling looked solemn. “Chase is growing up. Yesterday, the maid found him washing his sheets in the bathroom. I knew trouble was coming.” I thought for a moment. “Auntie, biology class says that’s called a wet dream. Chase is eighteen. If he didn’t have them, you should take him to a doctor.” Mrs. Sterling looked at me. Mrs. Sterling was helpless. Mrs. Sterling decided to pretend she didn’t hear that. She tapped Coco’s photo. “It’s normal for boys to be restless at this age. But this girl won’t do. She’s pretty, has a sick grandmother, an abusive father, and a missing mother. She’s prime material for a tragic first love. Our Chase can’t get involved with a girl like that. I’m afraid he won’t be able to forget her.” Hah, even high-society ladies read romance novels tropes. Just as I opened my mouth to explain, Mrs. Sterling took my hand. “But you’re different. I know you’re like your mother, a decent, grounded person. Here’s the deal: if Chase has needs, you be proactive. If you can keep him steady for four years of college, when you graduate, I’ll send you abroad and give you ten million dollars. Didn’t you want to make money? Perfect for a startup.” I understood. The lady wanted a live-in concubine for Chase. Hah, am I the kind of person who sells herself for money? But that’s Chase’s virginity. Hah, wouldn’t my mom beat me to death if she knew? But that’s Chase’s virginity. Who cares who his future wife is? Whoever eats first wins. It’s a waste not to. I apologized to Coco a thousand times in my heart and said righteously, “Auntie, I understand. Coco Chen is definitely not suitable. For that ten million, I will work hard.”

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I was four months pregnant when my OB-GYN husband, Alex, accompanied me to pick up the prenatal screening report. The smile on his face froze the instant he saw the results. Without a word of explanation, he dragged me toward the appointment desk to schedule an abortion. I stood there, stunned. The attending doctor had just told us the fetus was perfectly healthy! I wrenched my hand free and demanded, “Why? Why do I need an abortion?” He didn’t answer. He had already booked the D&C procedure on his phone. Seeing I was about to run, he gripped my arm tight enough to bruise. “This child absolutely cannot be born!” Protecting my belly, I frantically dialed my parents, who were also prominent OB-GYNs. When they arrived, my father—who had always doted on me—raised his fist as if to punch me right in the stomach. My mother looked horrified, shaking her head frantically. “No, we can’t do it like this.” “Find a few men. Lock them in a room with Sarah.” I didn’t understand why they wanted to dispose of my child—and me—in such a brutal way. I tried to flee. But they overpowered me and threw me into a dark basement room. When I saw the blood running down my legs, I knew my baby was gone. My mother came to pick me up, smiling as if nothing had happened. I screamed at her, begging to know why they did this to me. She didn’t answer. She turned around and had me committed to a psychiatric ward. I was tortured to death in that hospital. But when I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day we went to pick up the report. … 1 “Honey, this is our first baby. I can’t wait to meet him.” Alex looked at me, his face beaming with joy. “Come on, let’s go. The clinic gets busy.” Hearing Alex’s voice, I snapped back to reality. My hand instinctively went to my slightly protruding lower abdomen. I was pregnant. I was back. In my previous life, Alex had been the perfect expectant father. He bought something new for the nursery every day and had a list of a hundred names. Since he worked at the hospital where I was getting my care, he always made time to be there. At four months, we went for the standard genetic screening. The doctor told us the fetus was healthy and ruled out Down syndrome. Alex, being a doctor himself, took a look at the detailed report. That was when his smile vanished, replaced by a look of pure terror. Without explaining, he grabbed my wrist and tried to force me into surgery. “Alex, the baby is fine! Why are you doing this?” I had screamed, pulling away. He ignored me, his breathing jagged, eyes bloodshot. “Sarah, this child cannot exist!” Terrified, I had messaged my parents. When they arrived, instead of saving me, they made it worse. My father punched Alex in the face, demanding to know why he wanted to terminate a healthy pregnancy. Alex didn’t speak. He just handed the report to my father. The moment my father saw it, his anger turned into horror. His hands shook as he held the paper. 2 My father raised his fist, aiming directly at my pregnant belly. My mother threw herself in front of me, taking the blow. “Are you crazy?” she screamed. “That’s your grandchild in there!” Father let out a cold laugh and shoved the report into Mother’s hands. My mother, who had just been protecting me, looked at the paper and turned pale as a ghost. She shoved me away from her like I was contagious, shaking her head violently. “No… no, this can’t happen.” I realized the problem was in that report. “Mom, what is it? What’s wrong with my baby?” She ignored me. She grabbed my father’s arm. “We can’t do it here. It’s too public. I have an idea.” “Get some men. Put them in a room with Sarah.” I stood frozen, a chill running down my spine. Why did that piece of paper turn my loving family into monsters? I tried to run, but my father caught me. They gagged me, threw me into a van, and locked me in a windowless room with five naked men. I banged on the door until my hands bled. No one came. The men dragged me to the floor. When I fought, they beat me. My child became nothing more than a pool of dried blood on the concrete floor. A week later, my parents and Alex came to get me. “Let’s go home, Sarah,” my mother said, smiling sweetly. 3 “Why?” I had screamed at her, hysterical. “Why did you do this to me?” My mother’s smile vanished. My father slapped me across the face. “Ungrateful slut!” Then, my mother looked at me with cold, dead eyes. “Sarah is confused. Take her to the asylum.” Inside the institution, Alex paid the orderlies to make my life hell. The husband who once adored me wanted me dead. Three months later, I died in agony. And I still didn’t know why. Now, standing in the hospital lobby, the old fear washed over me. I took a deep breath, hand on my belly. This time, I had to find out the truth. I made sure to grab the report first. Even after the attending physician said everything was fine, I held onto the folder tight. As long as Alex didn’t see it, I thought I’d be safe. But as we walked out, Alex held out his hand. “Let me see the report, babe.” My heart skipped a beat. I forced a smile. “Why? You heard the doctor. We’re both healthy.” “I’m the father, and I’m a doctor,” he laughed. “It’s normal for me to want to see the details.” “I trust your colleague,” I said, tucking the report into my purse. “I’m not showing you today. Keep the mystery alive.” Alex thought I was just being playful. “Okay, fine. As long as you feel good.” “I need to use the restroom,” I said, clutching my bag. “Then we can go home.” I rushed to the bathroom. I needed to read every line of that document in private. I had glanced at it earlier, but I hadn’t seen anything obvious. But when I opened my bag in the stall, my heart stopped. The report was gone. 4 I panicked and ran out of the bathroom. Down the hall, I saw Alex. His face was ash white. He was holding the report. He saw me. He started walking toward me, fast. I tried to turn and run, but he caught my arm. His grip was iron. “Sarah,” he hissed, eyes bloodshot. “This child cannot stay. We are doing the surgery. Now.” It was happening again. The transformation from loving husband to executioner. But this time, I wasn’t going to be dragged away quietly. “Help!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “He’s trying to kill my baby!” The hallway was crowded. Immediately, people turned to look. Alex gritted his teeth. “Shut up, bitch!” I dropped to my knees, clinging to his leg, making a scene. “Alex, the doctor said the baby is healthy! Why are you forcing me to get an abortion?” A large man stepped in, shoving Alex back. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?” “My god,” a woman gasped. “The baby is healthy and he wants to terminate it? Does he not want to pay child support?” “Forcing a woman to abort is illegal! Someone call the police!” Alex was hyperventilating. He looked at me with pure hatred, but surrounded by a hostile crowd, he couldn’t drag me away. Then, he smiled. A twisted, cruel smile. He pulled out his phone and called my parents. When they arrived, they saw us surrounded. My mother rushed to hug me, acting the concerned grandmother. The crowd explained what happened. My father, furious, raised his hand to slap Alex. But before the blow landed, Alex held up the report. “Dad, don’t look!” I lunged forward. Too late. My father snatched the paper. I saw his eyes widen. The pupils trembled. “Dad?” I whispered. He looked at me. His eyes were red with rage. He slapped me across the face so hard I tasted blood.

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