Category: English

I’ve been divorced nine times, and I’ve used the same lawyer for every single settlement. So, when I walked in for my tenth divorce, the stoic man of law finally cracked. “You’ve had a busy year, haven’t you?” I arched an eyebrow and smiled. “Isn’t this the career path you opened up for me?” He let out a sharp sigh and tossed the divorce papers onto the desk in front of me. “I’m your first ex-husband, Mila, not your personal divorce attorney. Stop coming to me for this.” Later, when all nine of my other ex-husbands showed up trying to win me back, he was the one who blocked their path, grabbed my hand through gritted teeth, and declared, “That’s it. We’re going to Vegas. The kind of married you can’t get out of.” I pulled my hand away and echoed the same cold tone he’d used on me years ago. “Sorry. You were just a substitute.” 1 I strolled into the law firm, designer bag swinging from my arm, and placed the necessary documents on the polished mahogany desk. “Mr. Watson, darling. I need you to draft a divorce agreement for me.” The man, previously engrossed in a file, looked up. The eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses narrowed almost imperceptibly. He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Hah.” I met his gaze, a playful smile on my lips. “Is that how you treat your clients now, Julian? Should I file a complaint?” Julian glanced at me, his expression an unreadable mask. I tapped my nails impatiently on the desk, and he finally fixed me with a look of pure exasperation. “This firm has plenty of excellent attorneys who specialize in family law. You don’t have to come to me every single time.” “But I only trust you,” I said, my expression one of utmost sincerity. He was the first to break. “IDs, marriage certificate. Any children? Division of assets?” I calmly pulled up a chair. “No kids, no marital assets. I’m the at-fault party. I’ll walk away with nothing.” The rhythmic clacking of his keyboard stopped. Julian took a deep, controlled breath, clearly reining in his temper. “This is the tenth time, Mila. What the hell are you playing at? Ten divorces in one year. Every time, you’re the one ‘at fault.’ Every time, it’s right after the one-month cooling-off period. Is marriage just a game to you?” I looked at him, my face a picture of innocence. “Have I broken any laws?” “…No.” “Well, there you go. Consenting adults can get married and divorced as they please. It’s my right. What does it have to do with you?” Julian’s jaw tightened. “It has nothing to do with me. Except for the fact that I’m one of your ex-husbands. Don’t you think it’s a little inappropriate to keep coming to me?” 2 “Inappropriate? But didn’t you teach me this was how it’s done?” I asked, tilting my head with a saccharine smile. He ignored me, slapping the freshly printed divorce agreement down on the desk. “I hope this is the last time.” “I’ll take that as a blessing.” I scooped up the papers and headed out. Leaning against a sports car parked outside was a young man in a baggy baseball jacket and a cap pulled low. He watched me approach with a lazy, roguish grin. This was my current husband, Leo Sterling, the rebellious younger son of the Sterling empire. A notorious playboy who valued his freedom above all else. And, very soon, my ex-husband. “All settled?” he asked. I waved the papers. “Done. Take a look, make sure it’s all good. If so, our marriage is officially over.” He took the agreement, his eyes scanning the text. “Huh. I thought you’d try to find some excuse not to sign, like all the other girls who tried to trap me. No demand for a payout?” I gave him my best professional smile. “Please don’t insult my work ethic. This is part of the service. You can still contact me during the cooling-off period if needed.” Leo pouted, a flicker of genuine disappointment in his eyes. “Right. Well, thanks for this. If it weren’t for you, my family would be forcing me down the aisle with some heiress I can’t stand.” I patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep our divorce quiet for now. How long we can keep up the charade is up to you.” That’s right. I’m a professional wife. My clients are almost exclusively from the upper echelon: single, wealthy, handsome men who, for one reason or another, need a wife but don’t want a real marriage. Some are fending off pressure from their families; others are high-powered executives who need a spouse for corporate events but fear a messy attachment. That’s where I come in. I play the part of the perfect, flawless wife. We sign a detailed prenuptial agreement. When my services are no longer needed, we divorce, and they pay me a very generous fee. It’s purely transactional. No messy feelings involved. I was about to bid farewell to my latest client when a sleek limousine pulled up to the curb. 3 A stunningly beautiful woman with delicate features stepped out. She froze for a second when she saw me, because we were dressed almost identically: a soft pink knit dress paired with a light mocha-colored cardigan. The trendy, gentle “cool stepmom” look. The only difference was that her outfit was a limited-edition designer original, and mine was a high-end replica. She shot me a glance, a smirk of pure disdain playing on her lips. I knew her. Isabelle Croft. Hollywood’s new “it girl,” fresh off her win for Best Actress at the Crystal Spire Awards. A bona fide superstar. A moment later, a tall, impeccably dressed man emerged from the law firm. It was Julian. Isabelle’s face lit up as she rushed to his side, linking her arm through his. “I’ve been waiting forever. You didn’t answer my texts, so I just came to find you. You’re not mad, are you?” A rare, faint smile touched Julian’s usually cold face. “Let’s go. I just finished up. What are you in the mood for tonight?” Isabelle didn’t answer. Instead, her eyes drifted back to me, a sly smile on her face. “Your ex-wife was pestering you again, wasn’t she? I wondered why you weren’t responding.” Her voice was just loud enough for the four of us to hear. It wasn’t surprising that Isabelle and I knew each other. We went to the same acting conservatory. Her career skyrocketed from day one. And me? With my uncanny resemblance to her, I became her official body double after she hit it big. Yep. I was the one who took on all the scenes she deemed beneath her. Even my bizarre, short-lived marriage to Julian was her doing. She was the goddess, the one that got away. I was just the stand-in. Julian and Isabelle’s college romance was the stuff of campus legend. But after she became a star, she dumped him, fearing he would tarnish her image. In a fit of rage and heartbreak, Julian found me—the budget version of Isabelle—and married me. I was clueless for the longest time. It was only after a drama-filled saga worthy of a 50-episode TV show that they finally reconciled their misunderstandings and got back together. Julian generously gave me half of his assets and kicked me, the budget wife, to the curb so he could be with the premium model. That whole sordid affair was a revelation. It hit me: if being a substitute wife was this lucrative, why stop at one? Ten would be even better. It was a clear path to financial freedom, and it paid a hell of a lot more than being a body double. Julian’s gaze flickered from me to Leo, his voice laced with ice. “She was here to file for another divorce.” “Another one?” Isabelle looked me up and down with contempt, then sized up Leo. “Tsk, tsk. Looks like your standards have slipped. You’ll take any street punk you can find now. First, you were my stand-in to marry Julian, and now you’ve found a new way to grift, have you?” I snapped my fingers and grinned shamelessly. “You’re right. I can’t compete with your market value. My ex is just a plain, unassuming trust-fund kid.” My eyes darted to the man beside me. The “plain, unassuming trust-fund kid” in question, Leo, raised an eyebrow in mock confusion. Then he whipped off his baseball cap, revealing a face handsome enough to grace magazine covers, and slung an arm around my shoulders. “She’s right. I’m just a regular guy with a few billion to my name. Nothing special.” He winked at me. “By the way, ex-wife, what are you planning to do with the fifty million I’m giving you in the settlement?” 4 I had to physically restrain myself from applauding. The man was a genius. Isabelle, for all her fame, had only been a big name for a few years. She came from a modest background and had clawed her way to the top. Just last week, she’d boasted to the media that she didn’t need to marry into wealth because she was the wealth. A bold claim from someone whose net worth probably hadn’t even hit nine figures yet. I knew Leo was backing me up, so I played along. “First, I’ll buy a yacht. Then a private estate. Then maybe I’ll acquire a production company and hire a certain A-list actress to be my body double.” Leo nodded thoughtfully. “Good. You’re thinking about your career, not just squandering it. My guidance is clearly paying off.” Predictably, the smile on Isabelle’s face froze. Her eyes flickered towards Leo, as if she was suddenly trying to place him. She was an actress, after all, and she recovered quickly. Her expression shifted from aggressive to one of gentle, pitying concern as she addressed him. “You probably don’t know this, handsome, but that’s just how Mila is. Money means more to her than anything. You should be careful. Don’t let her fool you.” She then delicately tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and tightened her grip on Julian’s arm. “Darling, we’re going to be late for our reservation. Let’s not let irrelevant people ruin our evening.” Before leaving, she even had the audacity to ask Leo for his number. Right in front of Julian. I watched with a smirk. Leo just shook his head. “Sorry, I’m a married man. We’re in our cooling-off period, but I can’t be unfaithful to my wife. I must politely decline all advances from beautiful temptresses.” Isabelle’s face turned a shade of puce as she stalked off. Julian’s expression wasn’t much better. He shot me a final, complicated look before they sped away in their luxury car. Perfect. Our little performance had clearly gotten under their skin. As the car disappeared, I turned to Leo and held out my hand. “So, ex-hubby. About that fifty million…” He gave me a high-five. “Are you kidding? I don’t have fifty million. What about the two million we agreed on for my fee? Can I pay you in installments?” Great. I’d met someone who was an even bigger bullshitter than me. “No way. No delays, not one penny less. If you’re short, I’ll show up at your family’s estate and make a scene.” He was even more shameless than I was. “Or… we could make this marriage real. Then all my money would be your money. What do you say?” In his dreams. I was a career woman, and my career was making money. 5 After parting ways with Leo, I went straight to the bank. Sure enough, a short while later, two million dollars appeared in my account. I took a deep breath and checked the balance. Excellent. My first major financial goal was within reach. Soon, my phone rang again. The caller ID read: ‘Ex-Husband #9.’ “Hello, Ms. Thorne? There’s a family gathering this Saturday at 8 p.m. that requires your attendance. The usual fee will be deposited into your account.” Ex-Husband #9 was a top-tier surgeon named Dr. Aris Thorne, age 32. Consumed by his work, he had no time or interest in dating. Like my other clients, he was using me to fend off relentless pressure from his family to get married. We had finalized our divorce last month, but our contract stipulated that for six months post-divorce, I was still obligated to play the part of his wife as needed. Business was booming. I pushed all thoughts of Julian and Isabelle out of my mind. No man, no matter how infuriating, was going to get in the way of me making money. My one and only focus was the hustle. 6 On Saturday evening, I dressed in a very domestic, yet subtly expensive, outfit. A certain level of investment in my appearance was necessary; I couldn’t embarrass my clients. Aris was a busy man with a touch of social anxiety, a love for quiet, and a severe case of germaphobia. So, I took a cab to the address he provided. He was waiting outside, dressed in a casual white jacket. At 6’2”, he was tall and lean, his hair impeccably styled. His handsome face had a cool, distant air. As I got closer, I caught the faint, sterile scent of antiseptic. I glanced down at my own outfit. Good. Also white. For a true germaphobe, any color other than white was just a different shade of dirty. He gave me a slight nod and, like a gentleman, offered his arm. I saw the pristine white gloves on his hands and chuckled nervously. I didn’t dare place my bare hand on him. I slipped on the pair of lace gloves I’d brought for this exact purpose before taking his arm. The slight frown on his face instantly relaxed. I followed him into a grand European-style villa in an opulent neighborhood. He’d called it a “family gathering,” but there were at least thirty or forty people already seated. How awkward. We were the last to arrive, putting us right in the spotlight for public scrutiny. As soon as we sat down, a wealthy-looking woman next to Aris’s mother began her attack. “Well, look who finally decided to show up. We never see you at our get-togethers. I hear you’re a housewife? What do you do all day?” What do I do? I count money, lady. My time is billable by the second. Aris frowned, glaring at the woman. I kept my composure and replied softly, “Aris works such long hours. As his wife, it’s my duty to manage our home. But I also focus on my own intellectual pursuits. He calls me a housewife because he worries about me and respects my choices. I’m actually quite independent.” The subtext was clear: Mind your own business. My husband is happy to support me. The woman was effectively silenced. I reached over and placed a hand on Aris’s. “Isn’t that right, darling?” A rare smile touched his lips. “My wife is absolutely correct.” The atmosphere had just settled when a discordant voice cut through the room. “Oh? A housewife? So, you have no other source of income, Ms. Thorne? You just rely on Dr. Thorne to support you? That doesn’t sound very independent to me.” I looked up and, to my astonishment, saw Julian. And next to him was Isabelle. He was in a tailored suit, she in a lavish evening gown. In this so-called “family gathering,” they looked ostentatiously out of place… and frankly, ridiculous. Julian’s gaze on me was colder than ever. I hadn’t expected to see him at Aris’s family event. He wasn’t on the guest list Aris had prepared for me. 7 Aris leaned in and explained. Julian was the high-priced legal counsel for his mother’s company. She had apparently taken a liking to him and invited him personally. In a year and a half of doing this job, this was the first time I’d had two ex-husbands in the same room. But it was fine. I could handle this. So, Julian wanted to humiliate me? Just you wait. I pasted on a smile and instinctively snuggled closer to Aris. “Honey, it sounds like someone is questioning my integrity.” Two could play at the innocent, manipulative game. Aris proved to be an excellent employer. He spoke in a calm, level voice. “Of course, she has other income. But my wife’s personal ventures are just small hobbies. Nothing compared to the businesses you all run. We wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.” Julian scoffed. After taking his seat, he made it clear he wasn’t done with me. “What kind of investments are we talking about? Perhaps I could offer some analysis, Ms. Thorne?” He kept calling me “Ms. Thorne,” making it painfully obvious to everyone that we knew each other. Even Aris noticed. He squeezed my hand, a flicker of concern in his eyes. “You know him?” Know him? He’s ex-husband #1. The man who started it all. “Mr. Watson is a competent lawyer, is he not? I’m sure he has a code of ethics. Since when did you branch out into investment banking?” I stared him down. If he said one more word, I was going to lunge across the table and rip his smug mouth off his face. He fell silent. But Isabelle, who had been quiet until now, couldn’t resist. She was a big star, but among these old-money matriarchs, she had zero clout. She was desperate for attention. Seeing me next to Aris, she put a hand to her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh my goodness, Mila! Wait a minute. I just saw you at Julian’s office a few days ago, getting divorce papers. How are you Mrs. Thorne today? Julian, darling, have I been filming too much? Tell me I’m not seeing things.” Her words were a grenade thrown into the quiet dinner party. Every head turned, eyes wide with gossip-hungry curiosity. Beside me, Aris’s body went rigid. His handsome brow furrowed, and he began to rub his wrist—a nervous tic. My employer was angry. This was not good. My cover was about to be blown. I shot to my feet, my eyes instantly welling with tears as I fixed my gaze on Isabelle. My voice trembled with righteous indignation. “Ms. Croft, I have no idea what you mean by that. As a public figure, you should be more careful with your words. Aris and I have been married for over a year. And I will not stand by and let someone spread malicious rumors about our relationship!” Isabelle stared at me, momentarily stunned, before a sly, triumphant smile spread across her face. “Rumors? Is that what you call it? You’ve already moved on to another man, and you’re still trying to play the victim?” Damn it. She wasn’t taking the bait. She was determined to destroy me. Aris’s parents, recovering from their shock, now looked furious. “Ms. Croft, is what you’re saying true?” Isabelle lifted her chin smugly. “Dr. and Mrs. Thorne, don’t be too upset. I know this woman. We were classmates. You probably don’t know about her glorious past. While we were still in school, loan sharks came looking for her. Her own mother jumped from the roof of our university’s main building.” Her voice dripped with false pity. “What kind of person could come from a family like that? I felt sorry for her, so I hired her as my body double. And what do you think she did? She tried to seduce a producer in the middle of the night, trading her body for a role… heh.” She paused, looking at me with relish. “Mila, do I need to go on? Stop deceiving everyone.” In an instant, every gaze in the room turned on me, filled with the same contempt and disgust I remembered from all those years ago. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. I tightened my grip on my wine glass. 8 I started calculating. If I scarred her face, how many months would I get? Just then, Aris, who had been silent, stood up. He gently placed his hand over mine, pulling me into his side. He looked at the room, his expression calm and unwavering. “I apologize to you all. My wife and I have had some disagreements recently, but we have never considered divorce. I had no idea our private matters would be used by someone with malicious intent to stir up trouble. I am so sorry. Had I known, I never would have brought her to this dinner, only to have her slandered and unjustly accused.” He turned to me, his eyes filled with sincere concern. “Darling, I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” I was so moved I could have cried for real. I leaned against his shoulder, squeezing out a few fake tears while secretly patting his back in gratitude. Where else could I find such a perfect client? My mistake had almost blown our cover, and here he was, this socially anxious man, stepping up to defend me. I decided right then and there: I was giving him a 30% discount on my fee. At that moment, Julian also stood up. He grabbed Isabelle’s arm, stopping her from saying anything more. He adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses on his nose. “Isabelle, you’re drunk.” He then addressed the room. “My apologies, everyone. My girlfriend has been working too hard lately and seems to be confusing reality with her movie scripts. I have never seen Ms. Thorne in my office. We only know each other from a brief conversation at a banquet some time ago.” Isabelle stared at Julian in disbelief. I was just as shocked. I never thought Julian, of all people, would have a sudden attack of conscience and cover for me. 9 The dinner party, needless to say, ended on a sour note. Aris led me out, but as we reached the garden, we ran into Julian, who had used the excuse of taking a drunk Isabelle home. He had clearly been waiting for us. The two men faced each other, the air crackling with tension. Aris took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “It’s getting chilly. Don’t catch a cold.” Only then did he look up at Julian. “Mr. Watson. Can I help you?” Julian’s eyes were fixed on the jacket around my shoulders. His voice was hard. “I need to speak with Mila.” A corner of Aris’s mouth lifted in a scornful smile. “I’m afraid that’s not convenient. Your girlfriend has deeply upset my wife. She needs to rest.” “Is that so? My apologies. In that case, would Ms. Thorne herself be willing to speak with me and accept my apology?” I wanted to say no, but I knew I needed to talk to him. He had drafted all my previous divorce agreements; he knew every one of my ex-husbands. His presence here tonight felt too calculated to be a coincidence. I gave Aris an apologetic look. “Wait for me in the car. Give me five minutes.” Aris was a gentleman. Even though I could feel his anger, he just squeezed my hand tightly before letting go. He smoothed down a stray piece of my hair and leaned in close, his voice a low whisper in my ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right here. Call me if you need anything.” Then, in a clear act of possessiveness, he pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. His breath was warm against my skin, and I was stunned. It was the first time Aris had ever initiated such close contact. Before he left, he shot one last, cold glare at Julian. The moment he was gone, Julian strode toward me, backing me against the garden wall. “Mila, are you going to tell me what you’re doing or not?” he hissed. “Three days ago, you were filing for divorce from that rich kid, and now you’re playing wife to your ex-ex-husband. What kind of sordid business are you running?”

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By the time I realized I was living in the pages of a political tell-all, the story was already over. The brilliant, disgraced doctor had retreated to a quiet life in rural Vermont, while the charismatic President and his First Lady governed from the White House. I was supposed to be a footnote, a tragic local girl with a ticking clock on her life. But somehow, against all odds, I married the doctor. I always knew who he was, that his heart belonged to the First Lady. I knew I was living on borrowed time. Yet for three years, his care was absolute. He promised me a lifetime. And just when I started to believe him, just when I thought his love was real, the First Lady was poisoned. He rushed to D.C. to save her. He forgot that today was the day I was supposed to die. 1 Another attack. I bit down hard on the duvet, my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat. The man who was usually here in an instant, the one who held my hand through the fire, was gone. Chloe, my best friend and live-in nurse, dabbed my face with a cool cloth, her eyes red. “He’s never, ever forgotten this date,” she muttered, her voice thick with anger. “How could he not be here today?” I hadn’t felt pain like this in three years. Not since he came into my life. The young assistant I’d sent out for help returned, trembling as he handed Chloe a note. She snatched it and read it aloud, her voice shaking with rage. “‘First Lady Isabelle Vance has been poisoned. They’ve asked for my help. My wife… take care of yourself.’” The ink was still slightly damp. Chloe’s knuckles were white. “When did he leave?” “This morning,” the assistant whispered. Everyone knew what today was. “You can go,” I managed to say. Chloe closed the door, and another wave of agony crashed over me, forcing a tear from the corner of my eye. The moment I heard her name—Isabelle Vance—I knew I had lost. “I’m calling a specialist,” Chloe said, seeing my torment. She turned to leave, then froze. Dr. Julian Croft was the specialist. A world-renowned geneticist, a miracle worker. My condition was something only he could manage. In this high-tech medical sanctuary he called a home, there was no other doctor. I knew his story. I’d read the biography that rocked the nation—the brilliant doctor, the rising political star, and the secret, unrequited love he held for his best friend, Isabelle, who went on to marry the future President. I just never thought his story would end up destroying mine. My chest was a vise, each breath a new torment. I’d known my life was a bit strange—a rare genetic disorder, a life of sterile rooms and careful calculations. It wasn’t until I met Julian that I realized just how strange. My father, desperate after exhausting every medical expert in the country, had tracked down the reclusive Dr. Croft. Dad begged him to take me on as his sole patient. Julian’s price was… unconventional. He wanted a life of total seclusion, a wife to manage his home, a shield against the world that still hounded him for gossip. Dad looked at me, his eyes pleading, and I agreed to the marriage. At first, I kept my distance. I remembered the book. He was the tragic hero who loved the heroine. No matter how brilliant or kind he was, I refused to let my heart get involved. But hearts aren’t made of stone. For three years, he was my everything. He mapped my genome, developing treatments that silenced the ticking clock inside me. He designed my diet, my exercise, my entire world. And on the days the attacks were scheduled to come, he never left my side. Everyone had said I wouldn’t live past my sixteenth birthday. Julian promised me I’d outlive them all. I was eighteen now, a miracle of his making. The tell-all was old news. The President was in his second term. I thought Julian had truly left that story behind, that he had genuinely fallen for me. His love was a quiet, intense force, and it had slowly, meticulously, picked the lock on my heart. But just as I was ready to admit it, fate played its cruelest joke. This was supposed to be my last scheduled attack. Julian had said this was the final phase of the treatment. After this, I would be cured. But if the therapy was interrupted, the disease would come back with a vengeance. It would be fatal. He knew that. Last night, he’d held me, whispering against my hair, “Ava, when you’re all better… can we finally be a real husband and wife?” I’d blushed and answered with a soft kiss. And today, he left me to face my death alone, all to save her. The White House has an army of doctors. Why did it have to be him? 2 My vision blurred. When it cleared, fingers were resting on my wrist, checking my pulse. A surge of warmth flooded my chest. I turned my head, the name “Julian” on my lips, but it died in my throat. I looked away, disappointed. “Ava, I got Dr. Albright on a video call. He’s the best we could get on short notice,” Chloe said, trying to soothe me. But I knew it was useless. Sure enough, the doctor on the screen sighed. “I’m sorry. Her condition is beyond my expertise. All I can advise is to manage the pain.” “Manage the pain? You’re the head of immunology at Johns Hopkins, and you can’t even do that?” Chloe’s voice was sharp. I squeezed her hand, giving the screen an apologetic look. Thankfully, the doctor understood. “I’ll try to get another…,” she started, but I shook my head. “Don’t. It’s only a few hours.” No one else could treat me. That’s why my life had an expiration date in the first place. Julian had saved me. And now, he had just pushed me back into the abyss. If he knew this would happen, why did he ever bother to save me at all? A few days passed. My body regressed to its old, fragile state—three steps and I was breathless, five and the world would start to spin. I lay on a chaise lounge on the patio, the sunlight offering no warmth to my pale skin. A dull ache throbbed constantly in my chest. Then, one of the staff said he was back. My heart leaped. I looked up towards the driveway and saw him. He was carrying a woman wrapped in a blanket out of his car, her dark hair stark against the white wool. He carried her into the house without a single glance in my direction. “Ava, that man…” Chloe was furious, ready to charge after him, but I held her back. A metallic taste filled my mouth. I swallowed it down and pulled Chloe away. She might not recognize the woman, but I did. There was only one person whose love for the color blue was so profound it was mentioned in a bestselling biography. The First Lady, Isabelle Vance. Back in my suite of rooms, I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I coughed, and a spray of red dotted the white tissue in my hand. Chloe’s eyes widened in terror. “I’m getting him!” “Chloe, no,” I said, my grip on her arm surprisingly strong. “You are not to go to him. And he is not your boss anymore.” His actions were a billboard. Why should I go looking for more pain? “But he cared so much about you. I saw it.” She wasn’t wrong. I’d seen it too. I’d felt it. But that was conditional. It was real only as long as Isabelle Vance was safe and sound. Compared to her, I was nothing. I could still feel the ghost of our three years, the warmth and the tentative hope. Our first night, our wedding night, I had laid out the terms. “You are the doctor. I am the patient. This is a contract, not a marriage.” He had just smiled, his fingers gently finding my pulse. “We’re already husband and wife, Ava. How could it be anything else?” he’d said, his voice a low hum. When I told him I wouldn’t live past sixteen, his smile only widened. “We’ll see about that.” After that, the symptoms that had plagued my entire life began to vanish, one by one. I tried to pay him, to repay the immeasurable debt, but he always returned the money, bringing me gifts instead. A rare first edition book, a delicate necklace, pastries from a New York bakery he knew I loved. He was wooing me. When I realized my own heart was betraying our contract, I started to pull away. But then came the day of the storm. He stood in the pouring rain, calling my name, shielding a small box of macarons from the deluge. My resolve crumbled. The story was over, I told myself. He’s free. I opened the door. He pulled me into a fierce embrace, his eyes red-rimmed as he promised me forever. The love in his eyes that night was a tidal wave. I thought we could truly have it all. I was wrong. 3 “So, are we going home?” Chloe asked softly, understanding my silence. “I miss Dad.” I wiped the last trace of blood from my lips and asked her for a pen and paper. I wasn’t a fighter, not in that way. A footnote character versus the heroine of the story? There was no contest. When we arrived at Julian’s wing of the house, two grim-faced men in dark suits stood by the door. Secret Service. Before I could process it, one of them stepped forward, blocking my path with a firm arm across my chest. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back.” “Ava!” Chloe gasped, rushing forward, but I held her back. “I’m his wife,” I said, my voice quiet. The agent’s expression didn’t change, but his tone was cold steel. “Dr. Croft has forbidden all visitors.” I stood frozen, a bitter taste filling my mouth. This wing of the house, his private sanctuary, had always been open to me. He’d had powerful patients, dignitaries with their own security details, but his standing order was always the same: “My wife is never to be stopped. She can go wherever she pleases.” Now, “all visitors” included me. The whiplash of the last three years, the quiet intimacy replaced by this cold exclusion, was a physical blow. I fought back the tears that pricked my eyes and took a step back. “My apologies.” Chloe, who had been with me since we were children, understood. Swallowing her anger, she stood with me, waiting outside the door. The afternoon sun was hot. I felt dizzy, my legs weak, but I couldn’t leave. Not yet. I was afraid if I walked away now, I’d lose my nerve and stay. So I stood there, swaying on my feet, as the world swam in and out of focus. I don’t know how long we waited. The sun was beginning to set when Julian finally emerged. He looked exhausted, his normally immaculate hair disheveled. I had only ever seen him look this worn down when he was fighting for my life. I used to think that look was reserved for me alone. The irony was suffocating. All his whispered promises, all his declarations of love, they were all lies. “What are you doing out here? Have you had dinner?” He looked surprised to see me, and his hand moved instinctively to rest on my shoulder, a familiar gesture of comfort. I stepped away. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of my mouth. The bruise on my neck from the agent’s arm, which had started to fade, now throbbed with a fiery pain. “Who hurt you? Why are you bleeding…?” He looked at me, truly looked at my frail form for the first time in days, and a flicker of confusion crossed his face. He hadn’t seen me this sick in years. I didn’t answer. I just held out a folded piece of paper. He frowned as he took it. His face went white as he read it. “Ava, you want a divorce?” He sounded incredulous, his cool grey eyes darkening. “Yes.” I calmly wiped my lips, my other hand gripping Chloe’s arm to keep her from launching into a tirade. A clean break. That was my style. I was never one to martyr myself for love. There were other men in the world. I wasn’t going to let my life end for a man who was just one chapter in it. “But why? You promised…” He trailed off, the memory of our conversation, of the day he was supposed to be here for me, finally dawning on him. “I’m sorry, Ava. The First Lady’s life was in danger. I had to go.” He stared at me, his eyes pleading. I avoided his gaze. “Just sign it, Julian. Let’s go our separate ways.” He was the tragic hero, of course he was devoted. But I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that his devotion was not for me. 4 “Sign it.” My legs were shaking. I didn’t want to hear any more of his excuses. “Ava, don’t be childish.” He sighed, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “Your body can’t handle this stress. This was my fault, I admit it. I promise, I will find a way to fix this.” He was apologizing, but his apologies were worthless to me now. “Julian,” I said again, my voice devoid of all warmth. He stared at me, a flicker of fear in his eyes. “Ava, let me check your pulse. Let me help you, please.” He reached for me, but I stumbled back again, my face growing paler. His expression shifted to alarm. He moved to catch me, but a soft, feminine voice called out from behind him. “Julian, it hurts.” That single sentence was all it took. He spun around and rushed back into the room. “Where does it hurt? Let me change the dressing.” He helped her sit up, his voice thick with worry. I looked up and my eyes met hers. Isabelle Vance. Her features were gentle, but her eyes were sharp as knives. The triumphant heroine of a political thriller. Her gaze held a cool disdain, a clear message: Here, with him, I am what matters. Chloe didn’t scream or shout. She simply picked up the divorce papers from the ground where Julian had dropped them, scribbled his name on the signature line, and pulled me away. “We’re going home, Ava,” she said, her voice firm. We walked away slowly, and for the first time in days, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. A smile touched my lips. I should have known. The tragic hero always loves the heroine. The story was over, but the characters hadn’t changed. Loving a man tied to a narrative like that was a fool’s errand. If I didn’t get out now, I’d be destroyed. “Do we need to pack anything?” Chloe asked as we reached the main gate. I took her hand and stepped out of the wrought iron gates of the estate he called a sanctuary. There was nothing here I wanted to keep. It was dark by the time we got back to my childhood home. My father, having heard the news, rushed to meet me, his eyes red. “Why did you come back?” he asked, his voice filled with worry. Then he saw my pale face, the blue tinge under my eyes, and he fell silent. He hadn’t seen me look this fragile in years. “Let’s get you inside,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He turned away to wipe his eyes, and I pretended not to see. My father was a good man. My mother had died when I was young, leaving him with a sickly daughter everyone said was a lost cause. But he never gave up on me. No one wanted me to be healthy more than him. That’s why he’d agreed to Julian’s insane terms. He just wanted me to live. And now I had returned, a broken contract. He didn’t need to ask to know that something had gone terribly wrong. “Dad, you should get some rest,” I said, walking into my old bedroom. It was exactly as I had left it, clean and untouched, as if waiting for my return. Looking at his heartbroken face, I suddenly felt like it was all going to be okay. Whatever happened with the characters in the book, my father was mine alone, untouched by the plot, his love unconditional. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Get some rest, sweetie. Dad’s here for whatever you need.” That was all it took. The dam of my composure threatened to break. “Okay,” I whispered, turning into my room before the tears could fall. I wasn’t a child anymore. I couldn’t let him worry. It wasn’t until the door was closed that the tears finally came. A wave of nausea rolled through me, and the blood I’d been suppressing rose in my throat. I eventually fell into an exhausted sleep. But the first thing I heard when I woke up was Chloe’s voice, tight with dread. “He’s here. Julian is here.”

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Six years after I cut off my parents, my adopted sister secretly reached out to my husband. She told him my parents missed me terribly and wanted nothing more than for our family to be whole again before it was too late. I traced the thin scar on my forehead. I got it when I was eight, the same day my sister slammed the piano lid on my fingers. My dad gave me the scar when I tried to hit her back. My husband, unable to bear the sight of my sister’s sad, pleading face, tried to reason with me. “Honey, that was so long ago. Just let it go.” My son, clutching a brand-new model airplane my parents had sent him, added his own ultimatum. “Mommy, I can’t live without my grandma and grandpa and Auntie Nora. You have to make up with them!” His little face was red with anger. “If you don’t, I don’t want you to be my mommy anymore!” A profound weariness washed over me. I gave a small, tired nod. “Okay.” 1 The moment I slid the divorce papers across the table, Mark’s face was a mask of disbelief. “You’re doing this? Just because I want you to reconcile with your parents?” “Yes,” I said. “Because of that.” “What about Leo? He’s only five. What’s supposed to happen to him?” Before I could answer, Leo charged at me like a little bull, ramming his head into my stomach. A sharp pain shot through me. “You’re evil, Mommy!” he shrieked. “Grandpa and Grandma didn’t raise you to be a monster!” I gritted my teeth against the pain, my voice cold. “Who taught you to talk like that?” Leo’s bravado wavered. He glanced nervously toward the hallway, where Nora was hiding just out of sight. She was the daughter of my dad’s army buddy, and we’d grown up together. “Oh, Sarah, it’s all my fault!” Nora stepped forward, her face a picture of innocence. “I was telling Leo the story of Snow White and the evil queen, and he must have picked up some of the bad words.” It was the same act she’d always pulled. The same damsel-in-distress routine that had caused me a lifetime of misery. And just like always, Mark and Leo rushed to her defense. “Sarah, you’re always so busy with work,” Mark said, his voice laced with disappointment. “You can’t blame Nora for helping take care of our son.” “I like Auntie Nora best!” Leo declared, sticking out his chin. “If you’re mean to her, I’m not gonna be your son anymore.” I hadn’t said a single word against her, but they were already leaping to her defense. I saw a flicker of triumph in Nora’s eyes, and the disgust and hatred I’d suppressed for years came boiling to the surface. 2 I was done talking. I pushed a pen toward Mark. “Sign it. Who you choose to be a son-in-law to is your business now.” His face fell. “Can you please stop being so dramatic? I just want our son to have more family in his life. They’re your own flesh and blood.” My head felt like it was going to explode. Flesh and blood. The day Nora came to live with us, my parents had said the same thing. “She’s only three months younger than you, Sarah. From now on, you have a sister. She’s your flesh and blood. You have to take care of her.” Back then, her name wasn’t Nora. My dad said her parents had died in a car crash, and that he was adopting her, giving her his name. She was so small, so fragile. I shared everything with her—my favorite books, the chocolates my dad brought home from his business trips, the new dresses my mom bought for me. “Can I really think of this as my home from now on?” Nora had asked, her eyes wide and innocent. I remembered my parents’ words and nodded. From that day on, my life became a living hell. She was always crying, always looking at me with a wounded expression. My parents assumed I was bullying her. They called me selfish and gave all my things to her. When I was six, my room became Nora’s room. My closet, filled with my dresses, became hers. When I was eight, the piano lessons I’d taken for four years were canceled. It was because Nora had “accidentally” slammed the lid on my fingers, breaking two of them. When I was twelve, my birthday party was canceled and turned into a celebration for Nora’s win at a dance competition. My cake was replaced with a mango-flavored one—her favorite. No one remembered that I was deathly allergic to mangoes. When I was eighteen, my parents refused to pay the entry fee for a prestigious math competition I’d qualified for. “We need to save that money to hire a better dance coach for Nora,” they’d said. When I was twenty-two, years of stress-induced malnutrition caught up with me. I had a severe stomach condition that required surgery. My parents refused to help, instead buying business-class tickets to Europe to accompany Nora to an international dance competition. I nearly collapsed on my way to the hospital. That’s when I met Mark. He was horrified by my story and swore he would protect me for the rest of my life. And now, six years later, he was the one pushing me back into their arms. 3 “I’m not signing this, Sarah,” Mark said, his jaw set. I ignored him and went to our bedroom to pack. In the back of the closet, hidden away, I found a stash of expensive gifts. A handcrafted tea set, a high-end massage chair for the elderly, a pair of designer ballet slippers. Mark rushed in, as if suddenly remembering. “What is this?” he asked, still clutching the divorce papers. He couldn’t meet my eyes. Leo ran in, holding his model airplane triumphantly. “Those are presents Daddy bought for Grandma and Grandpa and Auntie Nora!” he announced. “And that’s not all! But you don’t get anything ’cause you’re not a good girl, nya-nya-nya-nya-nya!” He stuck his tongue out, deliberately trying to provoke me. I took a slow step toward him. Nora immediately threw herself between us, shoving me hard. “Don’t you dare touch him! He’s their only grandchild. Even if you are his mother, you have no right to hit him.” That was it. I snapped. I grabbed her wrist and slapped her across the face, hard. “Aaaah, that hurts!” she shrieked, a theatrical, high-pitched wail. Leo immediately activated his smartwatch. “Mommy’s hitting Auntie Nora!” he yelled into the device. “Grandpa, Grandma, come quick and punish her!” He started to sob. “Mommy’s a psycho! I don’t want her to be my mommy anymore!” 4 I snatched the watch from his wrist. Of course. They had a group chat. Leo and his favorite people: Grandpa, Grandma, Daddy, and Auntie Nora. I was the only one left out. The chat history was a revelation. My son, who barely spoke to me about his day anymore, was telling them all about the new girl at his preschool. My husband, who was supposedly working late every night, was taking our son to “family dinners” several times a week. He’d used his bonus to pay for my parents’ annual checkups and to book Nora a two-week tour of Europe. Everyone in the group was so happy. My stern, unsmiling father was gushing about how his grandson was just like him, a great judge of character. My mother, always so easily swayed, was commenting on how handsome and capable Mark was, and what a shame it was that he hadn’t met Nora first. Nora, of course, was all coy sweetness, calling him “Marky” and filling the chat with blushing emojis. And Mark, my husband who hadn’t bought me a gift in years, was showering them all with praise and virtual red envelopes. “Honey, let me explain,” Mark stammered, insisting he’d only bought the gifts to pave the way for my reconciliation with them. “Nora isn’t as bad as you think. Why can’t you just try to get along with your parents?” Get along? I turned and slapped him, too. 5 Leo, seeing me strike his two favorite people, went berserk. He launched himself at me, kicking and punching. “Grandpa was right, you’re a devil! You broke your own fingers and blamed Auntie Nora! You deserve to have nobody love you!” he screamed. “Get out! Get out now! I don’t want you to be my mom! I like Auntie Nora better, and so does Grandpa and Grandma and Daddy!” I just stared at him, stunned. This was the child I had carried for nine months. I had pureed every spoonful of his baby food, bought every toy and book in this house, rocked him to sleep almost every night of his life. Five years of my heart and soul, and this is what I got in return. You deserve it. It hurt. More than I could say. “Leo,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “I’m going to give you one chance to take that back.” “No! I hate you! I don’t want you to be my mom!” he yelled. “I want Auntie Nora! She’s prettier than you, and she can dance, and she gives me candy! I like her more than you!” I was strict about candy, trying to protect his teeth. Mark jumped in. “He’s just a kid, Sarah. Don’t take it so seriously.” In his mind, a mother’s love was unconditional. In his mind, he was doing what was best for me by forcing this reconciliation. This divorce, this ugliness, it was all my fault. But I was done. 6 “Sarah, why are you still so stubborn?” For a second, I thought I was dreaming. It was my father’s voice. The front door opened, and they walked in. I’d forgotten they still had the code. Leo’s face lit up. “Grandpa! Grandma! You’re finally here to punish Mommy!” Seeing them all standing there together, a happy little family unit, a chill went through me that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. My mother started to speak, a hint of apology in her eyes. “Sarah, six years ago, I didn’t know you were that sick…” But then she saw Nora, clutching her red, swollen cheek, and her expression hardened. “Honey, who did this to you?” she asked, her voice turning sharp, like a lioness protecting her cub. My father roared, “Who else? It had to be Sarah! Mark, get her out of this house, now! If she’s not taught a lesson, what’s to stop her from hurting my precious grandson next?” Mark, looking like a chastised schoolboy, tugged on my sleeve. “Honey, hitting people is wrong. Why don’t you just apologize?” He knew I was packed and ready to leave, and he was still waiting for me to be the one to back down. 7 I met Nora’s triumphant gaze and gave a bitter laugh. “Is it any piece of garbage I have? Do you just have to have it for yourself?” Her eyes widened in fake panic. “Sarah, what are you talking about? I don’t understand.” Suddenly, a hand tangled in my hair, yanking my head back. “Sarah,” my father’s voice boomed in my ear, “I am ordering you to apologize. And don’t you dare threaten my good son-in-law with divorce. He works hard to support this family. If you want to leave, you can leave with nothing.” “Dad, this is between Sarah and me,” Mark said weakly. “Please don’t interfere.” “Hmph! If it wasn’t for her faking that illness back then, you never would have missed Nora’s performance,” my father sneered. “You two would probably be together by now.” I shot a sarcastic look at Mark. No wonder the photo he kept hidden in his desk—a picture of a ballerina’s silhouette on a stage—had always looked vaguely familiar. It was the girl who had captured his heart at first sight. He’d told me not to be jealous, that she didn’t even know he existed. The last flicker of feeling I had for him died. I signed the papers, grabbed my suitcase, and walked toward the door. Mark tried to stop me, but my parents held him back. Leo clung to his father’s leg. “Daddy, don’t listen to her! She’s just a housewife! She has nowhere to go without you! Grandma and Grandpa said she’ll come crawling back after a few days of being hungry!” While Mark hesitated, I walked out the door and didn’t look back.

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I got crucified online by the new intern. She claimed the company was forcing us to give up our vacation time for a team-building retreat. No one wants to fly to some remote island to play happy families with their coworkers. What the internet didn’t know was that our company’s “team-building tradition” was a bit different. Every year, I book an entire five-star resort, all expenses paid. Employees can bring a plus-one. On top of that, everyone gets three extra days of paid time off. The budget is five thousand dollars per person. But now, the entire internet was calling me a cold-blooded capitalist. So, I decided to grant their wish. I sent out a company-wide notice. “In response to employee feedback and to respect everyone’s personal time, this year’s corporate retreat is canceled. In its place, a $100 travel voucher will be issued to each employee.” The moment the announcement dropped, my company imploded. The veteran employees mobbed my office, begging me to bring back the sun and sand of the Maldives. 1 I had just finalized this year’s retreat plans with Catherine, my Director of Administration. “So this is the one, Arthur? A six-star private island in the Maldives, all-inclusive.” Catherine’s voice buzzed with excitement. I nodded, a sense of deep satisfaction washing over me. Years ago, crammed into a grimy little office not much bigger than a closet, I made a promise to my founding team: “One day, I’m going to take all of you to the most beautiful place in the world to celebrate our success.” I never forgot that promise. “The budget is five thousand per head,” I told Catherine. “Not a single cent is to be spared. And make sure everyone knows they get three additional days of paid time off. Emphasize paid.” Catherine grinned as she closed her tablet. “The company group chat is going to explode when they see this.” She was right. The moment the announcement went live in the 400-person group chat, it was flooded with a tidal wave of cheering emojis. Dave, one of our lead engineers, posted a photo of his family. “This is amazing! I promised my daughter we’d see sea turtles this year. Now we can!” A newlywed couple from the marketing department was already debating if they should use the trip as a belated honeymoon. The entire company was buzzing with a holiday-like joy. I watched the endless stream of thank-you messages scroll across my phone screen, a warmth spreading through my chest. Then, a discordant note cut through the harmony. It was the new intern, Zoe. She dropped a link to an influencer’s viral video ranting about pointless corporate retreats, followed by a breezy comment: “Seriously? In this day and age, companies are still doing mandatory fun? I’d rather just chill at home.” The vibrant chat went dead silent. Mark, her department head, quickly tried to smooth things over. “Zoe’s new, she doesn’t know the deal yet. Our company retreat is a top-tier perk. You’d be losing out big time if you skipped it.” Another colleague added a passive-aggressive jab, “Yeah, some people would kill for an opportunity like this.” Zoe’s reply was instant: an eye-roll emoji. “Nah, I’m good. Not interested in wasting my life faking it with coworkers I barely know.” “If the boss really has this much money to burn,” she continued, “he should just give us the cash instead. It’s more practical.” Her words sucked all the remaining air out of the room. A few of the senior employees who had been celebrating moments before quietly retracted their messages. I even saw a couple of anonymous avatars give Zoe’s comment a “like,” only to quickly undo it seconds later. That afternoon, there was a knock on my office door. It was Zoe. She sauntered in wearing trendy slides, sipping a bubble tea, showing zero of the usual intern-in-the-CEO’s-office nervousness. “Got a minute, Arthur?” She jutted her chin out and plopped herself down on the sofa opposite my desk. “I think this whole company retreat thing is… outdated. My generation, we’re all about work-life separation. You’re spending all this money to force us together and make us put on fake smiles. It’s exhausting.” She looked at me, her expression radiating a kind of defiant righteousness. “It’s a form of emotional labor, you know? It would be so much better for everyone if you just paid us out.” I stared at her, at this intern who seemed to think she was here to teach me how to run my own company. The absurdity of it was almost comical. “The company retreat,” I said, my voice level, “is a trip to honor our top performers. It’s a form of collective recognition, not a benefit to be haggled over like you’re at a flea market.” Zoe pouted. “Fine, whatever. Forget I said anything.” She stood up and headed for the door, muttering just loud enough for me to hear, “So preachy. So lame.” As the workday was ending, I saw Gary, a resident schemer who’d been with the company for years, huddle with a few younger employees around Zoe’s desk. Gary’s face was plastered with a sycophantic grin. “Zoe, that idea of yours? We’re all behind you! You said what we were all thinking! Don’t worry, if anything happens, I’ve got your back.” Zoe’s eyebrow arched in triumph. “Don’t worry, Gary,” she whispered. “Watch this.” I watched as she took out her phone. She snapped a picture of her computer screen, then flipped the camera to selfie mode. Her expression instantly shifted to one of pure, soul-crushing misery. She even added a grim, gray filter. Her lips moved, silently mouthing the words, “Help me!” A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. Later that evening, after I’d gotten home, a video notification popped up on my phone. The title was written in a dramatic, clickbait font: “As an intern, my boss is forcing me to go on a $5k company retreat. You can have my ‘perk’.” The thumbnail was Zoe’s face, etched with the anguish of a hostage. My heart sank. I clicked play. The video opened with a sleek promotional clip of the six-star Maldivian resort, but Zoe had drained it of all color, setting it to a mournful piano track. Text appeared on the screen: “The pipe dream my boss is selling. Looks nice, doesn’t it?” The scene cut to her desk at the office, with a tight zoom on a generic spreadsheet. “Too bad I’m just a wage slave who wants to go home in peace.” Then, a close-up of her, eyes glistening as if on the verge of tears. “They told me I have to give up my precious personal weekend for a massive corporate performance… Thanks, I hate it.” She had cleverly twisted the “three extra days of paid leave” into “stealing my weekend.” For the finale, she stared directly into the camera, her voice a pained whisper. “I don’t want the Maldives. I just want to sleep in on a Sunday. If this is a perk, someone else can have it.” The comment section, predictably, had erupted. “Gen Z is here to fix the workplace! Drop the company name, we’ll help you burn it down!” “I hate bosses like this. It’s pure self-indulgence! My job is to work, not to be your mandatory friend.” “You’re speaking my language. As an introvert, company retreats are my personal hell. Just give us back our time!” My hands felt ice-cold. Three days of paid vacation had become “stealing my precious weekend.” A five-thousand-dollar luxury reward had become “hostage-taking.” The next morning, the office air was thick with tension. Several employees were clustered around Zoe’s desk. They were saying things like, “That was so bold of you,” but their faces were alight with the thrill of watching a good train wreck. Gary, the old-timer, took it a step further. He walked right up to her and led her toward my office. The moment he stepped inside, he started with a fake, placating tone. “Arthur, please don’t be angry. What Zoe did… well, the method was extreme, but she really did voice what a lot of the younger staff are feeling. Maybe you should… you know, listen to the people?” Zoe stood beside him, arms crossed, a smug, untouchable look on her face. She shook her phone at me. “See, Arthur? This is the will of the people. This is the future.” “The company’s traditions and policies will not be changed by anyone’s baseless tantrums,” I said, my voice flat. Zoe scoffed. “Traditions? Traditions are meant to be broken. If you don’t find a way to give the people what they want, I can’t guarantee this won’t be trending nationally tomorrow.” Just as the words left her mouth, my assistant burst in, her face pale. “Arthur, it’s bad. Zoe’s video… it’s a top trending topic!” I refreshed my phone. She was right. But what truly chilled me to the bone were several anonymous comments under the video whose IP addresses originated from our office building. “Yeah, right. ‘Luxury trip.’ Last year’s hotel was smaller than my bathroom at home.” “A perk? It’s just another empty promise. The budget is supposedly $5k, but I’d be surprised if they spent even five hundred on that dump.” The blatant lies made my head spin. They wanted the lavish company perks, but they also wanted to push an intern out front to take all the risks, hoping that if they made enough noise, the trip would be converted into cash. This calculated, greedy selfishness shattered years of my goodwill. I looked at the two triumphant figures before me and suddenly felt that everything was meaningless. Overnight, my company had gone from the gold standard—the one everyone envied—to a “toxic sweatshop” being dragged through the mud online. The company’s name, my photo—it had all been doxed. My phone was vibrating incessantly on my desk, a flood of abusive messages and harassing calls pouring in. “You soulless capitalist, I hope your company goes bankrupt tomorrow!” “Trash company that exploits its employees. Already reported you to the Department of Labor!” My head of PR, his eyes shadowed with dark circles, handed me an emergency response plan. His voice was hoarse. “Arthur, we have to issue a statement. Right now. We need to draft an official release and lay out all the facts.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, the headache throbbing behind my eyes. I looked at him. “If we issue a statement now, the internet won’t see it as a calm explanation. They’ll see it as a guilty-conscience defense and a way of flaunting wealth. It will only pour gasoline on the fire.” My PR manager stared, his mouth opening and closing, but no words came out. When a flood of emotion drowns out all reason, facts don’t stand a chance. I was wrong. I thought if I treated people with sincerity, some would choose to believe in the truth. But as I refreshed the trending video, a new anonymous comment, buoyed by thousands of likes, shot to the top. The familiar tone made me almost certain it also came from within my company. “Stop defending them. I work here. The so-called ‘paid leave’ is a scam—they make you use your own precious vacation days! If you refuse, your manager makes your life hell. We’re all just too scared to speak up!” I stared at that comment, a buzzing sound filling my ears. It wasn’t anger anymore. It was a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. A feeling of profound disgust. I could practically picture the person typing those words—maybe even one of the old-timers who had thanked me just last week. That single comment was the final stone that crushed the last vestiges of hope within me. It twisted the company’s one act of genuine kindness into a malicious conspiracy. Below it, countless others claiming to be “internal employees” chimed in with their agreement. My mind flashed back to the early days, when we celebrated our first profitable quarter at a cheap barbecue joint. Everyone’s smile was genuine then. I knew, in my heart, that I had never short-changed any of the people who had fought alongside me. And in the end, this was my reward: a stab in the back from all sides. They comfortably enjoyed my generosity, yet for the vague promise of a cash payout, they didn’t hesitate to drive a knife into me. All this time, the respectable, caring company culture I had worked so hard to build was nothing more than a self-congratulatory joke. The PR manager was still anxiously prodding me. “Arthur, if we don’t say something, our partners and investors are going to start calling!” I waved a tired hand, pushing his proposal aside. “It’s not necessary.” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “Prepare a new announcement.” I rose from my chair and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window. Down below, several news vans were already parked, vultures waiting for the kill. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I hadn’t lost to Zoe. I had lost to my own foolish trust. From this day forward, I, Arthur Shaw, am just a businessman. And businessmen talk profit, not feelings. I picked up my phone and buzzed my assistant. “Notify all employees. There will be an all-hands meeting tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. sharp in the main conference room. The agenda is the final optimization of this year’s team-building plan.” On the other end, my assistant’s voice was hesitant. “Arthur… are you going to… give in to them?” “No.” I looked down at the media circling below, my voice hard as steel. “It’s time they paid for their own greed.”

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The charity case my mother sponsored has a crippling addiction to stealing my life. On the first day of freshman year, she made sure to step out of the Maybach first. Then, in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, she pointed a perfectly manicured finger at me. “Get a grip, Lucy,” she’d said, her voice dripping with pity. “You’re just the charity case my family sponsors.” “You take the money your mother earns as our housekeeper and blow it on pretending to be some heiress. Do you ever stop to think how hard she works for that?” In my past life, that was how she did it. With those perfectly crafted, self-righteous lies, she convinced everyone that she was the daughter of the house. She didn’t just steal my identity at school; she orchestrated a campaign of cyberbullying that tore my life apart. But this is not my past life. I’ve been born again into this moment. I looked at the smug, arrogant face of Isla Corbin, and without a word, I raised my hand and slapped her. Twice. The sharp crack echoed in the humid air. Before she could recover, I grabbed the collar of the Celine runway jacket she’d stolen from my closet, ripped it from her body, and threw it in the trash. I leaned in, my voice a low hiss. “You’re a parasite living in my house. Don’t you ever forget who provides the life you’re so desperate to claim as your own.” 1 The heat was suffocating, a thick hundred-degree blanket smothering the Westwood University campus. The moment our driver, Art, brought the car to a stop, Isla practically threw the door open. She positioned herself in the thickest part of the student crowd, a performer finding her light. Then came the lines I already knew by heart. “Get a grip, Lucy! You’re just the charity case my family sponsors.” Her voice was a masterclass in performative concern. “You take the money your mother earns as our housekeeper and blow it on pretending to be some heiress. Do you ever stop to think how hard she works for that?” Heads turned. Whispers started, little barbs of judgment flying my way. I saw the scene play out exactly as it had before, a perfect, horrifying replica, and I knew with chilling certainty that I was back. Back on the first day of my freshman year. In my first life, this was the day Isla branded me. I became the ungrateful leech, the white-trash girl sucking her parents dry to live out some pathetic fantasy. And she, in turn, slipped seamlessly into my life, becoming the beloved, generous heiress. She thrived. When I had confronted her then, she had just laughed. “It’s about presentation, Lucy. I just have a certain… quality. I look the part more than you do. It’s no wonder they believe me.” I’d felt the blood drain from my face. “You’re twisting everything. You started a witch hunt online. My private information is plastered all over the campus forums. You need to tell them the truth. You need to fix this.” Isla had rolled her eyes, a perfect picture of boredom. “No. Why would I? I’m not the one getting hate mail. It’s not my problem.” She’d fed the fire daily, spinning tales to her new friends. “I just don’t know what to do about Lucy,” she’d sigh dramatically over lattes. “It’s so sad. Her family has nothing, and she’s forcing them into debt just to keep up this facade. It’s pathological.” I finally snapped. I found her in the student center, ready to scream the truth in front of everyone. But Isla was always one step ahead. She gave a subtle nod to her clique. They surrounded me, clamping a hand over my mouth, and dragged me into the nearest women’s restroom. They locked me in a stall as bucket after bucket of ice-cold water crashed down on my head. The memory of Isla’s vicious, triumphant face then merged with the smug expression she wore now. “My family has more money than you can dream of, Lucy,” she was saying, her voice a condescending purr. “The scholarship I give you? It’s less than what I’d spend on a handbag.” “But I’m not a fool. I won’t just throw money away. If you don’t start focusing on your studies and showing a little gratitude, I might just have to reconsider my investment in you.” 2 A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Have you bothered to check the balance on your bank account before spouting that nonsense?” I took a step closer, enjoying the flicker of confusion in her eyes. “Your memory must be short. Wasn’t it just last week you were in tears, telling me your family couldn’t afford tuition, that you’d have to drop out? You begged me, literally begged me to ask my mother to help you. Did you forget that part already?” Isla scoffed, crossing her arms. “That’s hilarious. This jacket alone is worth more than your entire wardrobe. You really expect anyone to believe I need your charity? Look at you. You look like you bought that top from a clearance rack at Walmart.” I glanced down at my Loewe tank top. It was simple, understated. And five hundred dollars. I closed the distance between us in three long strides. Her eyes widened in shock as my palm connected with her cheek. And then again with the other. I didn’t stop there. I grabbed the stolen Celine jacket, my fingers digging into the fine fabric, and peeled it off her. I crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into a nearby trash can. “A parasite living in my house for a few weeks and you already think you have the right to steal my clothes? You’ve got a hell of a nerve.” Isla’s eyes darted to the trash can, a flash of genuine pain on her face. Then her gaze snapped back to mine, filled with venom. “Are you insane? Who said you could throw that away?” All she had on underneath was a tiny black bralette, and she instinctively crossed her arms over her chest. Our driver, Art, saw the commotion in the rearview mirror. He quickly got out, grabbing a new jacket from the back seat. “Lucy, what are you doing? Why would you get physical with Miss Isla?” I froze, turning slowly to face him. “What did you just say, Art?” A driver who called me by my first name, but referred to the charity case as Miss Isla? Art saw the red handprints blooming on Isla’s face and his tone shifted, becoming scolding. “Lucy, that was too much. You can’t just hit Miss Isla in front of all these people.” The warmth of the day turned to ice in my veins. “Art, I am the only daughter of this family. There is no Miss Isla.” I gestured to the jacket in his hand. “That Balenciaga is worth ten thousand dollars. You’ve worked for my family for a long time, so I’ll let this slide with a warning and dock one month of your pay. But if I ever see you giving my property to someone else again, I’ll find a new driver.” The color drained from Art’s face. He clearly hadn’t expected me to be so decisive, so brutal. “…Yes. Yes, ma’am.” 3 Dormitory B, fifth floor. Room 501. I finally wrestled my two largest suitcases up the five flights of stairs, my lungs burning, only to find our housekeeper, Maria, carefully making Isla’s bed. The dorms had a strict no-men-allowed policy, and I had a mountain of luggage, which is why I’d specifically asked Maria to come help me. But when I’d gone back downstairs to find her, she had vanished. I leaned against the doorframe, a cold smile playing on my lips. “Maria. My parents pay you a salary. Does Isla pay you now, too?” She jumped at the sound of my voice, turning to face me. “Oh, Lucy,” she said, flustered. “Isla just… she doesn’t know how to make a bed with hospital corners. I thought I’d help her get settled quickly, and then I was coming right back down for you.” Isla, meanwhile, was perched on her desk chair, leisurely sipping an iced Americano. She smirked at my sweat-drenched appearance. “Wow, it’s a hundred degrees out there, Lucy. You’re going to look like a drowned rat by the time you haul all ten of those suitcases up here. Have fun with that.” Maria shot Isla a nervous glance before turning back to me, her voice placating. “I’m almost done here, Lucy. Why don’t you go grab another suitcase, and I’ll be right down to help you.” “Maria,” I said, my voice sharp with annoyance. “If this job is too much for you, you can just say so.” Her hands froze over the duvet. “Why would you say something so serious?” she asked, her face a mask of hurt. My parents were always buried in work, rarely home. Art and Maria, a married couple, had been hired to look after me. They’d worked for us for thirty years, always diligent, always professional. They knew their place. Until my mother decided to sponsor Isla. “Honey,” Mom had said over the phone, “Dad and I are swamped. Would you like to have that girl we’re sponsoring come live with us? It might be nice to have some company.” “Sure,” I’d said, spitting out a watermelon seed. “Why not?” From the day Isla moved in, the lines started to blur. Whatever Isla craved, Maria would procure. Lobster, king crab, wagyu beef, imported cherries… anything expensive, Isla would request it. “You poor thing, you’ve had such a hard life,” Maria would coo. “Whatever you want to eat, Miss Isla, I’ll make it for you.” Meanwhile, I had asked for a simple glass of orange juice two weeks ago and was still waiting. 4 Reluctantly, Maria put down the bedsheet she was holding. When we got downstairs and she saw the sheer number of suitcases still lining the curb, her expression tightened. “Oh, Lucy, my old back injury is acting up again. The doctor said I really shouldn’t be lifting anything heavy…” I almost laughed. “Your back was fine when you were carrying Isla’s things, but it magically gives out when it’s time to carry mine? If you’re not feeling well, Maria, I can just tell my mother. She can give you a long vacation. A few years, maybe. To rest up.” Maria’s face went pale. “No, no, a vacation isn’t necessary! I just have to be careful.” She looked around, then pointed at Art. “Look, why don’t I take one of the small ones, and Art can help you with the rest?” Art shot her a look, trying to shut her up. I watched, stone-faced, as Maria circled the luggage, finally picking up the smallest, lightest vanity case. My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Maria. If my luggage is not in my room today, you can go directly to my father’s accountant, collect your final paycheck, and leave.” Her expression soured. She muttered something under her breath, a complaint, but Art cut her off. “Be quiet!” he hissed. “Miss Hayes pays us to work. You don’t make the daughter of the house carry her own bags. Now get all of it upstairs. Now.” Realization finally dawned on Maria. Terrified of losing her job, she grabbed a suitcase in each hand and started the long trek up the stairs. It took her eight trips. It took three hours. As she was leaving, she tried to smooth things over, her smile forced and placating. “You get some rest now, Lucy. Call me if you get hungry. I’ll bring you whatever you want.” 5 I came back from the dining hall with a takeout container of fiery ramen to find my roommates—the same ones who had tormented me in my past life—had all arrived. They shot me a venomous look. “I can’t believe our luck,” one of them, Brianna, said loudly. “Stuck in a room with a bloodsucking leech who wastes her parents’ life savings.” “I’m locking up all my valuables,” said the other, Chloe. “Who knows what might go ‘missing’ around here.” Isla, hearing her cue, looked at me with faux pity. “It’s not just that she’s a leech. She likes to pretend she’s me. She tells people she’s the one sponsoring me. I honestly think she might be, you know…” Isla tapped her temple meaningfully. “Sick.” Brianna made a gagging sound. “Some people don’t deserve charity. Instead of being grateful, instead of working her butt off to repay you, she tries to steal your identity? Honestly, Isla, you should just cut her off. Let her get kicked out of school.” Brianna. In my last life, more than half of the hundreds of hate posts about me were traced back to her account. I walked over to her, popped the lid off my still-steaming ramen, and calmly dumped it over her head. “Your mouth is a sewer,” I said sweetly. “Maybe this will rinse it out.” The thick, spicy broth clung to her hair, dripping down her face. After a moment of stunned silence, Brianna let out a piercing shriek, a stream of curses erupting from her mouth. “Are you crazy? You tried to burn me! This is assault! I’m telling the RA!” Isla jumped to her feet, pointing a finger at me. “You’re a monster, Lucy! It’s the first day and you’ve already disfigured your roommate! You get on your knees and apologize to her right now!” I just smiled. “Were you born without a brain, or did they cut it out with the umbilical cord?” Brianna spent the next hour in the shower, but still complained about the smell. Muttering threats, she stormed out to get a professional hair treatment. Isla announced she was taking the other two out for dinner to make up for the trauma. As they left, a thought struck me. I pulled out my phone. Isla was taking them out to dinner… with my money? I called my mother immediately. “Mom,” I said, no preamble. “I don’t want to sponsor Isla anymore. Can you please tell accounting to stop the payments?” My mother didn’t even hesitate. “Of course, honey. Her monthly allowance hasn’t gone out for this month yet. I’ll have them cancel it right now.” Isla’s family was dirt poor. On top of her tuition, my mother had arranged for a two-thousand-dollar monthly stipend for her expenses. Without that, let’s see how long she could keep up the act. The three of them didn’t get back until after midnight, slamming the door and chattering loudly about some guys they had met at a bar. 6 A message popped up in the freshman class group chat. It was the class president, suggesting a welcome party. Everyone was enthusiastic. [Sounds great! Where should we have it?] Brianna immediately typed: [Isla’s family has a huge villa! We should go there!] She looked up from her phone. “Isla? Is that cool?” “Of course,” Isla said without a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll just call the housekeeper and have her get things ready. You guys can even stay over for a couple of days if you want.” She typed back in the group: [Everyone’s welcome at my place! Let’s have a party!] Brianna and Chloe exchanged an ecstatic look. “This is going to be amazing!” Lying in my bed, I watched the notifications explode. I lowered my phone. “Did you happen to ask for my permission before inviting the entire class to my house?” Isla crossed her arms, sneering. “I don’t need your permission to invite friends to my own home. What does it have to do with you?” Brianna chimed in, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Wow, someone sounds jealous! Don’t worry, Lucy. It’s a class party. I’m sure you can come, too. It’ll be a good experience for a country bumpkin like you to see how the other half lives.” My jaw tightened. “That is my house. You have no right to make that decision, Isla.” Brianna burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. “Oh my god, you’re actually delusional. Your main character syndrome is getting seriously out of hand.” Chloe giggled. “Yeah, yeah, the villa is yours. The whole world is yours, okay? Whatever you say.” My expression turned to ice. “Fine,” I said, my voice low and even. “I can’t wait to see how you pull this off.” 7 I rolled over and sent a text to Maria. [Maria, I’ve decided to stop sponsoring Isla. She is no longer welcome in our home. Do not let her or any of her friends inside.] After the incident with the luggage, Maria was clearly on edge. She replied almost instantly. [Yes, Miss Lucy.] I yawned, turned off my phone, and went to sleep. For the next few days, there was no more talk of a party. The class group chat went quiet. 8 One night, I was walking back from the library. It was almost midnight, but the dorm was eerily silent. My room was empty. The rooms next door were dark. A strange feeling prickled at the back of my neck. I had a very bad feeling. I called an Uber and went straight to my family’s villa. From the street, I could see the house was ablaze with lights. The bass of some deafening pop song vibrated through the manicured hedges. I let myself in. The living room was a disaster zone. Beer bottles and snack wrappers littered every surface. Potato chip crumbs were ground into the Persian rug. Maria emerged from the kitchen with a platter of cut fruit, a cheerful smile on her face. When she saw me standing in the foyer, her eyes went wide with shock. “Lucy! You… what are you doing home?” I laughed, a humorless sound. “What? Do I need to make an appointment to visit my own house now?” Someone killed the music. The entire party went silent, and every single person turned to stare at me. Brianna’s voice cut through the silence, dripping with disdain. “You have no shame, do you? Isla didn’t even invite you, and you stalked her all the way here.” I arched an eyebrow. “Stalked her?” “Yeah,” she shot back. “How else would you know where Isla lives?” My eyes found Isla across the room. My voice was cold as steel. “I took pity on you, so I had my mother sponsor you. It’s clear now that you didn’t deserve a dime. Get out of my house. Now.” A flicker of pure hatred crossed Isla’s face before she masked it. She was still committed to the lie. “This is my house! Have you been reading too many fantasy novels? Can’t you tell the difference between reality and your pathetic delusions anymore?” She shook her head, a perfect imitation of concern. “I really think you should see a psychiatrist, Lucy. For your own good. It’s not healthy to let these things go untreated.” 9 “Yeah, seriously, get some help!” “Isla is so good to you, sponsoring you and everything, and this is how you repay her? You ungrateful bitch, get out!” The insults came from all corners of the room. But my attention was fixed on the wall above the fireplace. On the spot where our family portrait was supposed to be. The photo of me with my parents was gone. In its place was a portrait of Isla with my parents. For a few seconds, I couldn’t breathe. Then, a white-hot rage unlike anything I had ever felt surged through me. “Maria!” My voice cracked like a whip. “Who changed the photo in the living room?” Maria scurried over to me, her face pleading. “Lucy, please. This is Miss Isla’s first time having friends over. Whatever it is, can we please talk about it tomorrow?” I looked at her guilty, evasive eyes and felt nothing but contempt. “I gave you a direct order. I told you Isla was not to set foot in this house again. And you not only let her in, you let her throw a party? You’re fired. Effective immediately.” I raised my voice so everyone could hear. “And now, you’re going to tell all of them. Whose house is this? Mine, or Isla Corbin’s?” Brianna took a bite of a steak crostini and rolled her eyes. “Just tell her, Maria, so she can stop living in her fantasy world.” Maria looked at Isla, who was standing tall and defiant in the center of the room. Then her gaze shifted back to me. After a moment of agonizing internal debate, she spoke, her voice barely a whisper. “Lucy… Miss Isla was kind enough to sponsor your education. You can’t be so ungrateful. You should go.”

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The afterglow lasted all of ten seconds. Asher rolled off me, sated, and the next sound I heard wasn’t a whispered endearment, but the shrill, digital scream of the System in my head. 【Host, Affection Level has dropped from 99% to 60%! He is clearly unsatisfied with your performance.】 A knot of anxiety tightened in my gut. I spent the next three days spiraling, obsessing, trying to figure out how to improve my technique. And then I heard him, bragging to his friends. “Leah has no idea I can control her progress meter. “It’s like training a dog. She’s good, I bump up the affection level as a reward. She messes up, I drop it to force a course correction. “The first time we slept together? I didn’t get off, so I tanked the score to sixty percent. “I guarantee you, right now, she’s at home researching how to serve me better next time.” 1 A wave of boorish laughter echoed from the private room. I stood frozen in the hallway, a chill seeping into my bones that had nothing to do with the club’s air conditioning. Just three days ago, I was living in a fantasy, convinced my mission was about to succeed. Asher’s affection for me had hit 99%. I was on the one-yard line, a single step away from victory. That night, Asher had held me close, his voice a low rumble. “Leah, I want you.” He’d said that a union of body and soul was the highest expression of love. I’d nodded, compliant, and let myself fall into the rhythm of his movements. It was painful, but I was happy. This new layer of intimacy, I thought, would be the final push I needed to complete the mission and go home. I never imagined it. The moment it was over, Asher’s Affection Level plummeted to 60%. Barely a passing grade. I was baffled, assuming my inexperience had disappointed him. But it was never about me. It was about his control. Inside the booth, the laughter continued. I could hear his friends jeering. “When it comes to training women, Ash is the master. With a cheat code like that, how could Leah not be wrapped around your finger?” “Naturally,” Asher said, his voice thick with arrogance. “These mission girls… they’ll do anything to get that score to one hundred percent. “Take the other night. All I did was frown at her plain white underwear and dial down the affection. Next time? Bet you anything she’ll be in black lace, desperate to please me.” “Damn, dude, that’s genius! You’re a fucking legend, Ash!” “Oh, it wasn’t his idea,” a feminine voice purred next to him. She giggled, a sweet, sharp sound. “I’m the one who told Asher that if you want total control over a woman, you have to crush her emotionally. Make her doubt herself. Then, right when she’s about to break, you give her a little taste of sweetness. She’ll be putty in your hands.” “You’re a clever one, aren’t you?” Asher’s voice was laced with a syrupy affection I’d never heard him use with me. He was talking to the girl on his lap. He’d mentioned her before. Tessa. Lithe body, sultry eyes. The club’s infamous, untouchable VIP hostess. The room erupted in catcalls. “Look at you, Ash, a girl on each arm. You’ve got it made.” “Leah? Don’t make me laugh. She’s a clumsy amateur.” He pulled Tessa closer, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin. “This… this is what it’s really about.” Tessa leaned into him, tapping his chest playfully. “Liar. Then why are you still with her? Am I not enough fun for you?” “I need a wife. A well-behaved pet,” he said, without a hint of shame. “Besides, she’s been trying to complete this mission for so long, I almost feel sorry for her.” He looked down at Tessa, his eyes dark with a raw hunger. “But when it comes to what I want? I’ll always choose a little devil like you.” The two of them tangled together, drawing more hoots from the peanut gallery. “Ash, you’re playing with fire. Aren’t you afraid Leah will just give up?” “Impossible,” Asher said, his confidence absolute. “Every time she gets close to quitting, I just crank the affection back up to ninety-nine percent. With just one point to go, how could she ever walk away? “I’ll keep her dangling like that forever. Always one step away. Always mine to command.” 2 A suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. Asher was right. To get the affection to 100%, I would have done anything. I was so desperate to go home. Three years ago, I was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The doctors gave me two months. Then, the System’s invitation appeared: complete a ‘mission’ in this alternate world, and I could return to my own, fully healed. I agreed without a second thought. I was a drowning woman, and this was my driftwood. I threw my entire being into the mission. Anything to raise Asher’s affection level. I swallowed my pride, sanded down my edges, and reshaped myself into the woman I thought he wanted. For three years, every time the score dropped, I would frantically replay every moment, searching for my mistake. I would correct, verify, and adjust. If the number ticked back up, I knew I’d done the right thing. That was how I became his perfect girlfriend. That was how I clawed my way to 99%. This time was no different. I thought if I just studied up, if I could just make him happy in bed, I could win back his affection. So I dedicated myself to it. I watched porn, read erotica, and even bought textbooks. The Joy of Sex, The Hite Report, Guide to Getting It On… I approached sex like a research project. But books weren’t enough. I came to the club tonight to observe, to learn how men and women flirted and connected in the wild. And then, walking past that private room, I heard everything. 3 I had come to the club to learn the art of seduction. Now, my intentions had changed. Wiping the tears from my face, I summoned the System for the first time in ages. “System, I want to go home. Help me forfeit the mission.” That single, overheard conversation had made one thing brutally clear: I would never, ever succeed with Asher. He was dangling a carrot in front of a donkey, and I was the donkey, mindlessly chasing it. Better to go back and spend my last two months with my parents than stay here and be his plaything. But my decision was met with a screech of digital protest. 【Forfeit? Are you insane?! You’re ranked number one out of this entire batch of Hosts!】 I was stunned. “Number one?” 【That’s right! I was counting on your success bonus to fund my retirement! If you quit now, what am I supposed to do?】 “Wait, I don’t understand.” I pulled up my mission panel, checking the numbers again. “Asher’s affection is at sixty percent. How can that possibly be number one?” The System scoffed. 【Who said the rankings are based on the final affection level? That’s an outdated, unscientific metric from the old systems.】 【Every mission has a different difficulty. Some targets start at ninety percent, others start in the negatives. Using a flat one-hundred percent as the goal for everyone is obviously unfair.】 【So, the new-generation Systems evolved. We now use affection volatility as the primary standard. The greater the fluctuation, the greater the emotional impact you’re having on the target.】 【And you, my dear Host, your affection level has been a rollercoaster. Constantly up and down. It proves that he is obsessed with you, fixated, unable to make up his mind.】 【That is true success!】 “…” It took me a moment to process the System’s corporate-speak. But I understood. It was precisely because Asher could manipulate my score at will that my data was so erratic. So volatile. He thought he was training a dog. But he had accidentally played right into the System’s new rules, rocketing me to the top of the leaderboard. A bitter, beautiful irony. A lifeline in the wreckage. Sensing my change of heart, the System pressed its advantage. 【Host, every one-percent change in affection, up or down, adds one point to your score. The rules state that two thousand points is a successful mission. Five thousand points gets you a ten-million-dollar cash bonus! We split it, fifty-fifty!】 【Right now, you’re only six hundred and sixty-six points away from that five thousand! Are you really going to throw away that kind of money?】 I asked carefully, “Are you saying I already succeeded? That I could have gone home, healthy, and you didn’t tell me?” The System had the decency to sound sheepish. 【Well, I wanted the bonus, too. And you’re so talented! You shot to the top of the charts in record time. Any system would be tempted!】 【I’m begging you, Host. Just a little more effort. Six hundred and sixty-six points is nothing for you!】 A fire ignited in my chest. Amid the surging emotions, I found a new, cold clarity. “Seventy-thirty. I get seven million, you get three. Agree, and I’ll keep going.” 【You… you…】 “Think carefully before you answer. If you hadn’t hidden the truth, I would have been home long ago. Why would I stay here and take another second of this abuse for your sake?” The System sputtered, stammered, and finally let out a long, theatrical wail. 【Fine! You drive a hard bargain! I’m being robbed blind by a ruthless capitalist!】

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The day my parents agreed to a “separation in place,” they made only one rule. Dad was in charge of my brother, Leo. Mom was in charge of me. From that day on, my dad treated my brother like a prince, showering him with time and money. For me, he had only one cold, dismissive sentence: “Go ask your mother.” But my mom was just as bad, fussing over the new fall wardrobe Leo needed. “Leo’s still so young,” she’d say. “Even though your father and I are separated, Leo is still my baby.” When I started my freshman year of college, I asked for my first monthly allowance and got a transfer for two hundred dollars. “Money’s really tight right now, sweetie,” she texted. “Try to make this work. If you’re really in a bind, I’ll see what I can do.” Forget three square meals a day; I had to skip my afternoon classes to work shifts as a waitress just to make rent. I had just turned down an invitation from my roommates to go out, and was sitting alone in my dorm, eating a cup of instant ramen. That’s when I saw the new set of car keys on my brother’s Instagram story. The caption read: “17 years old, scored a $40k ride, all cash. Half from Dad, half from Mom, and two kisses from me.” I stared at the picture they took at the dealership. A happy family of three. My brother, who didn’t even have a driver’s license yet, had a brand-new car. And me, on my birthday, I got an $88 Venmo transfer from my mom. The memo read: “Happy birthday, sweetie!” 1 That picture of their perfect little family felt like a knife in my gut. In the photo, my dad had his arm around my mom’s shoulders, while she held affectionately onto my brother’s arm. The three of them were beaming, standing in front of a brand-new, forty-thousand-dollar black SUV that served as a giant, gleaming monument to their hypocrisy. And then there was me. The so-called other member of this family. Sitting alone on a cold plastic chair in my college dorm, soaking a dry ramen noodle block in free hot water from the communal kitchen, trying to celebrate my nineteenth birthday. On my phone screen, that glaring “$88.00” transfer felt as nauseating as the hunger pains in my stomach. Rage, potent as gasoline, ignited in my chest. I didn’t text them. I didn’t cry. I calmly put down my cup of noodles, changed into the nicest outfit I owned, and called an Uber straight to the upscale steakhouse my brother had tagged in his post. The moment I pushed open the door to the private dining room, all the laughter and chatter died. Grandma, grandpa, aunts, uncles… all my relatives were there. They were all sitting around a massive round table, fawning over my underage brother, praising his future “brilliant career.” My dad’s face fell instantly. My mom’s smile froze, her eyes wide with shock and panic. I ignored everyone else, walked straight to my mother, and held my phone up for her to see. The screen showed two screenshots, side by side. One was my brother’s Instagram story with the $40,000 luxury car. The other was the $88 birthday payment she had sent me. My voice wasn’t loud, but it was crystal clear, laced with an icy sort of amusement that cut through the silence. “Mom, is this what ‘money’s tight’ looks like?” “Is this what you mean when you’re always saying, ‘You and your brother are the same, you’re both my children’?” The room went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop. My mother’s face went from flushed to pale, her lips trembling. She couldn’t get a single word out. My dad slammed his hand on the table and shot to his feet, pointing a finger at me. “Chloe! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” he roared. “It’s a happy day for your brother. Do you have to come here and ruin everything? Are you really going to throw a tantrum and embarrass us all over a couple of hundred bucks?” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that almost brought tears to my eyes. “You’re right, Dad. In your world, a forty-thousand-dollar car for Leo is no big deal, and me having enough money to eat is even less of one.” I scanned the faces of my relatives around the table, their expressions a mix of shock and discomfort. I continued, my voice slow and deliberate. “But Dad, you seem to have forgotten our agreement. You said you’d take care of Leo, and Mom would take care of me. Mom paid for half of Leo’s car. Isn’t that crossing a line?” “And Mom, you forgot too. You told me two hundred dollars a month was a struggle, that you couldn’t spare another dime. So where did the twenty thousand dollars for Leo’s car come from?” “How can the two of you stand there and bald-faced lie to your own daughter, together?!” By the end, I was practically shouting. My hands were shaking. My heart felt like it was bleeding. I thought our struggle was my mom’s struggle. I thought I was being a good daughter, helping her through a hard time. To save a few bucks on bus fare every day, I would walk forty minutes under the blazing summer sun to my waitressing job. When my roommates talked about the latest movies or trendy new coffee shops, I’d just smile and say I wasn’t interested. A single dinner out with them cost what I had budgeted for a full week of groceries. I’m an education major. The number of textbooks and materials I need to buy is insane. I never dared to ask for more money, so I’d spend hours in the library hoping the books I needed were available, or I’d swallow my pride and ask to borrow my classmates’ to photocopy the pages. I thought I was being considerate of a single mother’s hardship. And what was the reality? It wasn’t a mother’s struggle. It was a carefully constructed lie. She had money. She had twenty thousand dollars. She would just rather spend it on a son who can’t even legally drive than make sure her daughter wasn’t starving. Tears finally streamed down my mom’s face. She grabbed my hand, sobbing. “Chloe, honey, let me explain… It’s not like that… Your brother, he…” “He what?” I pulled my hand away, stepping closer. “He can’t drive because he’s a minor, or he can’t live without this car?” “You’d rather let a forty-thousand-dollar hunk of metal collect dust in the garage than let your actual, living daughter have a normal college experience.” “What are your hearts even made of?” My dad’s anger hit its peak. “That’s enough! Get the hell out of here!” “Leave?” I scoffed. “Fine. I’ll leave as soon as I’m finished.” I took a deep breath, held up my phone, and aimed it at the whole table of relatives, hitting the record button. “Today is my birthday. My mom gave me eighty-eight dollars. My brother got a forty-thousand-dollar car, paid for by both my parents. This is what ‘fairness’ looks like in our family.” “I just want to ask everyone here, have you ever seen fairness like this?” 2 I slammed the door on my way out, clutching the video that would bring my parents’ carefully curated image crashing down. That night, I didn’t block anyone. I did something much worse. I posted the video from the restaurant, along with the screenshots of my brother’s Instagram story and my $88 Venmo payment, directly to the family group chat. I also put it on my own Instagram feed. The caption was carefully crafted. “Nineteen years old, celebrating with ramen and tearfully congratulating my seventeen-year-old brother on his new car. A huge thank you to my parents for their ‘even-handed’ love. Wishing your perfect family of three a lifetime of happiness.” Finally, I made a public declaration: effective immediately, I would be working to pay for my own tuition and living expenses for the next four years. I would keep a detailed ledger and, within five years of graduation, I would pay back every single dollar my mother had spent on my “sole support,” with interest. After that, we would owe each other nothing. It was like dropping a bomb. The family group chat exploded, my phone buzzing nonstop with notifications. My relatives started calling, one after another. I ignored them all. My phone grew hot in my hand. The comment section on my Instagram post was a spectacle. Shock from my classmates, concern from my friends, and morbid curiosity from people I barely knew. I didn’t care. I wanted this out in the open. I wanted everyone to see the favoritism and hypocrisy hiding behind my parents’ masks of loving providers. Giving up the chance to live a comfortable life with my dad was a choice I made when I was too young to know better. The day my parents announced their “separation in place,” I saw the despair in my mom’s eyes. My dad’s business was booming back then; he was confident and successful, while my mom was a stay-at-home-mom with no career. Everyone assumed that life with Dad meant security, and life with Mom meant struggle. My brother was just a little kid, his eyes glued to the new video game console in my dad’s hands. In that moment, I felt like I had to be the responsible older sister. I had to be understanding. So I told her, “Mom, I’ll stay with you. With just me, it’ll be less of a burden.” She hugged me and cried, telling me I was her good, sweet daughter. Thinking back on it now, it was the biggest joke of my life. My maturity was taken for granted. My sacrifice was seen as voluntary. They happily accepted my consideration, then poured all their love, energy, and money, without reservation, into the brother I had “given up” for them. They weren’t separated. They had just found a socially acceptable way to surgically remove me from their core family unit. The fallout was even more intense than I had imagined. The next day, my relatives began their campaign of guilt-tripping. First, it was my aunt. Her voice was full of disappointment. “Chloe, how could you be so immature? You don’t air your family’s dirty laundry in public! Think about how this makes your parents look!” I replied calmly, “Auntie, when I didn’t have enough money to eat, where was my face? How do you think that made me look?” Next was my uncle, trying to appeal to my emotions. “Your mother had a tough time raising you. She just made a mistake. How can you push her like this? Just delete the post. Shouldn’t families stick together?” I said, “Uncle, I’m not the one who isn’t sticking with the family. They never treated me like I was part of it. She had a tough time? You think my life has been easy?” The most ridiculous was some second cousin I barely know, who decided to get on her high horse in the group chat. “Kids these days are unbelievable. So jealous of her brother’s car that she’s willing to destroy her own family! Absolutely no gratitude!” That was the last straw. I didn’t argue with them one by one. I went straight to the family group chat, with its two hundred-plus members, and posted a long message. “@everyone, thank you all for your ‘concern.’ Regarding my ‘immaturity,’ I’d like to address this once and for all: First, to anyone who thinks my mom had it so tough raising me all by herself, please, feel free to show some family solidarity and take over that financial responsibility. I promise to be eternally grateful. I’ll even send you a Christmas card every year. Second, to anyone who thinks my brother’s $40,000 car was a great purchase, please, show a little of that family unity you’re all talking about and help me pay off my $30,000 in student loans. I think we can all agree that’s a much better investment than a chunk of metal. Third, if you are unwilling or unable to do either of the above, then please shut up. Talk is cheap. It’s easy to lecture from the sidelines when you’re not the one getting hurt.” After I sent that message, the group chat went completely silent again. All the relatives who had been so self-righteous moments before were suddenly quiet. I knew it. The second money gets involved, they have nothing to say. That afternoon, my brother showed up at the restaurant where I work. He stood by the entrance, looking hurt and confused. “Chloe, how could you do this? You’ve made our family problems public knowledge. Mom and Dad are losing their minds over this!” I looked at his designer-brand clothes and the latest iPhone in his hand and just felt the bitter irony of it all. “When they gave me eighty-eight bucks for my birthday, did they ever think that I might be losing my mind?” I cracked a smile. “How about we trade?” “The car for me, the eighty-eight dollar birthday Venmo for you. What do you say?” “From now on, I’ll be Mom and Dad’s precious baby, and you can eat ramen and bus tables. Come on, experience what it feels like for me.” The color drained from Leo’s face. “That’s… that’s not the same…” Of course he wouldn’t do it. He was used to a life of comfort, of having everything handed to him. He was used to being the center of their universe. I rolled my eyes, done with the conversation, and turned to head back to the kitchen. “If it’s not the same, then there’s nothing more to talk about.” With things having escalated this far, my parents finally realized they couldn’t ignore me anymore. They asked to meet me at a coffee shop, to “talk things through properly.” The second we sat down, my dad put on his stern-father act, playing the bad cop. His face was a mask of fury. “Are you done with this circus? You’ve turned this entire family upside down over nothing! You’re a disgrace!” My mom sat next to him, playing the good cop. Her eyes were red and puffy as she cried about how hard it was to raise me and how ungrateful I was being. They were a well-rehearsed team, perfectly in sync, painting me as the villain of the story. I waited until their performance was over, then slowly picked up my coffee and took a sip. “Are you finished?” I put the cup down, my gaze steady. “Good. Now it’s time to hear my solution.” They both stared at me, stunned. I smiled faintly and threw out a proposal they never could have anticipated. “You two love Leo more than anything, right? You’re always saying how he’s the hope of the family, your future security.” “Fine. I’ll make it easy for you.” “Let’s do this. The house we all live in—sign it over to Leo. And I, Chloe, will voluntarily go to a notary and sign a legally binding document renouncing all rights to my inheritance.”

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I had a deal with the billionaire CEO, Isabelle Duke. After I proposed to her for the ninety-ninth time, she would meet me at City Hall on the one-hundredth. But on that day, Isabelle didn’t show up. Instead, she was at a sold-out concert with her pet project, a young starlet named Asher Cole. A clip of them sharing a sweet, lingering kiss for the jumbotron camera went viral, and a new trending topic was born. At the same time, I went viral for a different reason. The man who stood alone at the steps of City Hall for the one-hundredth time. Everyone was guessing who the mysterious, unseen woman could be. And they were all betting on how long it would be until I made proposal number one hundred and one. When Isabelle finally realized she’d broken our promise, she was consumed by a rare wave of guilt. She swore to me that she would be there for the one hundred and first time. But when she arrived at City Hall, a vision in a custom-made wedding gown, her phone buzzed with a text from me. “Isabelle, there won’t be a one hundred and first time. We’re over. Goodbye.” 1. I proposed to Isabelle Duke one hundred times. And every single time I stood on the cold stone steps of City Hall, she would be somewhere else with her latest flame, making a spectacle of their new love. Maybe it was an amusement park. Maybe it was a concert. Once, it was even at City Hall itself, getting a marriage license just for the thrill of it, only to file for divorce the next day. A quick hit of adrenaline. The one thing I dreamed of, the one thing I ached for, was nothing but a game to her. I shut off my phone and sat on the curb, waiting for the car I’d called. A long time passed. The car never came, but a call from Isabelle did. The moment I answered, her voice, sharp and cold as ice, cut through the phone. “It’s late. Why aren’t you home? Don’t you think about how it looks, my fiancé staying out all night?” “Where are you?” she demanded. I said nothing. The old me would have folded instantly, my voice soft and apologetic as I explained myself. But now… now I couldn’t be bothered to speak. A flicker of annoyance crept into her tone. “Leo, are you mute?” “City Hall,” I said, my voice flat. Isabelle went silent. I could almost hear the gears turning in her head as she finally, finally remembered the promise she’d made. That after ninety-nine proposals at the steps of City Hall, she would appear on the one-hundredth and say yes. But today, she had chosen to go to a concert with Asher Cole. “I… wait for me. I’ll come get you.” She hung up. I cancelled the ride. Not because I had any hope left for her, but because the weather had turned. A sudden, heavy snow began to fall. I stood on the corner, shivering in the biting wind. The abrupt cold was brutal on my phone’s battery; it died within three hours. Isabelle never came. The last thing I saw before the screen went dark was a new post on Asher Cole’s Instagram story. A selfie of him and Isabelle in front of her car, her profile half-turned to the camera as snowflakes dusted her hair. The caption read: “One snowfall together, a lifetime to go.” In the reflection of the dead screen, I saw myself smile. A real smile. One of release. On the day of our one-hundredth promise, she chose him. As I waited for her in a snowstorm, she was making memories with him. I had given her five years of my life, waiting for a single promise. In the end, it turned to ash. Isabelle Duke, I’m done waiting. 2. That night, I didn’t go home. I dragged my frozen body two hours through the snow to the nearest hotel. Isabelle didn’t send a single text. Didn’t make a single call. The next morning, I was at the office early, drafting my resignation. Isabelle was the founder of the company. I was just a business manager. I’d been by her side since she had nothing, yet even now, with her empire built, my presence felt just as insignificant. If I vanished, she wouldn’t even notice. Just as my pen was about to form the last letter of my name, Isabelle appeared behind me. I met her gaze in the reflection of my monitor, my expression placid, and calmly switched screens as if nothing had happened. “What are you writing?” she asked, her voice crisp. “Nothing. Just some client contracts.” Her brow furrowed slightly. Seemingly satisfied, she turned and walked toward her office. “Leo, my office. Now.” The moment I was gone, the office erupted in hushed whispers. “It’s over for him. Leo’s about to get reamed out by Ms. Duke again.” In this company, everyone knew Asher Cole was the heir apparent. No one knew I was her fiancé. In her office, Isabelle looked at me, her brow furrowed in annoyance. “Is it really that big of a deal? I didn’t pick you up, so you decided not to come home at all? Are you trying to make a scene?” I shook my head. “The snow was too heavy. It wasn’t safe to drive.” It was the truth, but it was also an excuse. The real reason was that I never wanted to go back. I wanted to leave for good. Isabelle didn’t seem to notice the shift in me. After a moment of silence, she said, “About the proposal… I accept.” She slid an envelope across her desk. “Tonight. With me.” They were front-row tickets to my favorite classical orchestra. I knew it was her way of compensating me, a transaction. I thought about it, then took the tickets. After all, it was a debt she owed me. Seeing my silence, Isabelle opened her mouth to say something else, but a sharp ring from her phone cut her off. She glanced at the screen and her entire demeanor changed. She left the room without another word. I knew who it was. It had to be Asher. He was the only one who could make Isabelle Duke drop everything. Before I left her office, I printed my resignation letter and took it to VP Evans. He looked at the letter, then at me, his eyes wide with surprise. “Leo, you’re resigning? Is this because of Ms. Duke?” I pressed my lips together. It was almost funny. They all thought I was leaving because I couldn’t handle a scolding. They had no idea it was because my heart had been shattered into a million irreparable pieces. When I nodded, VP Evans let out a long sigh and signed the form. As I was walking out of the building, I ran straight into Isabelle and Asher. The entire city knew he was her prized possession. Isabelle’s eyes darkened when she saw me. “Leo, whatever it is, report it later.” She started to walk past me, Asher in tow. As he passed, he shot me a look that was pure venom, a clear warning. I said nothing. That evening, I went to the concert on time. The hall was packed, every seat filled except for the one beside me. Isabelle’s seat. In the past, I would have waited for her in the lobby, no matter how late she was. This time, I went in alone. The music was beautiful. By the time it ended, she still hadn’t arrived. I wasn’t angry. My five years had already been wasted. What was one more broken promise? Whether she ever saw my resignation letter or not, it didn’t matter. My decision was made. 3. After the concert, I didn’t go home. I wandered along the waterfront, watching the city lights glitter on the dark water. The sky suddenly exploded in a cascade of fireworks. A brilliant, booming rain of light. It didn’t stir a single thing in me. My phone, however, was blowing up. Not with worried texts from Isabelle, but with news alerts. The fireworks were for Asher. A city-wide birthday present from her. It was after midnight when I finally returned to the penthouse. The living room lights were on. Isabelle was asleep on the sofa. Was she waiting for me? For five years, it had always been the other way around. She’d come home drunk, and I’d be the one waiting up, calling her a dozen times, a pot of ginger tea ready on the stove to soothe her stomach. She always told me she hated it when I did that. She said it made her feel old. The sound of the door must have woken her. She shot up, saw me, and rushed over, throwing her arms around me. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you answer your phone? Do you have any idea how worried I was? I was about to call the police!” I froze, then gently extricated myself from her grip and pulled out my phone. The screen was black. “It got too cold. The battery died.” The mention of the snow seemed to remind her. A rare look of guilt flickered across her face. She bit her lip, then awkwardly thrust a small, velvet box at me. I took it automatically. Inside was a diamond ring. For a moment, I was stunned. How many times had I dreamed of this? Of Isabelle, standing on the steps of City Hall, holding out her hand for me to slide this very ring onto her finger. But that was the old me. Now, I felt nothing. I closed the lid and casually tossed the box onto the coffee table. “Thanks.” Isabelle stared at me, her beautiful brow furrowed. She couldn’t comprehend my polite detachment. “What’s wrong with you?” I glanced at her, and a strange sort of clarity washed over me. I knew what she’d expected. She thought I’d gasp, that my eyes would fill with tears of joy, that I would forget all the pain and humiliation and fall at her feet. A humorless smirk twisted my lips. I decided to give her what she wanted. “Oh,” I said, my voice dripping with fake enthusiasm. “Wow. I’m so happy!” I looked her dead in the eye. “Satisfied?” I thought that would be the end of it, but my sarcasm only angered her. “Leo, is this necessary? All I did was show Asher around the office.” “And I already said I’d marry you. How long are you going to keep this act up?” Her dark expression didn’t faze me. I just plugged my phone in to charge. “You’re mistaken. I’m not acting. I’m just tired.” Her face tightened. For the first time, she seemed to register the profound, unbreachable distance in my attitude. She bit her lip and reached for my hand. Just then, my newly-charging phone began to ring, a frantic, urgent sound that made her flinch. It was him. She looked at me, about to offer an explanation, but I spoke first. “You’re busy. You don’t have to explain. I get it.” My understanding seemed to stun her more than my anger ever could have. She gripped my hand tighter, a desperate need in her eyes to understand what had changed. But the phone kept ringing. Finally, under my calm, steady gaze, she let go. “The one hundred and first proposal,” she said, her voice strained. “I’ll be there.” Then she was gone. I went to my room as if nothing had happened, and had the best night’s sleep I’d had in five years. Once my handover at work was complete, Isabelle Duke would never see me again. 4. When I got to the office, my colleague Mike pulled me aside before I could even get to my desk. “Leo, man, you’re in for it today.” I looked at him, confused. I was already a ghost here. What trouble could I possibly be in? Mike pointed ahead. My desk, my space for the last five years, was now occupied by Asher Cole. He explained that today was Asher’s first official day. When it came time to pick a desk, he’d pointed directly at mine. I walked over calmly. Asher looked up as I approached, a smug, dismissive smirk on his face. “I like this spot. You can go find somewhere else.” I looked at him and nodded. “Okay. I just need to pack my things.” My lack of protest was misinterpreted by everyone watching. They saw a man defeated, bowing to the new favorite. No one dared to say anything, but the air was thick with their pitying glances and whispered comments. I finished packing the last of my personal items into a cardboard box. Just as I was about to leave, Isabelle appeared. Asher immediately rushed to her side, taking her hand. Isabelle allowed it, leading him to the center of the office. “Everyone, this is Asher Cole. He’ll be joining our team starting today. Please make him feel welcome.” A scattered, lukewarm applause filled the room. Isabelle didn’t seem to care. “Have you picked a desk?” she asked him. Asher immediately pointed. “I want that one!” Following his finger, Isabelle’s gaze landed on my old desk, and then on me, standing beside it with a box in my arms. Her expression faltered. “That spot is taken,” she said, her voice tight. “Pick another.” To everyone’s surprise, she had refused him. But Asher was determined. He clung to her arm, whining like a spoiled child. “But Izzy, I want that one. It’s closer to your office. I can see you from there.” I had no interest in watching their soap opera unfold. “He can have the desk,” I said, my voice clear and even. I was leaving. What did I care about a stupid desk? Asher shot Isabelle a triumphant look. “See? He’s fine with it.” Isabelle’s gaze snapped to me, her expression unreadable but dark. She turned back to Asher, her eyes now cold as steel. “I said, that desk is taken. Choose another.” The Isabelle who spoiled him, who indulged his every whim, was gone. In her place was a furious CEO. Asher was so stunned he didn’t know how to react. The atmosphere was thick with tension. Isabelle gave me one last, fleeting glance, then turned on her heel and stalked back to her office. Asher scrambled to follow her, but not before shooting me a hateful glare over his shoulder. It was funny. I used to be him, always one step behind her, chasing a shadow. The only difference was, I chased it for five years. As I was heading for the door, my phone buzzed. A text from Isabelle. [Tomorrow. The 101st proposal. I’ll be waiting.] I smiled, blocked her number, and deleted her contact. After saying goodbye to my colleagues, I walked out of that building for the last time. I went home, picked up my already-packed suitcase, and went to the airport. The next day, Isabelle Duke, dressed in a stunning white gown, arrived at City Hall.

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I’m an NPC in a horror game, but because I look so harmless, everyone mistakes me for a new player. The veteran players are trying to force me to scout ahead—to be their cannon fodder. The punchline? The monsters see me and start shaking in their boots. Sorrowland Amusement Park has a welcome banner strung across the entrance: [A Royal Welcome to Our Dearest Princess!] The General Manager himself is bowing and scraping, personally seeing to every detail. “Cue the orchestra! More flowers here! And wipe down that filth! If you so much as startle the princess, I will personally rip your head from your shoulders!” Oh, did I forget to mention? My father is the final, undisputed boss of this entire game. And all the monsters? They respectfully call me the Princess. 1. I’m on vacation at Sorrowland Amusement Park. It’s a Nightmare-level instance, the kind no one comes back from. That’s what I’m told, anyway. Right now, everyone is staring at me. “We’re a regular fireteam, been running instances together for months. Where did you pop up from?” A girl with a calculatedly innocent, doll-like face takes half a step back. “Don’t tell me she’s a newbie.” A man in a cheap, sweat-stained suit looks me up and down, his gaze slick with contempt. “Bad luck, getting dropped into a team instance. Well, I guess she can scout ahead for us.” The man standing in the center of their group, the one they all seem to orbit, extends a proverbial olive branch. He’s older, with a practiced, gentle smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Alright now, don’t scare the new girl.” He turns that smile on me. “I’m Marcus, the team leader. This instance is extremely difficult, which is why we came as a squad. Do you want to stick with us?” Extremely difficult? Hmm. Mom and Dad did say the rides at this park were really intense. That’s why they sent people to play with me. Is this charming older man the playmate Mom and Dad picked out? They never told me my playmate would be human. Oh, well. Whatever! Mom and Dad are usually so strict, and whenever I go out, I’m suffocated by an entourage of attendants. It took weeks of begging to get this chance to go somewhere by myself, just because they had some important business to attend to. “Yes, yes! I’d love to!” I nod enthusiastically. To them, it just looks like I’m desperate to latch onto a powerhouse player. The doll-faced girl’s expression sours, and the others eye me with open disdain. The live-stream comments are already flying. 【Marcus is a top-tier player, but he’s such a creep. Looks like the new girl is his next target.】 【Hey, Trixie is our team’s one and only mascot! What gives this newbie the right to butt in?】 【It’s a no-survival instance, they need a full squad. My guess is they’ll use her for trial and error. Make her scout with her life.】 … “Hey. Are you coming or not?” the doll-faced girl, Trixie, calls out impatiently. This is great! Time to hit the rides! I scamper to catch up. I see a flicker of suspicion in Marcus’s eyes. He mutters under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear, “Who comes into a Nightmare-level instance this happy? Is she an idiot?” Usually, every creature in existence fawns over me. This is the first time anyone has dared to call me an idiot. I frown. “Aren’t you afraid your boss will tear your soul to shreds for that?” A look of smug certainty replaces the suspicion in his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. With a face that pretty, she can be an idiot. I’ve never tasted one before.” I’m not an idiot! I just prefer to take it easy! Dad! Your subordinate is insulting me! Just you wait. After I’ve had my fun at the park, I’ll discard you all like broken toys. I’ll have every last one of these “playmates” banished. 2. The amusement park is technically open for business. The lights flicker on and off, and a creaky, tinny nursery rhyme drifts through the air: “Puppet, puppet, smiling wide, drinks your blood and eats your hide.” A shiver runs through the group. 【This is Sorrowland, all right. Wonder if this team is going to get wiped out too.】 【Wait, the newbie probably doesn’t have points for a ticket. Does that mean she’s gonna get insta-killed at the gate?】 【Uh oh. Marcus’s ‘tastes’ don’t only apply to the living.】 I watch as they hand over their entry tickets one by one. From the other side of the wrought-iron fence, Marcus stares at my excited face and licks his lips. “I can use my points to buy you a ticket, but… nothing’s free.” His gaze drops to my chest. Could he have figured it out? That I’m not human? I instinctively pull my collar higher, covering the thin red thread that stitches my head to my neck. “Weren’t you just desperate to join us? What’s with the sudden shyness?” Trixie sneers. “It’s not like Marcus hasn’t done it with a warm corpse before.” She presses herself against his arm. “See, brother? She’s no fun at all. Not obedient like me, am I?” What are they even talking about? I don’t get it. My family owns this horror game. Why would I need a ticket? I bounce on my toes and head straight for the ticket booth, letting a tiny sliver of my true aura leak out. The creature at the counter, its mouth dripping blood, starts its usual spiel: “Ticket, please…” It trails off as it catches my scent. The creature’s eyes widen in terror. It shoves its own eyeballs back into their sockets and scrambles away, half-falling, half-crawling. “Your Highness! Please, come in, right this way!” Silence falls over the entrance. The lights all flicker on at once, bright and steady. The nursery rhyme cuts off abruptly, replaced by a cheerful rendition of “Jingle Bells.” I stroll into the park. Turning back to their horrified faces, I beam. “Well, come on! I can’t wait to get started!” 3. A strange, uneasy quiet settles over the group. Marcus’s eyes, for the first time, hold a sliver of fear. “Hurry up,” I urge them. “You’re supposed to play with me.” I pout. “Honestly, what is my father thinking? He said there would be a special reception. Where is everyone? There’s no spectacle at all.” The fear in Marcus’s eyes vanishes, replaced by understanding. The comment section explodes. 【What was that about? Why did the ticket-taker run away? I thought its whole purpose was to trick players into breaking a rule so it could eat them.】 【I heard a VIP was supposed to visit the park today. It probably went off to prepare for the reception.】 【Did the new girl just get insanely lucky? This is the strongest team out there, no wonder she was sucking up to Marcus. She’s about to get carried through the whole instance.】 My aura had shielded them from hearing the creature’s respectful title for me, so they’re completely clueless. Before they can puzzle it out, a tour guide creature materializes behind them. “What rotten luck,” it grumbles. “Some group had to force their way into the instance right before she arrives. Now we all have to work overtime. The big boss said the park was booked for a private party. Guess we’d better deal with these… tourists… quickly.” The creature is practically radiating resentment. “Follow me. First up is the Scream Weaver roller coaster.” With a huff, it starts walking, leaving a trail of dripping sludge in its wake. When we reach the base of the coaster, the guide turns around, sees me, and leaps back as if electrocuted. Then it vanishes into thin air. “Gods! That scared the death out of me! What if the ground is dirty and it soils her dress? I have to go clean!” Its sudden departure leaves the players staring at each other. “Newbie. You go first,” the sleazy man, Gideon, says, a malicious grin spreading across his face. “Watch out. The coaster has a habit of taking your head off.” Oh, good. He has some sense after all. He knows to let me go first. This one might be a better playmate than Marcus. My fingers drift to the stitched line on my neck. I guess Mom will have to sew me up again. But the coaster car looks so… grimy. I wrinkle my nose. A pulse of my aura expands outwards, blanketing the entire park, a silent summons to the person in charge. “Hey! Gideon was talking to you!” Trixie shoves me. The next second, the team communication watches on each of their wrists crackle, then explode in a shower of sparks, shrieking an electronic alarm. 【WARNING: HIGH-LEVEL ENTITY DETECTED. GENERAL MANAGER INBOUND! GENERAL MANAGER INBOUND!】 The color drains from every player’s face. Marcus’s face turns a blotchy purple, but he forces a calm tone. “Something’s wrong. Terribly wrong. The General Manager never shows up this early. Quick! Find cover, now!” The team scatters like rats. As she runs, Trixie gives me one last, vicious shove. The weather in the park shifts violently. The sky darkens, and lightning cracks overhead. An enraged roar echoes through the park, so sharp and piercing it makes you want to claw your own ears off. “WHAT LITTLE PEST IS RUINING THE PRINCESS’S WELCOME CEREMONY?” The area is deserted. The team is hidden. I’m left standing alone in the center of the park. The shrieking creature circles in the sky above, a whirlwind of rage, before descending right in front of me. “Was it you, you little pest?”

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He always cherished me, swearing that his only birthday wish, year after year, was for us to have a child. For our fifth anniversary, I clutched the positive pregnancy test in my purse and slipped aboard the same yacht, melting into the masked ball I knew he was hosting. I was going to give him the ultimate surprise. Instead, I found him on the starlit deck with another woman, wrapped in an embrace that screamed honeymoon, not a business gala. My world tilted. I stumbled, knocking over a tower of champagne flutes. The crash echoed in the sudden silence. His brow furrowed in annoyance. He didn’t recognize me behind the Venetian mask and elaborate makeup. He snapped his fingers, and his security team materialized from the shadows. “Get this damn trash out of my sight,” he snarled, his voice a low thunder that vibrated through the deck. “She’s ruining the surprise honeymoon I planned for my wife.” He then turned to the woman in his arms, his voice softening to a caress. “Sweetheart, you’ve always wanted to see sharks up close, haven’t you? We’ll give them a little taste. Bleed her, and draw them in.” I dropped to my knees, the words catching in my throat, ready to beg, to tell him I was pregnant. But he just sneered, his polished Italian shoe connecting with my stomach in a brutal kick. “Oh, look at that,” he drawled, a cruel smirk playing on his lips as I gasped for air. “A pregnant bitch. Even better. My girl gets to see what a live feeding looks like.” Then, he pressed the cold muzzle of a pistol to my knee. “Break her legs first. I don’t want her spoiling the show.” 1 “Damn it, she’s a tough one, isn’t she?” Damien Blackwood’s voice was a blade of ice from somewhere above me. The kick had sent me flying, my back slamming against the ship’s railing with a sickening crack. A supernova of pain exploded from my spine, shooting straight to my skull. I curled into a ball on the cold teak deck, my hands instinctively shielding my abdomen. Our baby. The child Damien and I had prayed for, for five long years. Thick, theatrical makeup, meant for the masquerade, was now a grotesque, colorful paste streaked with cold sweat and tears. I tried to speak, to scream his name, but a rough hand tangled in my hair, yanking my head back. He shoved my face into a towering anniversary cake on a nearby table. Buttercream and sugary frosting clogged my nose and mouth. The cloying sweetness mingled with the primal terror of suffocation, and I began to thrash wildly. And the architect of this nightmare was my husband of five years, Damien. I heard a woman’s saccharine voice. “Darling, don’t you think this is a bit much?” Damien chuckled, a cold, empty sound. He pulled her waist possessively against his. “Baby, you’re too kind. This piece of trash ruined our honeymoon. She doesn’t get to walk away so easily. You wanted to see sharks? I’m giving you a front-row seat.” My blood ran cold. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it. This vicious, terrifying monster was the same man who had worshipped the ground I walked on. We met in college, a whirlwind romance that led to the altar. In the five years since, he had carved my name into the city’s list of untouchables, a name whispered with fear and respect in circles both legal and not. Even the corner hustlers would change direction if they saw me carrying a latte. The day he slipped the ring on my finger, a new file appeared in his office safe: the deed to every asset, every company, every shell corporation, with my name signed as the sole beneficiary. And now, the man who built a fortress around me was the one tearing me apart. Before I could process the whiplash, Damien snapped his fingers. Two of his men hoisted me up by my arms. “Bleed her,” he ordered, his tone as casual as if he were ordering dinner. “Lure them in.” My voice, when it finally came, was a raw, ragged shriek. I clawed at the guards, my nails digging bloody furrows into their forearms. The next second, a leather shoe ground down on my fingers, a pain so sharp and absolute it felt like a thousand needles driving into the bone. I heard the distinct crack of my own knuckles breaking. This wasn’t a threat. This was real. Primal survival instinct took over. I swallowed my pride, the agony, everything. I shuffled forward on my shattered knees, my hand trembling as I grabbed the cuff of his tailored trousers. Tears mixed with the frosting smeared across my face. “Mmph…” I tried to speak, but my throat was still blocked with cake. I clutched my stomach as a violent cramp seized me, sharp and terrifying. “Ah!” A strangled cry escaped my lips. I collapsed, and a river of crimson flowed down the inside of my thighs, staining the pristine deck a shocking, lurid red. The violent movement dislodged a folded piece of paper from my dress pocket. It fluttered to the deck, landing right in Damien’s line of sight. My name at the top was obscured by a fold, but the words [CONFIRMED PREGNANCY] were stark and clear under the moonlight. He glanced down, his gaze colder than the ocean itself. “Well, would you look at that,” he said, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face. “A pregnant bitch. Perfect. Now my baby gets to see what it looks like when you feed a fetus to the sharks.” I lay twisted on the deck, my body a raging fire of pain. The blood pooled around me. No! I shook my head desperately, trying to crawl, to move, to do anything. The cramping in my abdomen was so intense it was stealing my thoughts. Damien watched me from above, that monstrous smile still playing on his lips. Then, he leveled the gun at my knee again. “Break her legs,” he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. “I don’t want her thrashing around and ruining the main event.” 2 I forced my heavy eyelids open, seeing only the merciless silhouette of my husband against the moon. In that instant, despair consumed me whole. A deafening BANG ripped through the night. The bullet tore through my kneecap. I tried to scream, but they had stuffed a rag in my mouth, turning my agony into a muffled, pathetic whimper. Blood gushed from the wound, spreading across the deck in a warm, sickening tide. Through a haze of excruciating pain, I finally got a clear look at the woman’s face. It was Hannah. A university student Damien had recently sponsored through a new charity initiative. She stood beside him in a pure white sundress, looking like some fragile, innocent blossom. But her eyes, fixed on me, were glittering with a rabid excitement. She was devouring the sight of my suffering. “Darling, look at all that blood!” she cooed, feigning fear as she burrowed into Damien’s chest. The corners of her mouth, however, were twitching, fighting a triumphant smirk. Damien stroked her back soothingly. “Don’t be scared, baby. Filth like this isn’t worth your sympathy.” My heart felt like it was being ripped to shreds. Three months ago, Damien had his arm around me, telling me he wanted to set up a scholarship for underprivileged students. He’d asked me to help him vet the candidates. I was the one who chose Hannah’s file. Parents deceased, supporting herself on academic scholarships. The girl in the photograph had such clear, innocent eyes. Damien had even praised my choice. You have a good heart, Ava. The irony was a blade twisting in my gut. “Hoist her up,” Damien commanded, nudging my blood-soaked chin with the toe of his shoe. “The blood is more effective if it drips into the sea, one drop at a time.” As the cold iron chains were fastened around my wrists and ankles, the party on the other side of the deck continued, the sound of popping champagne corks a festive counterpoint to my torture. They suspended me upside down over the side of the yacht. The sea wind whipped my hair, carrying the coppery scent of my own blood into my nostrils. The bullet hole in my knee throbbed, a relentless fountain of heat that trickled down my leg, over my foot, and dripped into the dark water below. Each drop bloomed into a dark flower on the navy-blue surface of the ocean. “Darling, look!” Hannah suddenly shrieked, pointing. In the moonlight, several dorsal fins sliced through the waves. The sleek, gray-blue skin of the sharks glinted with a cold, dead light as they circled below. The pain was making my vision swim, but I could still clearly see one of Damien’s men—a man who usually called me “Mrs. Blackwood” with a respectful nod—plunge a dagger into my abdomen and twist. A guttural, animalistic sound tore from my throat. Suddenly, the first shark breached the surface, its jaws gaping. Rows of serrated white teeth were less than two feet from my stomach. A foul, fishy spray coated my chest. “Time it,” Damien said, toying with a lock of Hannah’s hair. “Cut the baby out of her. Let’s see how long the bitch lasts after that.” My world turned crimson. One of Damien’s men grinned grotesquely as he thrust his hand into the open wound in my belly. His fingers were like icy iron tongs, churning inside me. My body convulsed in a violent spasm of agony, but I couldn’t make a sound. My throat was already shredded from screaming. “You stupid bitch,” he whispered in my ear, his breath hot and foul. “You should have known better than to cross the boss.” Then, with a savage tug, he ripped something vital from my body. A gush of warm liquid, and a profound, hollow emptiness. The man held up my bloody uterus, a gruesome trophy in the moonlight. My child. The child Damien and I had wanted for five years was now a prop in a blood sport. “Throw it in,” Damien commanded, lighting a cigar with an indifferent flick of his wrist. My womb was tossed into the sea, trailing an arc of blood through the air. The water below erupted into a frenzy. The gray-blue fins churned the ocean into a froth of white water and blood. The sound of tearing flesh was sickening, visceral, and it echoed in the sudden, dead silence of my soul. “The sharks still look hungry!” Hannah chirped, tilting her head with a look of angelic innocence. “Darling, is there anything else we can feed them?” Damien gestured towards me with his cigar. “We’ve still got one right here, don’t we?” 3 Hannah covered her mouth, a perfect portrait of feigned shock. “Oh, can we really? I’m still a little scared.” Damien exhaled a plume of smoke, pinching her cheek with fond indulgence. “Whatever you want, baby. I told you, you can play however you like. I’ve always got your back.” My blood-soaked body was hauled back onto the deck. Hannah, in her pristine white dress, approached me, the sea breeze making her skirt blossom around her like a flower. She leaned in close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper only I could hear. “How does it feel, Ava? To be tortured by your own husband?” My pupils constricted. A strangled, rattling sound escaped my throat. She knew. She knew who I was the entire time. Her fingers, tipped with baby-pink nail polish, traced the wound on my knee before she jabbed a nail deep into the raw flesh. “Aaargh!” A hoarse scream finally tore from my raw throat. My vision went black for a second. “The position of Mrs. Blackwood,” she murmured with a soft laugh. “I’ve wanted it for a very, very long time.” She smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry. After you’re dead, I’ll take very good care of Damien for you.” The cold glint of the dagger flashed before my eyes. My costume was ripped open, and the blade traced a line across my skin. First the cold, then a searing, fiery pain. Beads of blood welled up, merging into a thin red stream. “Did you forget to eat breakfast?” Hannah scolded the guard, her voice as sweet as melting honey. “Put some muscle into it. I want the cuts deeper!” Then I was hanging over the edge again, and this time, they plunged me into the ocean. The shock of the frigid, salty water was absolute. It flooded my nostrils, and the sting of the salt in my countless wounds felt like a thousand steel needles piercing every inch of my body. The sharks began to circle closer, their rough skin grazing my toes, the chilling promise of their teeth a palpable presence in the dark water. They hauled me up again, soaked and shivering. The seawater had washed away the layers of cake and makeup. A cold wind howled, and my wet hair was plastered across my face, obscuring my vision. Suddenly, one of the younger guards stumbled back, his voice trembling. “Holy shit! Doesn’t this woman… doesn’t she look exactly like the boss’s wife?!” Another guard laughed dismissively. “Are you crazy? What would Mrs. Blackwood be doing here?” But as he spoke, a fierce gust of wind swept across the deck. It caught the folded pregnancy report, sending it tumbling through the air. It danced on the breeze before finally settling beside the polished leather of Damien’s shoe. As if guided by some unseen hand, he glanced down, an air of casual annoyance on his face. He looked at the paper. And then, his entire body went rigid. His pupils contracted to pinpricks. “That’s impossible!” He bent down, his fingers snatching the paper, clutching it so tightly his knuckles turned white, threatening to shred it. On the pregnancy report, washed partially clean by the sea spray but still terrifyingly legible, was my name. Ava Blackwood. Pregnancy: 6 Weeks. A sound ripped from his throat, something animal and broken, a roar of pure, unadulterated agony that tore through the night. “GET HER UP!!!”

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