Category: English

The child from the apartment upstairs fell from the 12th floor, landing on my window awning. I grabbed her hand and held on for dear life. For forty agonizing minutes, I clung to her until the firefighters finally pulled her to safety. Only then did I let go. But afterward, the girl’s parents demanded I pay compensation because her arm was dislocated. “The doctor said the ligament and joint capsule damage is severe. She’s going to have chronic dislocations for the rest of her life.” “This is your fault! Why are you trying to shift the blame?” During the argument, they shoved me. I lost my balance and fell from my own balcony. The little girl didn’t die from her fall. I died from mine. When I was reborn on the day of the rescue, I, a natural homebody, decided to go out for the entire day… 1 My phone buzzed on the table, the screen flashing with the caller ID: “Jenna Miller – Apt 1201.” Once. Twice. Three times. I sat in a corner café, leisurely stirring the foam of my latte, with no intention of answering. I knew exactly why she was calling. And I knew that right now, she must be frantic. Just a short while ago, I had been reborn. In my previous life, on this very afternoon, I was napping at home when I was jolted awake by a series of piercing screams and a sickening thud from outside. I rushed to my balcony to find my neighbor Jenna’s five-year-old daughter, Lily, dangling from the edge of my stainless-steel awning. Half her body was suspended in mid-air, a hair’s breadth from a fatal plunge. Without a second thought, without even putting on shoes, I scrambled barefoot through my balcony’s security bars, stepped onto the narrow awning, and seized Lily’s hand. The girl’s body was heavier than I expected. The downward momentum sent a searing pain through my shoulder, feeling as if it were being torn from its socket. “It’s okay, Lily, I’ve got you! Don’t be scared…” I soothed her, pulling upwards with every ounce of strength I had. But for a woman of my slight build to pull a fifty-pound child back to safety from a dead hang was a near-impossible task. All I could do was hold on, gritting my teeth, feeling the muscles in my arm shred and my bones groan under the immense strain. Time stretched into an eternity. A crowd gathered on the street below. A cacophony of gasps, murmurs, and shouts to call 911 rose from the ground like boiling water. Ten minutes later, Jenna finally realized what was happening. She leaned out of her window, her voice a desperate wail, begging me to hold on. “Ms. Price! Please, I’m begging you, hold on to my Lily!” “I’m coming! Don’t you dare let go!” Her voice was so sincere, so desperate. And I believed her. I thought I was saving a family’s hope. I stared into Lily’s small face, twisted with terror, as sweat and tears blurred my vision. “Auntie… my hand hurts…” Lily cried. “Just a little longer, sweetie. The firefighters are on their way.” My voice was a hoarse whisper, as much to comfort myself as to comfort her. My arm had gone numb, a dead weight I could no longer feel, held in place by sheer willpower. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty… My mind was a blank slate. My vision began to tunnel, the world turning black at the edges. The only sounds were my own ragged breaths and the frantic hammering of my heart. I was at my limit. Each breath felt like it could be my last. Just as I was about to fail, a firefighter appeared from my apartment window. Strong, capable hands took Lily from me. The child was safe. My body went limp, and I practically rolled off the awning and back onto my balcony. Forty minutes. My right arm hung uselessly at my side like a broken branch. I couldn’t even lift a finger. Jenna clutched her daughter, safe at last, and showered me with gratitude. I thought that was the end of it. I had done a good deed. It was hard, but it was worth it. I never imagined it was only the beginning of a nightmare. 2 The next day, Jenna and her husband showed up at my door with a medical report. Not to thank me, but to condemn me. “Hannah Price, look what you’ve done!” Jenna threw the doctor’s report in my face. “The doctor says Lily has severe ligament and joint capsule damage! She has chronic dislocation! The slightest bit of force, and her arm will pop out of its socket for the rest of her life!” I was stunned. “But… that was from the rescue…” “It was your fault!” her husband snarled, jabbing a finger in my face. “We asked Lily. She said you were squeezing her hand so hard it hurt! You’re an adult! Couldn’t you have been more gentle? Did you have to be so rough? Were you trying to hurt her?” I couldn’t believe my ears. I had risked my life to save their child, and now they were blaming me for an unavoidable injury that occurred during the rescue. “I was losing my strength! I was lucky to even hold on to her! How could I possibly control the pressure? Could you have done any better in that situation?” I trembled with rage. “How do we know you didn’t do it on purpose? Maybe you’re just jealous because we have a child and you don’t!” Jenna spat, her words turning venomous. The argument escalated. They demanded I pay for all of Lily’s medical bills, future care, and emotional distress—a total of fifty thousand dollars. I refused. “It was your wife who wasn’t watching her own child! That’s why she fell! I saved her, I didn’t harm her! The fact that you’re not thanking me is one thing, but to try and extort money from me? How dare you!” My words pushed them over the edge. “You still won’t take responsibility!” her husband roared. The argument grew more heated. They started shoving me, screaming insults. In the chaos, from the very same spot on the balcony, they pushed me. Then, a dizzying, weightless plunge. The wind roared in my ears. The screams of the pedestrians below became distant and blurry. I fell from my sixth-floor balcony like a broken doll. In my last moment of consciousness, I had only one thought: How absurd. The girl who fell from the twelfth floor survived. But me, the hero who saved her, was pushed from the sixth and died. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back on the day it all went wrong. The sun was shining. It was noon. For the first time in years, I, a notorious homebody, got dressed, put on a little makeup, and left my apartment. I went shopping, saw a movie, had afternoon tea… I did everything I would normally never do. I had to be far away. I had to be unreachable. 3 My phone started buzzing again, relentlessly. This time, it was an unknown number, likely the fire department or the police. I ignored it. Some parents deserve to pay the price for their own negligence and stupidity. And in this life, I had no desire to be the hero. I just wanted to live, for myself, for once. I slowly sipped the last of my coffee. It was about time. I opened an inconspicuous app on my phone, one I had installed a few days ago. It connected to my smart doorbell camera. A clear video feed popped up. A group of people was clustered outside my apartment door. A frantic Jenna, a few curious neighbors, and several grim-faced firefighters. The fire captain was explaining the situation to Jenna. “Ma’am, the child is on the sixth-floor awning. We’ve assessed it from below. The structure seems stable for now, there’s no immediate danger of collapse.” “However, due to the building’s unique design, the awning extends too far out. We can’t perform a rescue from the fifth or seventh floors. The only way is to go through the sixth-floor apartment, cut through the security bars, and pull the child in.” “Then what are you waiting for?! Break down the door!” Jenna shrieked. “We can’t do that,” the captain said, his tone firm. “This is a private residence. We do not have the legal authority to force entry without the owner’s presence and consent. We’ve had our team set up an airbag on the ground, but from this height, it’s a long shot.” “Legal authority? A child’s life is on the line! If anything happens to my daughter, are you going to take responsibility for that?!” Jenna railed. “We are doing everything we can to contact the resident. Please be patient.” Jenna’s voice rose to a shrill retort. “She has to be home! This Hannah Price is a total recluse! She never goes anywhere! She must be ignoring my calls on purpose!” The fire captain’s brow furrowed. “Ma’am, please calm down. First, you are the guardian. It is your responsibility to supervise your child. Second, we are doing our jobs. Please do not interfere.” Jenna was momentarily silenced but remained defiant. She pulled out her phone and dialed my number again. Through my doorbell camera, I watched her face, contorted with rage and anxiety. I could hear her curses, picked up clearly by the device’s microphone. “That damn Hannah! Is she deaf or dead? Why won’t she pick up the phone?!” “I swear, when they get Lily down, I’m going to skin that heartless bitch alive!” Her words, her tone—it was all so familiar. The same venom she had spat at me in my past life as she pushed me towards the edge. Only this time, I was watching from a place of perfect safety, enjoying her panic like a show. 4 I calmly watched the timer on my phone screen. In my last life, I held on with all my strength for forty minutes. In this life, I would make them feel every second of that same forty-minute agony. The moment the timer hit “10:00,” I answered the call. “Hello? Jenna?” I feigned confusion, my voice laced with the perfect amount of bewilderment. “What’s going on? You’ve called so many times. I was in a movie, my phone was on silent.” Jenna’s voice, sharp and strained, crackled through the phone, a desperate attempt to sound polite while seething with rage. “Hannah! You finally answered! You have to come back! Lily… Lily fell onto your awning! The firefighters are waiting to get into your apartment to rescue her!” “What?!” I let out a theatrical gasp, my voice filled with shock and concern. “How did that happen? Is Lily okay? Don’t worry, Jenna, I’m on my way! I’ll grab a cab, I’ll be there in twenty minutes, tops!” Just before I hung up, I heard her say to the firefighter, “She’s on her way! Of all the days for that jinx to crawl out of her hole!” I smirked, left the café, and hailed a cab. “The Veridian Apartments, please.” As the car pulled away from the curb, I thought to myself: Saving a life isn’t so easy, is it? On the way, Jenna called again. “Where are you? Why aren’t you here yet?!” “Almost there, Jenna! There’s a bit of traffic, I’ve asked the driver to hurry!” I placated her, but I was in no rush. By the time I casually strolled up to my building’s entrance, a full thirty minutes had passed. Coincidentally, I saw a notice taped to the door: “ELEVATOR UNDER MAINTENANCE.” Perfect. And even more perfect was the bright pink child’s walker parked right in the middle of the lobby entrance. I recognized it. In my last life, Jenna would always leave Lily’s walker and other junk in the hallway to save herself the trouble of carrying it upstairs. The neighbors complained, but Jenna was so aggressive that everyone eventually gave up. I looked at the walker, and a flawless plan instantly formed in my mind. It seemed fate was on my side.

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The bride wanted me to make her look like Anne Hathaway. I tried to gently dissuade her. “Replicating a celebrity’s entire face for your wedding isn’t usually recommended.” She took it as a challenge. “I’m paying, so I get what I want. What, you can’t do it?” As the top SFX makeup artist in my field, of course I could do it. A tight, humorless smile stretched across my face. “Oh, I can do it. Let’s get started.” 1 I’m a makeup artist. I had just wrapped up a special effects project overseas, a grueling marathon of four consecutive all-nighters. The moment my plane touched down, a text from my colleague, Sarah, buzzed on my phone. She was practically crying through the screen, saying her kid had a fever and if she took another day off, she’d lose her entire performance bonus. She was begging me to cover her shift. I was reluctant. “Sarah, I do special effects. Bridal makeup isn’t really my thing.” She wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Yes, it is! You know how to do it. It’s that standard package we all learned when we first started at the studio.” Her texts became more frantic. “Just do the first look. My mother-in-law will be here soon, and then I can come in.” I sighed. Fine, I’d do her a favor. The moment I stepped into the makeup suite, one of the bridesmaids sidled up to me. “You know, our Chloe is a pretty big influencer,” she said, her voice conspiratorial. “Lots of followers. Do you think we could get this session for free, you know, for the exposure?” The bride, Chloe, tilted her chin up with a smug little smile. I shook my head instinctively. “I’m just the artist. I don’t handle the pricing.” Besides, they were already here for the pre-wedding photoshoot. Hadn’t they paid already? Chloe’s face fell instantly, her lips pressing into a thin, unhappy line. When I presented her with the portfolio of bridal looks, she shoved it aside. “I don’t need to choose. Make me look like this.” She held up her phone, displaying a photo of Anne Hathaway clutching a bouquet of flowers, her smile radiant and luminous. This was a problem. The woman in the mirror had sharp, demanding eyes and a condescending tone. Her skin was sallow, framed by massive dark circles under her eyes. But the biggest issue was her face shape—a soft square. For a face like hers, the key was to create dimension and contour, shifting the focus away from her strong jawline and up toward her eyes and brows. It was the best way to highlight her features and minimize the rest. “Ma’am,” I suggested gently, “your features would be stunning with a classic, sultry Hollywood look. A warm, earthy eyeshadow palette and some soft waves would really bring out your natural glamour.” She shot me a glare. “Are you making a crack about my teeth?” I froze. A dozen diplomatic responses flashed through my mind, but the furious clench of her brow told me none of them would work. I swallowed them back down. “Not at all, ma’am,” I said, my voice carefully neutral. “We’ll proceed with whatever you’d like.” She wasn’t satisfied. “What’s with the attitude? Are you trying to be sarcastic?” “No, ma’am.” She let out a sharp huff. “Cut the crap. I paid for a service, and I expect to get exactly what I want.” Then, she shifted gears. “I’m thirsty. I want… what’s it called? That fancy cloud water.” Her bridesmaid chimed in instantly, “Evian. It’s called Evian.” I pursed my lips. “We don’t have that in the studio, I’m afraid. Would Perrier be alright?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Another generic brand.” She glanced down at my chest, her nails—a tacky explosion of pink rhinestones—flicking my work ID. “Vivi, is it? I’m not a fan of your attitude. Are you trying to get a formal complaint filed against you?” This was Sarah’s client. Even though I was just covering, a complaint would still hit her record and dock her pay. That didn’t seem fair. But seven days of travel and no sleep had drained me of the energy required to even feel angry. I just wanted to get this done and go home to collapse. “One moment,” I told the bride. I turned and asked an assistant to run across the street and buy a bottle of Evian. 2 When the young assistant handed me the water, she leaned in and whispered, “Did she ask you for a discount the second you walked in?” I raised an eyebrow and nodded. Her expression was a perfect “I knew it.” She continued in a low voice, “Her future sister-in-law is the one paying for this whole photoshoot package. She’s trying to get it for free so she can pocket the refund herself.” “Honestly,” she sighed, “we never used to put up with clients like this. The new manager has no backbone at all. Sarah was so tired of dealing with her that she just didn’t want to come in today.” I shot her a questioning look. She immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with embarrassment. “Oops, never mind. Forget I said that. Her kid is definitely sick. She’s at the hospital.” And with that, she scurried away. I walked back into the suite, her words echoing in my mind. I placed the bottle of Evian on the vanity in front of Chloe. She took a sip before finally gracing me with her attention. “Alright. You can start now.” I let out a quiet breath of relief and began applying her foundation. Her skin was a challenge. It was fair but had a dull, yellowish undertone. Whatever products she’d been using had left her with enlarged pores, and just prepping her skin and minimizing them took the better part of half an hour. I had just finished setting her makeup when she let out a piercing shriek. The plastic water bottle flew from her hand and slammed into my shoulder. I stumbled back, stunned. “What… what’s wrong?” Her eyes were blazing. “Are you even a real makeup artist? You have no idea what you’re doing! Look at this! You’re just dumping white powder all over my face.” I clamped down on my patience. “Ma’am, this is a technique called ‘baking.’ It’s for long-wear makeup, especially for photoshoots. It ensures your makeup stays flawless for hours.” But a thought pricked at my mind. How could a supposed beauty influencer not know about baking? Her two bridesmaids seized the opportunity to jump in. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you questioning our sister’s expertise?” “Nobody sets makeup like that! It’s supposed to be a fine mist of setting spray, a delicate process. You just poured flour on her face!” I tried to explain, my frustration mounting, but one of them suddenly shoved a camera tripod toward me. Caught off guard, I staggered back, my forehead smacking against the cold metal. I cried out, more in shock than pain. The bridesmaid sneered. “What are you doing? Trying to fake an injury for a payout?” I was speechless, the injustice of it all catching in my throat. Another makeup artist saw the commotion and hurried over, trying to de-escalate the situation and explain the technique on my behalf. After a tense moment, Chloe finally seemed to relent, sinking back into her chair. “I’ll give you one last chance,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. 3 I was fuming. She knew she was in the wrong, yet somehow she twisted it into an act of her own generosity. I took a deep, shaky breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to snap. A colleague handed me some paper towels, and I numbly dabbed at the water soaking my shirt before picking up my brush and stepping forward again. When I was finally done, a wave of relief washed over me. “The makeup is complete. My colleague will guide you through the next steps of your photoshoot.” “Wait,” Chloe snapped. She pulled out her phone, placing the photo of Anne Hathaway right next to her face in the mirror. Then she grabbed my arm, shoving the phone so close to my face I could see the pixels. “Does this look anything like her?” she demanded, her voice rising with each word. “Did you get the features right? The nose? The mouth, the eyes, the brows? Are you blind?” My brow furrowed. The other clients in the studio were now whispering amongst themselves, their eyes darting our way. In the phone’s glow, the image of the real Anne Hathaway was all grace and serene beauty. And then there was the woman in the mirror. I kept my voice low and steady. “Ma’am… we agreed to replicate the makeup in the photo. It’s makeup imitation, not a full facial transformation.” My professional composure was shattering. When she showed me the picture and said, “Make me look like this,” who in their right mind would think she meant to literally become the celebrity? That wasn’t makeup; that was sculpting a new person from scratch. And besides, who wants to get married looking like someone else? She scoffed. “Don’t try to hide your incompetence behind a bunch of jargon. ‘Makeup imitation, not transformation’? I showed you the picture of Anne Hathaway from the start, didn’t I? I pointed right at her and told you to make me look like that!” As her voice reached a fever pitch, she lunged at me. I jumped back, but it was too late. Her hand swiped across my station, sending a container of loose powder crashing to the floor. The cloud of dust was followed by a sickening thud as my entire makeup case, which had been resting by the chair, was knocked over, its contents spilling across the tiled floor. My God. That was my personal kit. My expensive, carefully curated collection of cosmetics. Several of the brushes in there were custom-made by hand, tools I had waited 128 days for. It wasn’t just the money. A hot, uncontrollable rage surged up from the pit of my stomach. I stepped forward to salvage what I could, but she misinterpreted the movement. “What, you got a problem with me?” she shrieked, as if I were the one attacking her. Her two bridesmaids shoved me hard. I lost my balance and fell to the floor, instinctively curling up and covering my head with my hands as their accusations rained down on me. “Our Chloe told you what she wanted, and you said you could do it! Now you’re getting violent because you’re not good enough!” “Where’s your manager? Get your director out here! Is this how you treat your customers?” The studio manager came running over. He took one look at the scene—me on the floor, Chloe screaming—and his eyes narrowed, pinning me with the blame. “What is going on here?” He was new. I’d been away on a project when he was hired, and Sarah had already told me he wasn’t my biggest fan. He resented me for holding a senior position at the studio without contributing to the daily sales figures. So, his immediate assumption that I was the problem didn’t surprise me. But it still stung. Chloe launched into a tirade. “A refund! I want a full refund!” At the word “refund,” the manager’s head whipped around, his glare intensifying on me. “I specifically called you in to cover this shift because I knew the client wanted to look like Anne Hathaway.” My head snapped up. What? No one had mentioned a single word of that to me. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Are you kidding me? When exactly did you tell me that? You’re just going to throw me under the bus without even asking what happened?” His face hardened. “How dare you speak to me like that? The customer is always right, and right now, the customer is unhappy. Get over here and apologize.” My hand tightened around the makeup brush still clutched in my fist, my knuckles white with rage. “Find someone else. I’m done.” I turned to leave. Let someone else deal with this circus. Seeing me walk away, Chloe seemed to sense her chance for a refund slipping away. Suddenly, she was insisting that only I could do her makeup. The manager, now desperate, pleaded with her. “Can we please have another artist help you? We can find someone else, just please, let’s not talk about refunds.” Chloe crossed her arms. “You’ve already switched artists on me once. Are you just going to keep cycling through people to run out the clock? At this point, I think a full refund is perfectly reasonable.” The manager fell silent. A full bridal package was expensive. If he comped the entire thing, who would absorb the cost of the makeup, the photography, the couture rentals, the products? “Fine,” Chloe declared. “Then she has to do it. And if it’s not perfect, it’s on you.” So, you want your money, and you want a freebie, and you’re both willing to sacrifice your artist to get what you want? I kept walking. This wasn’t my problem. “Sarah, you’re here!” the manager yelled at my back. “Tell us! Did you or did you not tell Vivi what the client wanted when you asked her to cover?” Sarah stepped out from the small crowd that had gathered. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. Her voice was quiet, but clear. “I told her.” I stopped dead in my tracks. A boundless, burning rage unlike anything I had ever felt consumed me. It was worse than the bride’s ridiculous demands, worse than the manager’s blatant lies. This was a betrayal. Sarah was the first person I’d met when I joined the studio. The owner and I had met at an international makeup competition. I needed a stable job with a 401k and health insurance to appease my mother, and she wanted to leverage my reputation in SFX to break into the overseas market. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Out of respect for our deal, I always pitched in when the studio needed help. I even took their basic bridal training courses, which is why Sarah knew I was capable of covering her shift. The manager’s voice was sharp with urgency. “If you can’t handle this, we’ll have to cancel the project, and you will be held fully responsible.” “Fully responsible” meant I would have to cover the client’s refund, plus all the studio’s losses for time and resources. I looked at Sarah. Her body was trembling, her head bowed in shame. I walked back toward her, stopping right beside her. I leaned in, my voice a low, chilling whisper in her ear. “You know I can do it.” “You wanted Anne Hathaway? Who ever said I couldn’t deliver?”

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I always felt my husband was forced to marry me. Every time we were intimate, Parker only used his hands. Eventually, I gave up and decided to set him free. But the night before printing the divorce papers, I overheard him with his friends. “Why not touch your wife? She’s right there,” one said. “Nora might run off if you keep holding back.” Parker sipped his whiskey. “You don’t understand. She’s delicate. What if I scare her?” His voice deepened. “She’s my wife. I must cherish her. If she finds what I can’t give elsewhere… fine. As long as she comes home to me.” His friends laughed. “Then why secretly Google everything?” That night, I checked Parker’s history—99 searches, all variations of: “I finally married the girl I love, but I have a kink. How do I not scare her away?” 1 The day Parker came back from his business trip, I had a battle plan. I showered, shaved, and put on a full face of makeup before slipping into the new, sinfully sheer nightgown I’d bought. Then, I slid into his side of the bed, waiting to be conquered. But when he walked out of the bathroom, the sight of me in his sheets made him freeze, the towel in his hands stilled mid-rub. “What are you doing here?” There wasn’t a trace of warmth in his voice. My eyes roamed over him, from top to bottom. Parker’s body was a work of art; even the plush bathrobe couldn’t hide the swell of his pectoral muscles or the faint outline of his abs. Logically, with a nose that sharp and fingers that long, he had to be… well-equipped. And yet, in six months of marriage, I had never been allowed to get a “deeper” understanding. Refusing to be deterred, I decided to be direct. “I’m here to sleep with you.” I didn’t care what excuses he came up with. Tonight, he was mine. Parker’s expression flickered. His gaze dropped to my lingerie, and after a long pause, he gave a clipped, “Fine.” That easy? I was in disbelief. As he approached the bed, I felt a wave of uncertainty. The only light came from the small, mood-setting lamp on the nightstand. He lay down beside me, a wave of cool air and the clean scent of soap washing over me. My heart hammered against my ribs as I boldly wrapped my arms around his waist. Parker’s entire body went rigid. A beat later, his head turned, his eyes finding mine in the dim light. His voice was a low rasp. “Do you want me to help you?” Before I could answer, he pulled away, his movements swift as he opened the nightstand drawer. “…” The little spark of excitement inside me was instantly doused by the practiced ease of his actions. I didn’t even need to ask. I knew what was coming next. He was going to fulfill his husbandly duties—just not with himself. A white-hot spike of anger shot through me. It was always like this. His own body was under lock and key, untouchable even when he was clearly aroused. When he pulled out the finger cots, my face darkened. I snatched them from his hand and threw them at his chest. “Help me with what? You’re so damn vanilla, what new tricks could you possibly have?” My voice was sharp, brittle with frustration. The lamplight was too faint for me to see his expression clearly, but I could feel his dark eyes fixed on me, the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch. It was hot, and maybe, just maybe, laced with confusion. All the pent-up disappointment surged to the surface. “Parker, if you can’t get it up, just say so! It’s not like you’re the only man on the planet. I can find someone else, anytime!” We were married, for God’s sake. Why did every encounter have to feel like he was doing me a reluctant favor? “That’s not what I meant,” he said, his voice strained. But still, he made no move. Not even to cup my face for a kiss. Anything would have been better than this cold distance. This was the third time. The third time I’d laid myself bare, only to be rejected. The disappointment was a crushing weight. I grabbed the robe I’d just discarded and stood up. Then I stormed out, slamming the door with a thunderous crack that echoed the shattering of my patience. 2 I ended up at my best friend Cassie’s apartment. My phone buzzed relentlessly on the coffee table. “Not gonna get that?” Cassie asked, tilting her head. I threw back a shot of tequila, the burn in my throat a welcome distraction. With a sigh, I switched my phone off completely. “What kind of trashy cigarettes did you buy?” I grumbled, my voice already raspy. “One puff and my throat’s wrecked.” Cassie just laughed, playfully tapping the colorful pack in her hand. “They look pretty, don’t they?” She held it up for me to see, and with a few casual questions, she had the whole story out of me. Not that I was trying to hide it. There was one question that had been eating me alive. “Cassie, why won’t Parker touch me?” “Maybe… he’s not into women?” I shook my head. Parker had a girlfriend in high school, and since then, countless men and women had thrown themselves at him, only to be met with his signature ice-cold rejection. Then, a thought sparked in my mind. My eyes narrowed. “I bet he’s saving himself for my perfect older sister, the one who ran off to Europe.” I’d heard the rumors before—that Parker had always been in love with the gentle, quiet heiress of the Sinclair family. Now, it was all clicking into place. This marriage… I was just a stand-in. My sister was the one who was supposed to marry Parker. But she’d dumped him for her supposed “soulmate,” some artist she followed to another continent. Parker, ever the perfect gentleman, had never denied me anything in our six months of marriage—except for that one crucial thing. And every time he used his hands on me, watching my pleasure with that detached, controlled expression… there was never any desire in his eyes. He looked like a spectator at his own life. Did he find me… disgusting? The thought hit me like a physical blow, and the fragile dam holding back my hurt broke. I slammed my glass down on the table with a loud crack. “That’s it, I’ve decided!” Cassie jumped. “Decided what?” “I’m divorcing him!” A man who was all looks and no action was useless, no matter how handsome. Especially one who was still hung up on someone else. I was Nora Sinclair. I didn’t need him. “Okay, okay, easy there. No more drinking,” Cassie said, clearly thinking I was just drunk and emotional. She dragged me off to take a shower. She’d just gotten a fresh manicure, and being a restless sleeper, she left a few angry red scratches on my neck by morning. The moment I turned my phone on, it exploded with notifications. All from Parker. When I got back to our villa, I was surprised to find him home. The air was thick with the smell of stale smoke, the ashtray on the coffee table overflowing with cigarette butts. He looked up, his sharp features cutting a striking figure even in the morning light. “You’re back.” His voice was a gravelly whisper. Then his eyes landed on the marks on my neck, and his pupils contracted violently. The light in his gaze instantly went out, replaced by a chilling darkness. I hadn’t slept well, and the combination of smoke and alcohol had left my throat raw. I was in no mood for a dramatic confrontation. Just as he was about to speak, I raised a hand, my voice raspy. “I’m exhausted from last night. I’m going upstairs.” I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I was just done. I was really going to divorce him. A marriage without passion is a marriage without happiness. 3 But, as fate would have it, I came down with a fever that night. My body felt like it was filled with lead, my head swimming in a thick fog. The door creaked open. Parker had just showered, and the crisp scent of mint from his body wash was so strong it almost made me gag. I wrinkled my nose and tried to push him away. “Leave me alone.” His body tensed. “Then who should take care of you?” His voice was deep, laced with a carefully restrained emotion. He was trying, desperately, to be gentle. “Come on, be good. Take the medicine, and you’ll feel better.” His cool fingertips brushed against my lips, and I saw his hand, resting on his thigh, clench into a tight fist. His gaze lingered on my mouth, his breathing growing heavier. I was completely oblivious. Being held by him felt uncomfortable, and I twisted away, trying to lie back down. “Okay, you can go now.” As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I thought I heard the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. It seemed Parker was taking another shower. … When I woke up again, I was wrapped tightly in Parker’s arms. The distinct feeling of something hard and hot pressed against my leg was impossible to ignore. His warm breath ghosted across my ear as he stirred, his hand coming up to feel my forehead. “Still a little warm. The fever hasn’t completely broken yet.” I was wide awake now. It’s not the fever making me hot, you idiot! It’s you! I tried to elbow him away, but he expertly caught me by the waist. His calloused thumb brushed lightly against my skin, sending a jolt of electricity through me. A small gasp escaped my lips. “Nora.” Parker’s voice was a low, husky whisper, carrying a magnetic pull that was hard to resist. “Should we… try?” “…” On any other day, I would have jumped at the chance. But after the last few days, a wall had gone up between us. To me, this felt like a slap followed by a piece of candy. A pathetic offering. Still weak from the fever, my body ached. I turned my face away, my voice cold. “I can’t. I’m too tired.” The man behind me went utterly still. I could feel the tremor in his breath as the life seemed to drain out of him. With a visible effort, Parker pulled back, creating a small distance between us. He said nothing. When I finally turned to look at him, his eyes were dark pools of sorrow, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “It’s my fault. I don’t blame you.” I let out a cold snort. At least he had some self-awareness. “But please,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, “don’t push yourself so hard next time. It’s not good for your body to get a fever like that.” Parker lowered his gaze, hiding whatever raw emotion was swirling within him. Before I could process his words, he stood up and went to the closet to get clothes for me. He usually wore silk pajamas, but for once, he was wearing only a towel wrapped low on his hips. The sculpted lines of his muscles and the tantalizing V of his torso were on full display. My eyes traced the firm curve of his waist and the tight clench of his glutes, and my heart gave a little flutter. But that was all. Any handsome man standing in front of me would have had the same effect. Parker handed me the clothes. Without a second thought, I started changing right in front of him. As expected, he immediately turned away, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall. What I didn’t know was that the moment I left the room, Parker walked straight back into my bathroom. 4 A few days later, I started noticing some of my clothes were missing. At first, I didn’t think much of it. They weren’t expensive pieces, and I had plenty of others. But then, the lace lingerie set Cassie had bought me last week vanished. I couldn’t figure it out. We didn’t have cameras in the house, so there was no way to identify the pervert. Finally, over dinner one evening, I brought it up with Parker. “I think we have a thief.” He was calmly sitting at the table, spreading butter on a piece of my toast. He paused for a fraction of a second at my words. Without looking up, he asked, his voice steady, “What’s missing?” “Lingerie.” “…” I said it nonchalantly, but his reaction was anything but. The butter knife slipped, smearing a dollop of yellow across the small mole on the back of his hand. My eyes narrowed, watching his uncharacteristic clumsiness. “Why so nervous? Did you take it?” Parker was silent for a few seconds before letting out a soft, humorless laugh. His long, dark eyes met mine. “What do you think?” Before heading to the office, Parker was always impeccably dressed. He wore a pair of thin, gold-rimmed glasses for his slight nearsightedness, which only served to accentuate the depth of his features. Right now, behind those lenses, his black pupils seemed colder than the sunlight streaming through the window. I offered a light smile. What did I think? Parker was the epitome of buttoned-up, straight-laced propriety. And besides, what on earth would he do with my underwear? I decided to drop it. “What time will you be back tonight? I have something for you.” The divorce papers were ready. Parker handed me the toast, his reply coming instantly. “Whenever you want me, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He said it so quickly, the words tumbling out, that I barely registered the meaning behind them. His phone rang. The assistant waiting in the driveway came in with a briefcase, reminding him he was late. Parker left. I placed a hand over my chest, where my heart had just skipped a beat. My other hand went to my ear, which was inexplicably burning hot. I was both flustered and annoyed. Why couldn’t he just talk normally? What was with all the flirting? 5 After my meal, I took a trip to the doctor’s office. He told me I had a hormonal imbalance and that finding a man to… regulate things would be beneficial. The moment Cassie heard this, she was practically vibrating with excitement, offering to “lend” me the services of a chiseled model with eight-pack abs and a young stud with pecs for days from her agency. At the time, I was sitting in my air-conditioned studio, sketching out the line art for my graphic novel, completely absorbed in perfecting my characters. I immediately shot her down. She cut straight to the chase. “You’ve been breaking out lately, haven’t you?” Her words hit a nerve. I mentally cursed Parker’s name again. Two pimples! Right on my chin. “You know what they say, the grass is always greener… Besides, you two are about to get divorced anyway. You’re really not going to try?” Cassie’s voice was a siren’s call of temptation. I put down my pencil. I was stuck on the design for a side character’s face. A little real-life reference couldn’t hurt. “Looking only. No touching.” So my testosterone was a little high. Once I was divorced, I could find a hundred and eighty men if I wanted. But not now. It wasn’t because I was a coward; I just had high moral standards. I didn’t just go around lusting after men’s bodies! Cassie laughed, clearly not buying my claims of self-control. I was full of confidence at the time, but that night, as I slept, my own mind betrayed me. I had the most vivid, steamy dream. In it, I was locked in a passionate kiss with a man, our bodies tangled together. Our breaths mingled, his hot and heavy against my skin, the sound of our mouths moving together pulling me deeper and deeper into a rising tide of pleasure. I was lost in his bold exploration, completely immersed in a world of shared ecstasy. It was pure bliss. Until—I saw Parker’s face, inches from mine. I jolted awake, my heart pounding, my body slick with a cold sweat. The phantom sensations of the dream still lingered. My legs felt weak as I made my way downstairs for a glass of water. That’s when I heard the lazy, teasing voices from the living room. “You know, some people are absolutely drowning in desire, but they’re so afraid of scaring their wives that they just… suffer in silence. Not naming any names, of course.” 6 Peeking around the corner, I saw Parker’s closest friends lounging on the sofas, whiskey glasses in hand, their tones dripping with mockery. “Women can’t resist a little temptation, Parker. You keep this up, and Nora’s gonna run off with someone else. You’ll be crying before you know it.” These guys were close enough to Parker to say whatever they wanted. In response, Parker just lifted his glass and took a slow sip, his handsome face an unreadable mask. He said something that made his friends roar with laughter, and a prickle of suspicion ran down my spine. They mentioned he had a secret blog. A private account where he posted things. Driven by a mix of curiosity and a desire to finally get some leverage on him, I mentally replayed the username they’d mentioned. I typed it in, and sure enough, an account with the same profile picture as Parker’s official one popped up. I clicked on it and saw a pinned post at the top. I was expecting to find some typical, crass locker-room talk. But the words on the screen made me freeze. It read— “I finally married the girl I’ve been in love with for years, but I have a specific kink. How do I make it a good experience for her without scaring her away?” The next post. “The world is full of temptations, and she thinks I’m boring. It’s my fault. If I tried to please her like this, would she reject me?” Attached was a picture of a male butler costume and a small, silver bell collar. In an instant, all the blood in my body rushed to my head…

We were playing a fake couple on Coupled, the biggest reality dating show in the country. When the finale wrapped, Liam, the A-list movie star I’d been paired with, had a million dollars quietly transferred to my account. That night, his manager sent me a warning. “Take the money and be smart. Don’t get any ideas about this being real. A million bucks is a king’s ransom for a D-lister like you.” The next day, he and my best friend, Ava—the show’s other female lead—went public with their real relationship. The shippers went wild. Amid the nationwide celebration, I sat down for a live interview. I held up my phone, letting the camera catch the glint of the audio recorder app. “Toast number one: To me,” I said, my voice steady. “For falling for the act and ending up the punchline.” “Toast number two: To being the smokescreen, the perfect cover for his real love story.” “And toast number three: To the two of them, for not even waiting 24 hours to slap me in the face with their official announcement.” Liam and Ava blew up my phone, their threats frantic. “If you release that, you’ll disappear from this town for good!” I smiled. Who said I was just some D-lister? 1 The camera flashes in the interview room were relentless, searing spots into my vision. Reporters, smelling blood in the water, shoved their microphones toward my face. “Chloe, what did you mean by those ‘three toasts’?” “What’s on that recording? Is it about Liam and Ava?” “Is this just a case of a woman scorned? If you can’t have him, you’ll ruin him?” In my pocket, my phone vibrated violently. The screen lit up with the two names I knew better than my own: Liam. Ava. I didn’t answer. I let the frantic buzzing hang in the air, a jarring counterpoint to the tense silence of the room. I looked straight into the camera lens and curved my lips into a smile—the perfectly calibrated, media-trained smile I’d practiced for three months on the set of Coupled. “You want to know what’s on the recording?” I held up my phone, my thumb hovering over the play button. The entire room held its breath. Suddenly, my agent, Sarah, burst through the door and snatched the phone from my hand. “I’m so sorry, everyone. Chloe’s a bit emotional today. This interview is over!” She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong, and hauled me toward the exit. “Chloe, are you insane?” she hissed under her breath. “You think you can take on Liam Carter? With what army?” She shoved me into the back of a black SUV and slammed the door, cutting off the cacophony of the press. Sarah tossed my phone back at me, her face a mask of fury. “Liam’s team just called. They want you to post a retraction on social media right now. Say it was all a joke.” I glanced down. A new text from Liam had come through. Chloe, don’t push it. I can make sure that recording of yours never sees the light of day. It was followed by a voice memo from Ava, her voice thick with fake tears. “Chlo, aren’t we best friends? Why are you doing this to me? Liam and I are in love. Can’t you just be happy for us?” In love? An image flashed in my mind: the final night of filming Coupled. Ava, hiding in a corner of the green room, her eyes red-rimmed. “I’m so jealous of you, Chlo,” she’d whispered. “Getting to be with Liam. I just have to watch from the sidelines.” I had actually comforted her, telling her it was all just for the cameras. Looking back now, I realized she wasn’t jealous. She was auditioning. She should have gotten an Oscar for that performance. I turned off my phone, leaned my head back against the leather seat, and closed my eyes. “Sarah, pull over.” “What for?” “I’m terminating my contract.” Sarah slammed on the brakes, and the SUV screeched to a halt in the middle of the street. She stared at me in the rearview mirror, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re what?” “I’m leaving you. And the agency. Effective immediately.” The news that I’d unilaterally broken my contract shot up the trending charts even faster than Liam and Ava’s relationship announcement. #ChloeQuits #ChloeBlackmailsLiam The two tags sat side-by-side at the top of the Twitter trending list. The comments were a cesspool. “LOL, this D-lister really thinks she’s somebody. Threatening her way to the top?” “Does she not get how reality TV works? It was a script, honey. He was never into you.” “Poor Ava, being backstabbed by her own best friend. My heart goes out to her.” “Chloe Parker has such a bland face but such a nasty heart. Get her out of Hollywood!” The termination agreement from my agency arrived in my inbox moments later. The penalty clause: thirty million dollars. For a small-time actress like me, it was an impossible sum. They were sure I couldn’t pay. Sarah’s last call came through, her tone dripping with condescending pity. “Chloe, why are you doing this to yourself? Just come back, apologize to Liam and Ava, post a retraction, and the agency will forget this ever happened. You can’t afford thirty million dollars.” I hung up on her. Then, a call I didn’t expect came in. It was Leo Maxwell, the second male lead from Coupled. A quiet, indie musician who was always scribbling lyrics in a notebook or strumming his guitar. We’d barely interacted on the show. “Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was gentle, cautious. “I’m fine.” There was a pause. “I believe you,” he said. Those three simple words sent a flicker of warmth through my chest. “Thank you.” I hung up, only to have a video call request from Ava pop up. I accepted. Her face filled the screen, makeup perfectly applied, eyes artfully reddened. The background was unmistakably Liam’s minimalist L.A. penthouse. “Chloe, why would you break your contract? Don’t you know that just makes everything worse?” she asked, her voice oozing with concern. “Just delete the recording, okay? Liam said… he said he can give you another two million if you do. We can go back to being best friends.” I looked at her face, a beautiful portrait of deceit, and let out a soft laugh. “Ava, what do you think a recording of this conversation would be worth?” The color drained from her face. “Chloe! Don’t be a bitch!” Just then, Liam’s face shoved into the frame. He pushed Ava aside, his eyes dark with rage. “Chloe, this is your last warning. Delete it, or I’ll make sure you can’t get a job as a waitress in this city.” “Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “I’m so scared.” Then I ended the call. Within the hour, the “dirt” started appearing online. Stories about me being a diva on set, pulling rank because I was classically trained. Stories about my “messy” private life, implying I’d slept with directors and producers for roles. Conveniently angled paparazzi photos were “leaked.” A picture of me talking to a director at a cast dinner, cropped to look intimately close. A photo of me helping a drunk co-star to his car, framed as me throwing myself at him. Smear campaigns were their specialty. My social media was a war zone. My DMs were flooded with death threats. And just as the hate campaign reached its peak, they announced the kill shot. Liam and Ava would be appearing together on the country’s biggest live-streamed talk show: The Pulse Live. They were going to “set the record straight” in front of the entire world. The Pulse Live was the flagship program of the largest media conglomerate in the country: Starstream Entertainment. A smug text arrived from Sarah. “You’re finished this time, Chloe. Starstream itself is coming for you. Not even God can save you now.” I looked at the text and smiled.

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They called me the “Destiny Thief” in the comment sections that haunted my vision, all because I’d accepted an opportunity the golden girl had thrown away. Now, in this second life, she was back to reclaim everything. And her anonymous audience was cheering her on. “This time, our baby girl won’t let anyone steal what’s hers.” The irony was, she’d been given a second chance at life and hadn’t learned a single thing. 1 The moment consciousness returned, I knew. I was twenty-two again. A fresh college graduate, standing in a hallway of the Rhodes Corporation, waiting for a job interview. I stared at my reflection in the polished marble wall—the face was mine, but a decade younger, free of the lines of stress and grief I’d earned. A dizzying wave of shock and elation washed over me. That’s when the words appeared, materializing in the empty air before me. “Ugh, the last timeline was so gross. It made me sick.” “I know, right? How did that side character manage to steal all the heroine’s good luck?” “Thank GOD for the do-over! This time our baby girl gets to keep everything she deserves!” I blinked, bewildered, staring at the ghostly captions floating in my vision. What the hell was this? Heroine? Side character? Was this some kind of sick joke? It took me a moment to decipher their meaning. The so-called “Destiny Thief,” the “side character,” was me. And “our baby girl,” the heroine… was Claire Covington. My gaze snapped to the other side of the waiting area. There she was. Claire, sitting perfectly poised, though a flicker of confusion in her eyes suggested she, too, was taking in her surroundings with a sense of dislocation. And in that instant, I understood. She was back, too. She’d also been reborn. “Why is that thief staring at the heroine?” “She probably noticed Claire’s acting weird after respawning.” “Oh god, don’t tell me she’s going to start scheming already. I can’t watch that again!” Just for looking at her, a torrent of vitriol flooded my vision. The words were vile, accusations laced with a bizarre, personal hatred. A hot surge of anger burned in my chest. What the hell? When did I ever steal anything from her? As if summoned by my fury, Claire rose and walked toward me. I watched her approach, my posture tensing with alarm. In our last life, we’d crossed paths a few times, but we were hardly acquaintances. Now, however, her eyes held a chilling, predatory glint that made the hair on my arms stand up. “Audrey,” she said, her voice dripping with a condescending sweetness. “We meet again. This time, I won’t let you take what belongs to me. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave now and stop wasting everyone’s time.” She paused, then sighed with theatrical pity. “Oh, but I suppose there’s no point in telling you that now. You wouldn’t understand.” With that, she turned on her heel and swept into the interview room, leaving me alone in the hallway, reeling. I was completely lost. What had I supposedly stolen from her in our past life? A few fragmented memories surfaced, sharp and clear. But if I remembered correctly… weren’t all those so-called “opportunities” things she herself had thrown away? In our past life, we had both been here, interviewing for this same position at the Rhodes Corporation. I had failed the interview and was on my way out, dejected. But then the Director of HR had rushed after me, calling my name. My heart had soared as I followed her back, but my excitement was tempered by her non-stop muttering under her breath. It turned out that Claire and I had been neck-and-neck in our interview scores. But because Claire’s family was local and well-connected, the company had given her the edge. The offer was hers. To their shock, upon hearing the news, Claire had demanded a ridiculously inflated salary. She insisted she was a “generational talent” and knew her worth. The HR Director had tried everything—reason, flattery, laying out the company’s generous bonus structure and industry salary standards—patiently explaining that no company on earth would offer that kind of money to a fresh graduate with zero experience. 2 Claire hadn’t budged. She’d given them an ultimatum: meet her price, or she’d take her “generational talent” elsewhere. The HR Director was practically vibrating with rage. She’d finally agreed on the surface, just to get Claire out of her office, before promptly rescinding the offer. And just like that, the job at the Rhodes Corporation had fallen into my lap. So, that was me stealing her destiny? It was the direct result of her own spectacular arrogance! For the first time, I understood the sheer, teeth-grinding frustration that poor HR Director must have felt. It was infuriating. The comments in the air continued their relentless scroll. “Look at the thief’s face. She looks so pissed. I’m living for this.” “Serves the talentless hack right! The more miserable she is, the better I feel!” “Get lost, you leech! I hate characters that steal opportunities from others!” Hah. The fans were just as delusional as their idol. I almost laughed, a bitter, humorless sound. The anger was so intense it cycled back around to sheer absurdity. Just as the nausea from the floating comments reached its peak, the interview room door opened and Claire emerged. The look of smug satisfaction on her face soured my mood even further. To be fair, she wasn’t incompetent. Even the HR Director in our last life had admitted our interview performances were comparable. If she hadn’t acted like a spoiled princess, the job would have been hers, fair and square. Now, with a decade of high-level experience under my belt, I was no longer the naive rookie I once was. My desire for this specific entry-level job wasn’t what it used to be. But seeing her smugness, and the fawning praise of her invisible cheerleaders, lit a fire in me. The comment section was, of course, having a field day at my expense. “YES! Our girl nailed it!” “She’s so amazing. Her answers were almost identical to the last timeline! Flawless!” “The thief doesn’t stand a chance this time! LOL.” That last one gave me pause. Flawless execution? Identical to the last timeline? Wait a minute. You get a do-over, a second chance at life… and you don’t improve at all? You’re just recycling the same old answers from ten years ago? “Audrey Vance? We’re ready for you.” The voice from the HR department pulled me from my thoughts. “Coming,” I replied, standing up and smoothing my skirt. In that moment, all thoughts of Claire Covington vanished. In my previous life, I had poured my soul into the Rhodes Corporation, working my way up to Vice President. I knew every department, every process, every hidden strength and festering weakness of this company. My greatest regret was that I hadn’t been able to push it to its ultimate potential before I died. I had thought, for a moment, that Claire’s return would cost me this chance. But if she was just going to repeat the past… then the responsibility of fixing my life’s biggest regret fell squarely on my shoulders. As I stepped into the conference room, I saw Claire shoot me a triumphant, mocking smile from the hallway. She wouldn’t be smiling for long. My interview was more than smooth. It was, to put it mildly, a revelation. The HR Director’s eyes widened, then lit up. More than once, she told me I was exactly the kind of forward-thinking talent Rhodes Corp desperately needed. I was satisfied with my own performance. Compared to my answers a decade ago, my analysis now was sharper, deeper, and devastatingly accurate. But the moment I stepped out of the room, my good mood evaporated. Claire was waiting, watching me with an expression of pity that was almost comical in its arrogance. She spoke slowly, as if to a child. “You really did your best, Audrey. It’s a shame, really. This position was always meant for me.” 3 I honestly wanted to ask her where she got that kind of bulletproof confidence. But the ghostly comments floating in the air answered for her. “Last time, the thief stole the heroine’s job, and it ruined her life.” “It’s about time the thief gets a taste of her own medicine.” “I can’t wait to see the look on her stupid face when she gets rejected. LMAO.” That did it. The last of my composure snapped. What was wrong with these people? Wasn’t Claire the one who had arrogantly proclaimed that if Rhodes Corp didn’t hire her, other companies would be lining up to beg for her? She torpedoed her own career and somehow, that was my fault? What did I even do? Oh, that’s right. My greatest crime was doing nothing at all, and yet I was branded a thief. If I had actually schemed or plotted against her, these unhinged commenters would have probably called for my public execution. Realizing this, a strange sense of calm washed over me. I ignored Claire completely and walked back to my seat. As furious as I was, this was a professional environment. Making a scene would accomplish nothing. Besides, the most satisfying humiliation for Claire would be the final announcement. I couldn’t wait to see the look on her face then. As I sat there, a storm of emotions churning inside me, the interview process continued. A steady stream of bright, ambitious young candidates flowed in and out of the room. The reason for the high turnout was an open secret. The heir to the corporation was about to officially take the reins. A new leader meant a big shake-up. And to make big moves, you needed a loyal, capable team. Rhodes Corp was ripe for a revolution, a cleansing of the old guard. Everyone here was hungry for a piece of that new world. And, as fate would have it, the heir to the Rhodes Corporation was my husband from my past life. The thought had barely crossed my mind when the conference room door opened again, interrupting my reverie. But it wasn’t the HR Director. It was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, in a suit so exquisitely tailored it looked like a second skin. His eyes were sharp, his jawline severe. As his gaze swept across the waiting area, an involuntary hush fell over the room. It was him. The heir to the Rhodes Corporation. Grant Rhodes. “Wait, why is the male lead here???” “OMG! It must be because our baby girl did so well!” “Of course! This time the Destiny Thief won’t get her hands on the male lead either!” More captions flew past my eyes. I frowned. What did they mean? Grant had some kind of history with Claire, too? My gaze shifted to Grant, and my expression instantly soured with contempt. So, he was tainted goods. Off the table. For some reason, my stare caught his. His eyes met mine, and for a split second, they widened in what looked like… confusion? As if he couldn’t decipher the disdain in my look. I coolly broke eye contact. Whatever. Let’s just see how this plays out. “Ahem.” Grant cleared his throat, his voice commanding silence. “Good afternoon. I assume you all know who I am, so I’ll skip the introduction. I have two announcements to make. First, we have decided on one finalist from today’s interviews. And that person is…” 4 Grant’s voice was a low baritone, but it made every heart in the room pound against their ribs. I found myself staring at his lips, trying to read the name before he spoke it. But the name that left them was: “…Claire Covington.” The comments exploded. “HAHAHA! OF COURSE IT’S OUR GIRL!” “I’m so happy I could cry! Take that, thief!” “The look on the side character’s face is PRICELESS. Love it, love to see it!” Claire stood up, a model of graceful modesty, before shooting me a sidelong glance. The meaning in that look was unmistakable. Pure, unadulterated gloating. But I didn’t feel the sting of defeat. All I felt was a wave of profound disappointment in Grant. My interview answers had targeted the company’s deepest flaws, many of which were conclusions he and I had come to together, over years of late nights at the office in our past life. And still, he chose her. I stood up immediately and turned to leave. If the Rhodes Corporation didn’t want me, there was no reason to stay. Just as I took a step, Grant’s voice cut through the air behind me. “Ms. Vance, you can’t leave yet. I’d like to discuss your answers from the interview in greater detail. Would you be willing to join me in my office?” I turned back. What I saw was Grant’s earnest, expectant expression, and Claire’s face, which had twisted into a mask of pure shock and venomous rage.

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Before my husband, Joe, left for a business trip, he bought me a parrot. It was an early anniversary gift, he said, to make up for not being with me. The first day I had it, the parrot learned to say, “I love you.” The second day, it learned to say, “I love you, Joe.” By the end of the week, it could say the name of every single person in our lives. Except for mine. Then, late one night, the parrot started squawking frantically, over and over again. “Joe loves Clara.” I immediately dialed my husband’s number. “Who is Clara?” There was a pause on the other end of the line, then a manufactured yawn. “Probably the name of its old owner. Why? What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” I said, smiling into the phone before hanging up. Then I called the owner of the bird shop and placed an order for one hundred African Grey parrots, all trained to talk. The delivery address was Joe’s office. … The parrots arrived before I did. By the time I got there, the lobby of Hawthorne Industries was already swarming with employees. A slow, meaningful smile spread across my face. I clapped my hands lightly. At the sound, the crowd turned in unison. “This year’s anniversary gift is a parrot,” I announced, my voice carrying across the lobby. “The Executive Assistants can get theirs first. Don’t worry if you don’t get one now, another shipment is on its way.” Compared to the usual boring gift baskets, who wouldn’t want a talking African Grey parrot that cost thousands of dollars? A cheer went up, and a line quickly formed at the reception desk. The young woman at the front desk spotted the parrot perched on my shoulder, her eyes lighting up. “Mrs. Hawthorne, is that your parrot? He’s beautiful!” I smiled and nodded. “He is. Joe gave him to me. He even talks. Want to hear?” The receptionist nodded eagerly, her face alight with anticipation. I snapped my fingers near the parrot’s head. “Joe loves Clara,” it squawked. “Clara loves Joe.” Instantly, the hundred other parrots in the lobby erupted in a cacophony of mimicked chatter. It took a full ten minutes for the noise to die down. I feigned annoyance and flicked the parrot’s head with my finger. The receptionist had been here for years; she was an expert at reading people and understanding office politics. It only took her a second to catch my meaning. She played her part perfectly. “What a coincidence,” she said, her voice loud enough to carry. “The new assistant in the EA pool is named Clara, too.” At her words, the group of assistants instinctively parted, revealing a pale-faced young woman standing in their midst. The moment Clara appeared, the parrot on my shoulder took flight, landing on hers and nuzzling affectionately against her cheek, chirping, “Miss Clara, miss Clara.” I didn’t need to ask any more questions. This was her. The sharp click-clack of my heels on the marble floor seemed to echo the pounding in Clara’s chest. I stopped in front of her. “My husband gave me this bird. Since it seems to like you so much, you can have it.” Before the woman could refuse, Joe’s voice cut through the tension. He had just arrived. “That was a gift for you, Nina. Why would a temp assistant who hasn’t even passed her probation be worthy of it?” Joe wrapped his arm around my waist, and I leaned into his embrace. To any outsider, we were the picture of a loving, powerful couple. But we both knew the truth. We both knew the affection was a lie. I shot a contemptuous glance at Clara, who looked like she was about to burst into tears, her lips white and trembling. I tapped Joe’s chest playfully, my voice a soft reprimand. “Darling, don’t be so harsh. You’re scaring the poor girl.” I turned back to Clara. “The parrot is mine to give. I say it’s yours, so it’s yours.” Joe sighed, as if exasperated by my willfulness, but then he leaned in and placed a tender, proprietary kiss on the corner of my mouth. When he looked up at Clara, however, his eyes were chips of ice. “Since my wife insists, you will accept it. But remember, this is a one-time thing.” Clara looked utterly bewildered. Last night, this man had held her in his arms, whispering sweet nothings. Now, he was a cold stranger. A flash of pure hatred crossed her face as she looked at me. She snatched the parrot from her shoulder and, with a choked sob, slammed it onto the marble floor before turning and running away. The color drained from Joe’s face. He took an instinctive step to follow her, but I grabbed his arm, my grip like steel. “Honey,” I said, my voice sweet, “the parrot is dead.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, forcing his tone to remain calm. “Sweetheart, I have a video conference I’m late for. After my meeting, I’ll take you out myself and we can pick out any gift you want.” But he could see Clara’s retreating figure about to disappear. He dropped the act, yanked his arm from my grasp, and chased after her. I watched them go, my expression unreadable. Then I turned to the receptionist, who was looking at me with a mixture of sympathy and awe. “How would you like a raise?” “So, you’re telling me Clara is a single mother with a five-year-old son?” The young receptionist, Maya, gulped down her bubble tea. “Yes! My best friend is in HR. She told me Clara has a son, but she’s never been married. One time, Clara let it slip that the boy’s father is the CEO of a publicly traded company.” I stirred my coffee, lost in thought. A few weeks ago, I would have never connected this to Joe. We had been through so much together. We started our company right out of college. It sounds simple, but with no family support and no experience, we were drowning. We were constantly exhausted, perpetually broke. We’d shared a single packet of instant noodles for dinner, huddled for warmth under a bridge. Finding vegetables that vendors had thrown out at the market felt like winning the lottery. “Mrs. Hawthorne?” Maya waved a hand in front of my face. I took a sip of my coffee. “Do you know where Clara lives?” The address was familiar. The neighborhood was familiar. Of course it was. It was the modern glass villa I had bought five years ago. At the time, Joe had complained it was too big, too sterile, that it didn’t feel like a home. So, despite how much I loved it, I had given it up, and we had moved into the cozy three-story townhouse he preferred. Now I knew why. He didn’t dislike the villa. He just wanted it for Clara. A bitter laugh escaped me. Joe Hawthorne, what a brilliant schemer. Using my money to house his mistress and his bastard child. A small soccer ball rolled to a stop at my feet. “Ma’am, can you get my ball for me?” I looked up and saw a small boy with a face that was a miniature version of Joe’s. I had prepared myself for this, but seeing him, a wave of raw anger and a sharp, unexpected pang of heartbreak washed over me. The sting of my own nails digging into my palm brought me back to my senses. I forced a gentle smile. “Here you go.” For the next few weeks, I became a ghost. Even Joe started to complain. He wrapped his arms around me from behind one evening, his chin resting on my shoulder. His warm breath on my neck made my skin crawl. “Mr. Hawthorne, about the dinner tonight—” Clara’s voice trailed off as she entered the office and saw me. Her eyes widened in panic, and she instinctively tried to hide her hands behind her back. “That’s a lovely bracelet, Clara,” I said conversationally. “You have excellent taste. Is that a piece from ‘Solitaire’?” “Their jewelry is known for being one-of-a-kind.” I paused, letting my words hang in the air. “It’s funny, it looks quite similar to a custom piece I ordered from them recently.” The double meaning was not lost on anyone in the room. I saw the same flicker of panic on both of their faces and smiled with satisfaction. “Of course,” I added lightly, “my eyes could be deceiving me.” Joe visibly relaxed. I sidestepped his attempt to take my hand. It was time for my performance. A single, perfect tear rolled down my cheek. “Joe, she killed my parrot,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Why is she still here? Why haven’t you fired her?” Clara looked horrified, her eyes welling up as she clutched at Joe’s sleeve. He patted her hand reassuringly. “Honey, Clara told me what happened. It wasn’t intentional. She’s allergic to feathers, and she just had a bad reaction.” “Besides,” he continued, “she’s a great employee, and she’s a single mother. You’re such a kind person, Nina. I know you wouldn’t have the heart to fire her, would you?” I looked at him, my face a mask of grievance and injustice. “But I’m not the one who made her a single mother.” I let out a shaky laugh. “You’re so protective of her. What are you, the baby’s daddy?” “Nina, what the hell are you talking about?!” he exploded. I flinched as if struck, my eyes wide with shock. After a long moment, I choked out, “It was just a joke! Why are you so angry?” His darkest secret had been touched, and he lashed out. “You’re being completely irrational!” he snapped. “I’m not coming home for a while. You can stay here and think about what you’ve done.” With that, he walked around me, grabbed his coat, and led Clara out of the office. As they left, Clara shot me a triumphant smirk over her shoulder. The door slammed shut. The mask of the wronged wife fell away, replaced by the cold, imperious glare of a queen.

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1 The night before the mission, Elara, my ever-composed wife, couldn’t sleep. I knew she still had feelings for the man who killed my family. I gave her a choice: leave the mission and sign the divorce papers, or cut him out of her life forever. She spent the night violently punching the gym bags. By morning, she was bruised and hoarse but resolved. “I’m with you,” she vowed. “I’ll see this revenge through.” The firefight was intense. We were about to win—until she pressed her gun to my temple. Her hands shook as she cried, “I know he killed your family… But they’re gone! Why can’t you let it go? I love him. Please, let him go.” Furious but helpless, I watched him walk away unharmed, smirking. Within minutes, I became the joke of my own team. Then came the final blow: photos of Elara and Adrian getting married, spread across every news feed and dark web forum. That was when my heart turned to stone. If you insist on crushing my last shred of dignity, don’t blame me for what happens next. … Staring at their retreating figures, something inside me snapped. “Elara, how could you?” The words ripped from my throat, raw and full of hate. “What about my parents? They died protecting you from that monster! Have you forgotten that?!” She flinched, her steps faltering. When she turned back, her eyes were bloodshot, her voice a fragile whisper. “Caleb, Mom and Dad wouldn’t want this! They wouldn’t want to see you consumed by this hatred!” “Let Adrian go,” she pleaded. “Isn’t that a way of letting yourself go, too?” Thirty minutes. That’s all it took. The dark web forums exploded. “Elara Thorne Betrays Mercenary King for His Sworn Enemy.” 【Can’t believe the great Caleb Thorne can’t even control his own wife. Watched her run off with his nemesis? How’s he ever going to show his face again?】 【Talks a big game, acts all tough, but turns out he’s just another lovesick fool. Pathetic.】 【Hey Thorne, you give me that disputed territory on the Serrovian border, and I’ll send you two hundred women to help you get over her.】 Overnight, I went from being the most feared name in the private military world—a god of war—to a global punchline. The entire underworld was laughing at my expense. I stared at the screen, each taunt a fresh log on the fire of my rage. But before I could even formulate a response, Elara provoked me again, this time publicly. She posted on a high-profile forum, a beacon of sanctimony: 【An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. I am willing to broker a peace summit between the two leaders to end this needless bloodshed.】 She even had the audacity to tag me and Adrian. The fury that shot through me was blinding. How dare she? How dare she presume to forgive the man who slaughtered my parents on my behalf? And yet… I agreed to the meeting. How else was I going to personally send that fucking pair to hell? The forums erupted once more. 【HOLY SHIT! Thorne is actually going? Is there no limit to how much of a doormat this guy can be?】 【LMAO, is this a throuple situation now? One big happy family?】 【Two warlords fighting over a woman. This is the dark web’s reality TV show of the year!】 I said nothing. I simply had my tech division lock onto the IPs of the three loudest commentators. That night, three precision-guided missiles found their targets. The resulting fireballs turned a thirty-mile radius into a scorched wasteland, a barren scar on the earth where nothing would grow for a decade. 【So you can dish it out but you can’t take it? Real classy, Thorne!】 【Got the balls to bomb random posters but not your actual enemy? What a coward!】 I didn’t respond. Results were always more persuasive than rhetoric. The day of the “peace talk,” Elara specifically requested I come alone. I agreed. But not before positioning a thousand of my best soldiers in concealed positions around the summit location. One word from me, and they could assemble and overwhelm the site in under sixty seconds. When Elara saw me, she forced a smile and rushed forward, ready to play peacemaker. “Caleb, Adrian knows he was wrong. He’s here today to personally apologize to you.” Adrian stood, offering a deep, formal bow. “Thorne. I’m sorry.” A cold, humorless laugh escaped my lips. “You think three empty words are enough to pay for the lives of my parents?” Elara’s face hardened. She grabbed my arm, her voice sharp. “Caleb! We came here to talk, to make peace! What the hell is this attitude?!” I shoved her away, the back of my hand connecting with her cheek in a sharp crack. “For what he did,” I snarled, “the only outcome is one of us in a body bag.” Seeing me strike her, Adrian immediately moved to shield her, his voice a low threat. “Caleb Thorne, my men swept this place. You came alone. Today, you either accept my apology, or you don’t leave here alive.” I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud, a harsh, grating sound. I raised a hand, pointing languidly toward the window. “Open your eyes, you idiot. There are at least a hundred rifles aimed at your heads right now. If I so much as twitch a finger, you’ll both be turned into human confetti.” Their faces went pale. A quick, panicked scan of the surrounding rooftops confirmed I wasn’t bluffing. Adrian scoffed, trying to regain his composure. “So what? If I’m going down, taking the great Caleb Thorne with me is a fair trade. We die together! Then you can have a happy little reunion with your useless parents.” He dared. He dared to mention my parents again. The rage I had suppressed for so long finally detonated. My fist crashed into his face with the force of a battering ram. I felt his nose give way with a sickening crunch. A second later, he wiped the blood from his lip, a savage grin spreading across his face as he launched a heavy kick at my chest. I dodged, grabbing him and slamming him to the floor. In one fluid motion, I drew my combat knife and pressed the blade to his throat. “You want to die with me?” I whispered, my voice deadly calm. “Dream on. I’m sending you to hell first.” I pressed the blade down. A line of crimson welled up along the steel. “Caleb! Don’t, I’m pregnant…” Elara’s voice shattered the moment. She threw herself at me, pushing me back and shielding Adrian with her own body, her voice trembling. “I don’t want my child to grow up without a father… Please, let him go… I’m begging you!” The words hit me like a physical blow. I stumbled back, collapsing into a chair, the world spinning around me. A child. They had a child. Tears streamed down Elara’s face, but all I could see was the ultimate betrayal. Five months? Was that all it took? Five short months for her to completely turn, to beg me to forget the murder of my parents, to spare the life of her new lover. But why should I? We were married for three years, and we never had children. She was the one who said she didn’t want to be “trapped by a baby,” confined to a home. She wanted to fight by my side, to be my equal, a legend in her own right. And now? Now she was telling me she was carrying the child of the man who destroyed my world? How could she? In that moment of stunned silence, Adrian saw his chance. He lunged, wrenching the knife from my grip and pressing it back against my own neck. “Let us walk out of here, right now, or I’ll send you to see your parents!” I stared into his eyes and smiled, a chilling, dead thing. “The entire foundation of this building is wired with explosives. Enough to level this whole city block.” “The moment my heart stops,” I informed him, “a dead man’s switch will turn a fifty-mile radius into a smoking crater.” Elara’s face was a mask of horror, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. “Caleb, you’re insane… We came here to talk. You gave us your word!” My word? She had the nerve to speak to me of broken promises? “Elara, you are the most despicable thing I have ever known.” Before the words even left my mouth, I snapped my head to the side, breaking his hold and twisting the knife back into my hand. The blade sliced my palm open, blood dripping onto the floor, but I felt nothing. Expressionless, I raised my bloodied hand and gave a sharp, almost imperceptible signal. The doors and windows shattered inwards as nearly a hundred of my elite soldiers stormed the room. In seconds, all of Adrian’s hidden guards were dragged out, disarmed and subdued. I shook the blood from my hand and tossed a single sheet of paper onto the table in front of Elara. A divorce decree. “Sign it,” I ordered. “Don’t dirty my family’s name any longer.” But instead of signing, she snatched the paper and ripped it to shreds. “No,” she said, her voice shaking with a twisted sort of defiance. “I won’t. Mom and Dad treated me like their own daughter. They’re barely cold in their graves and you’re already throwing me out? Aren’t you afraid of what they would think?” She knew. She knew how much my parents had adored her. And she was using their memory as a shield for her and her monster. “A backstabbing, ungrateful bitch like you?” I spat. “My parents would be celebrating the fact that I finally see you for what you are. And don’t you dare think that marriage certificate is some kind of get-out-of-jail-free card…” Before I could finish, Adrian started barking like the dog he was. “Thorne, if you lay another finger on Elara, I’ll kill you!” “Are you still not clear on the situation here?” I looked at the pathetic, struggling pair, a wave of nausea washing over me. The next second, one of my men sent Adrian to the floor with a brutal kick to the ribs. I walked over slowly, grinding the sole of my boot into his chest. My second-in-command handed me a dagger. “Alright,” I said, my voice deceptively calm. I took the dagger. “Then I’ll start with you.” I dug the tip of the blade under his fingernail. Adrian screamed. “This is what you did to my father, isn’t it?” One by one, I pried off all ten. Then, I moved the dagger towards the palm of his hand. Suddenly, a gunshot echoed through the room, and a searing pain exploded in my shoulder. The dagger clattered to the floor.

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I crashed my ex-boyfriend’s wedding. As the crowd gathered around the couple to cut the cake, I drifted closer, leaning in to whisper a single sentence in his ear. His head snapped around. In the next instant, he plunged the cake knife into his new bride. Once, twice, three times… He stabbed her eighteen times, a savage frenzy, like an exorcism of demons. Guests scattered, their screams tearing through the festive air. A wedding painted in blood. The media descended like vultures, each reporter desperate to know what had happened. But both Kevin and I remained silent, bound by a secret understanding. After a long investigation, the police found no motive, no evidence of incitement. They could only label it a psychotic break. He was sent to a psychiatric hospital for five years. The day Kevin was released was his parents’ 70th birthday. And once again, I appeared, an unwelcome ghost, ready to whisper the same sentence into the ear of a man they called cured. 1 “You and Kevin haven’t spoken in three years,” a voice hissed beside me. “Have you no shame, showing up here to steal the groom?” Dressed in a severe black gown, I was a specter at my ex-boyfriend Kevin’s celebration of new life. His gaze, when it found me, was cold, as if I were a stranger he’d passed on the street. It lingered for a heartbeat before he turned back to his fiancée, murmuring something sweet that made her laugh. Whispers rippled through the guests, their eyes darting between me and the happy couple. Kevin’s parents, their faces hardening into masks of fury, marched over. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation,” his father growled. “If you have any decency, you’ll leave now. Don’t make a scene.” But the bride-to-be, Lily, stepped forward, a picture of grace. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice surprisingly warm. “We all go way back. I’m sure Ava is just here to wish us well.” Seeing their future daughter-in-law so composed, Kevin’s parents could say no more. They grudgingly had me seated at a table in the farthest, darkest corner of the room. The incident was quickly forgotten. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air once more. Then came the cake-cutting. The crowd surged forward, a wave of bodies pressing in around the towering confection. In the shuffle, I found myself pushed right up against Kevin. He had his arm wrapped around Lily’s waist, his face alight with an adoring smile. This was my chance. I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear, and spoke. His smile froze. His eyes, once so full of warmth, became terrifyingly feral, as if his very soul had been struck by lightning. He snatched the ceremonial knife and plunged it deep into Lily’s heart. Her scream was strangled by a gush of blood that blossomed across her white dress like a grotesque rose. Panic erupted. Guests shrieked and scrambled for the exits. Flowers, tablecloths, even the sky itself seemed stained crimson. And through it all, I stood perfectly still, watching him kill. I didn’t try to stop him. I didn’t run. I just watched, until the wail of sirens sliced through the chaos. 2 They put us in separate interrogation rooms. “What the hell did you say to him?” Detective Miller’s voice was a low growl, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the table. “Why did he snap and murder his fiancée?” I slowly lifted my gaze to meet his, my expression placid. There was no trace of the horror a witness to such brutality should feel. “I don’t know.” His fist slammed down on the metal table, the sound echoing in the sterile room. “How can you not know? A young woman is dead because of something you said!” He leaned closer, his voice raw with anger. “We’ve checked. Kevin and Lily were happy. They never fought. Nothing was wrong until you showed up.” A cold smile touched my lips. “Are my words magic, Detective? Do you really believe a single sentence from me could make a man murder the woman he loves?” He was silenced by that, his jaw tight. He knew how absurd it sounded. The investigation would have already shown him that Kevin and I hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in three years. Not a single text, not a single call. Kevin was the golden boy—brilliant, kind, compassionate. He was the kid who spent his allowance on food for stray cats, the man who had never shown a single violent impulse in his life. The police were grasping at straws, and the only straw they had was the sentence I’d whispered in his ear. “Then just tell us what you said to him. That, at least, you can do.” I met his intense gaze. “If you can prove my words are legally relevant to the crime, I’ll tell you,” I said, my voice even. “Otherwise, I can only report what I witnessed. But you don’t need me for that. You have the security footage.” “You…” Detective Miller’s face flushed with impotent rage. He glared at me, a storm brewing in his eyes, but he eventually spun on his heel and stormed out. Meanwhile, in the room next door, Kevin was faring much worse. He sat slumped in his chair, his eyes vacant, an empty shell where a person used to be. No matter how much they questioned him, he said nothing. It was as if the ability to speak had been carved out of him. 3 The moment I stepped out of the police station, I was swarmed. Kevin’s and Lily’s parents descended on me like a flock of enraged vultures. “Ava! What did you say to our son?” Kevin’s mother shrieked, her hand flying up to strike me across the face. The slap echoed in the tense silence. “I always knew you were poison! I knew you weren’t good enough for him! Why couldn’t you just let him go? Why did you have to ruin his life?” Even though her son was the killer, all her venom was directed at me. Lily’s mother, her face pale and streaked with tears, grabbed the front of my dress. “My Lily was the kindest soul,” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “She never did anything to you. Why did you tell Kevin to kill her?” Her husband stood beside her, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. “He broke up with you on his own. It had nothing to do with my daughter. Why did you take it out on her?” They screamed, they cried, they cursed me with the most vile words imaginable. I just stood there, impassive, a statue carved from ice. In the weeks that followed, reporters camped outside my door, hungry for a statement. A bizarre rumor even started that my words held some kind of dark power, and an eccentric billionaire offered a fortune just to know what I’d said. But whether they threatened or bribed, I remained silent. Six months passed. The police still had no motive for Kevin’s actions and no concrete evidence that I had incited him. In the end, they had no choice but to accept the insanity defense. The Collins family saw their opening. They poured every penny they had into Kevin’s case, hiring the best lawyers and pulling every string they could. After a protracted legal battle, they managed to get him committed to a private psychiatric facility instead of prison. To oversee his treatment, Mr. and Mrs. Collins gave up their careers. They sold their home and rented a cramped one-bedroom apartment near the hospital, dedicating their lives to his recovery. For five years, they refused my every attempt to visit. My only communication with Kevin remained that single, devastating sentence at his wedding. And then, after five years of their tireless effort, Kevin was deemed cured and released. It just so happened that the day of his release was his parents’ 70th birthday. A dual celebration. Though their fortune was gone, the Collins family decided to throw a grand party, a gala to announce their son’s return to the world. 4 I arrived at the banquet hall wearing the same black dress. An unwelcome ghost from a past they had tried so desperately to bury. The lively chatter in the hall died instantly. A strange, suffocating silence fell over the room. The smile on Mrs. Collins’s face froze, then crumbled. She rushed toward me, grabbing my arm in a surprisingly strong grip, trying to physically drag me out. “You cursed thing!” she spat, her voice a venomous whisper. “Why do you keep haunting us? Get out! Get out before I have you thrown out!” The Collins family may have lost their wealth, but they were desperate to rebuild their social standing and prove that Kevin was no longer a threat. They had gone into debt to host this party, inviting influential people from every corner of the city. It was supposed to be a declaration of his recovery, a fresh start. My appearance shattered that illusion in an instant. “Mrs. Collins, please,” I said, my voice calm, a slight smile playing on my lips as I held out a gift-wrapped box. “I’m just here to celebrate with you and Kevin.” She flinched as if the box were venomous, slapping it out of my hands. It hit the polished floor with a dull thud. “We don’t want your charity! Who knows what kind of twisted games you’re playing now!” she shrieked. “Take your things and get out of here!” The reporters in the room, smelling blood, began to circle. One of them, a man with a smirk, called out, “You seem awfully scared of her, Mrs. Collins. Are you sure Kevin is really cured? Or are you afraid he’ll start stabbing people again if she so much as looks at him?” Mrs. Collins’s face paled, but she forced a tight smile. “Of course he’s cured. The doctors have assured us he’s perfectly stable, not a threat to anyone.” She shot me a hateful glare. “But this woman… she’s a manipulator. Who knows what she might say to provoke him!” The reporter laughed coldly. “If a few ‘provoking’ words can make him kill, he belongs in a prison or an asylum, not at a party.” His words struck her like a physical blow, and she couldn’t find a response. I bent down, picked up the gift, and dusted it off, offering it to her again. This time, her hand trembling, she took it. Her thank you was a low, menacing growl. 5 Just like before, Mrs. Collins seated me at the back of the room. She and her husband hovered around Kevin like guard dogs, their eyes constantly flicking toward me, ensuring I couldn’t get close. But as the toasts began, a river of well-wishers flowed toward the head table. Caught up in the congratulations and laughter, Mr. and Mrs. Collins started to relax. A few glasses of champagne loosened their vigilance. They didn’t even notice as I picked up my own glass and slowly, deliberately, made my way toward Kevin. When it was my turn to offer a toast, I leaned in close, just as I had five years ago. And I whispered the exact same words. The change was instantaneous. The color drained from his face. His eyes widened in horror. He snatched a large carving knife from a nearby serving trolley. Before anyone could react, he lunged and plunged it deep into his mother’s stomach. Blood sprayed across the white tablecloth. Mrs. Collins stared at her son, her eyes wide with disbelief, before her body crumpled to the floor. “He’s killing again!” someone screamed. The banquet hall exploded into chaos. Chairs toppled, glasses shattered. No one dared to intervene. Mr. Collins, finally snapping out of his shock, rushed forward. “Kevin, no! Son, stop!” But Kevin was a machine of pure violence. He swung the knife wildly, slashing his father across the arms and legs. Mr. Collins collapsed, bleeding and pleading. “Son… it’s me… it’s your father…” Hearing his voice, Kevin paused, then brought the knife down in one clean, final stroke across his father’s throat. With his father dead, Kevin calmly walked back to his mother’s body. Just as he had with Lily, he began to stab her methodically, over and over, until he reached the eighteenth strike. By then, the police had arrived, sirens screaming. The scene was quickly secured. Kevin offered no resistance. He dropped the bloody knife and allowed the officers to cuff him. But this time, the family and guests didn’t just stand by. They turned on me, a furious mob. “Why aren’t you arresting her?” a cousin screamed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “She’s the one who did this! We all saw it! She whispered something to him, and he went insane!” “Yes!” others chimed in. “It was the same five years ago! She made him kill his wife!” “She’s the real murderer!” Detective Miller, who had responded to the call, recognized me instantly. He stormed over, his face a mask of cold fury. “What did you say to him?” he demanded, his voice shaking with rage. Just like five years ago, I said nothing about the words. “That’s three people dead!” he roared. “Are you still not going to talk?” Just then, a small boy pushed through the crowd, holding up a small digital camera with a proud, innocent smile. “I recorded what the lady said!” he announced. “I got it all on video!” 6 “You recorded it, buddy? Are you sure?” Detective Miller’s voice was laced with urgency as he crouched down to the boy’s level. The child, maybe five or six, blinked, clutching the camera to his chest. He seemed oblivious to the carnage around him, focused only on his achievement. “My camera was pointed right at the lady’s face,” he said, puffing out his chest. “You can see for yourself.” The crowd surged toward the boy, a wave of morbid curiosity. Miller, frowning, quickly took the camera from the child’s hands. He stared at the small screen, his eyes widening. He played the short clip back. Once. Twice. A third time. He looked up at me, his face a mixture of shock and utter disbelief. His voice trembled slightly. “You… you just said that?” he stammered. “And he killed for it?” I held his gaze, the faint, infuriating smile still on my lips. “You saw the video.” Miller’s face turned ashen. He lunged forward, grabbing the collar of my dress. “No,” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. “That can’t be it. It’s a code. There’s a hidden meaning. Tell me what you really meant!” His knuckles were white, his grip like iron. I tried to push him away but couldn’t break his hold. Finally, I sighed and let my hands fall to my sides, meeting his furious eyes without flinching. “There’s no hidden meaning. It means exactly what it sounds like. The rest is up to you to figure out.” Kevin’s remaining relatives were utterly bewildered. “What did she say?” one of them pleaded. “What were the words?” Detective Miller slowly released me, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He turned to the stunned crowd. “She only said four words,” he announced, his voice heavy with disbelief. “‘Just be yourself.’”

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The day I found out Liam was cheating again, I let out a long, slow sigh of relief. This was the latest in a long, unbroken line of betrayals, and always with the same woman. Over the phone, his breaths were shallow and quick as he claimed to be in a meeting. I stretched languidly, gazing out the window at the endless night, and hung up. I thought of the vow we’d made so long ago: If I ever betray you, may I die a horrible death. A shame no one ever actually dies from it. But the betrayal is always real. I drafted the divorce papers. This broken, rotten marriage was over. 1. Liam came home at three in the morning. He had a satisfied, languid smile on his face as he came to wrap his arms around me on the sofa. A faint trace of perfume, a scent that wasn’t mine, drifted into my nose. The old me would have flown into a rage. Where were you? Who were you with? Why does your shirt smell like that? Then would come the screaming, the crying, the sound of things breaking. Liam would soothe me with some nonsensical excuse, and I, pathetically, would believe him. But that was the old me. The me who was obsessively, blindly in love with him. I used to spend hours staring at a photo of us at seventeen. The boy in that picture, the one who had loved me with such sincerity, was frozen in time. Before he left to study abroad in London, he’d grabbed my hands, his eyes intense. “Don’t you dare betray me,” he’d said. “Whoever betrays the other will die a horrible death.” Back then, fueled by love, even a vow that dark sounded sweet. Then came the call across time zones. A girl’s voice answered his phone, telling me he was in the shower. The call didn’t end when the water shut off. I heard their panting breaths, their quiet murmurs. I knew. I sent him a novel-length breakup text. He flew back immediately to win me over, the ghost of that same perfume still clinging to him. “Kaley, she’s just a classmate. Nothing happened. We were just out for a run.” And just like that, I believed him. It seems so absurd now. Liam’s deep voice rumbled above my head, pulling me from the memory. “Why are you still up?” Breathing in that familiar, foreign scent, I gently pushed him away. As he stared, confused, I placed the freshly printed divorce agreement on the coffee table. “Let’s get a divorce.” Liam scoffed and tried to pull me into a hug again. I shoved him off. I just sat there, watching him with an unnerving calm as his composure began to crumble. He shot to his feet, pacing back and forth with his hands on his hips. “I told you, I was in a meeting. I was late, okay? But I came home, didn’t I? I didn’t stay out all night!” 2. The midnight curfew was a rule established after one of his many betrayals. He’d promised to abide by it, and for a few weeks, he actually had, turning down after-work drinks and dinners. But he couldn’t turn down an invitation from her. I had only met Zoe once. When Liam returned for good from London, he didn’t come to see me first. She showed up at my door, asking for a pair of his underwear to bring to him. It was a blatant provocation. I shoved her out and slammed the door. But her woody, cloying perfume lingered in the apartment we had decorated together over video calls. From then on, whenever I smelled that scent on him, I knew he’d been with her. And every single time, Liam had a ready-made excuse. He’d met with her to discuss a joint business venture. He’d run into her by chance outside the office and they’d just grabbed a quick lunch. It was a class reunion; everyone was there. And each time, he would look me in the eye, his gaze achingly sincere, and swear, “Nothing happened. If I betrayed you, Kaley, may I die a horrible death.” And I would believe him. I looked up at the man who had been the centerpiece of my entire youth. All the obsession, the unwillingness to let go… it had all vanished. I couldn’t find a trace of it. Liam was still rambling, and I repeated, my voice flat. “Let’s get a divorce.” He froze, standing ramrod straight in front of me. It was finally dawning on him that this wasn’t a tantrum. It wasn’t like the other times. I wasn’t throwing things. I wasn’t screaming. I wasn’t even pointing out the evidence and demanding an explanation. I was just calmly ending it. He crouched in front of me, raising his hand to make that same, tired vow. “If I did anything to betray you, may I die a horrible death.” “Then you can go die.” His eyes widened, the color draining from his face. This time, I didn’t rush to cover his mouth, whispering, “I believe you.” This time, I accepted his offer. 3. Liam looked like a robot that had just been powered down, his hand falling limply to his side. Outside, a roll of thunder broke the silence, and the sky opened up. His phone rang, a shrill intrusion. I glanced at the screen. The contact name read, “Zoe from Accounting.” I couldn’t help but laugh. A plausible, professional-sounding alias. But I already knew. After all, what kind of colleague texts you at midnight saying, I miss you so much. There’s a thunderstorm and I’m scared. Can you come be with me? Liam declined the call. A second later, it rang again. I watched him struggle. “Go on, answer it. She’s afraid of thunder.” A tremor went through him. He grabbed my hand, his face a mask of panic. “Kaley, let me explain. She and I are just…” “It doesn’t matter,” I said, cutting him off. “We’re getting divorced. You can tell her the good news. You won’t have to sneak around anymore. You won’t have to rack your brain for those ridiculous, logic-defying excuses.” I still didn’t understand it. How could he claim to love me and then run to her bed without a second thought? And he was so good at protecting her. After that one time she came to my door, I never saw her again, no matter how hard I tried. Once, I’d followed his phone’s GPS, running through the neighborhood in my pajamas and slippers. I was going to catch him in the act, leave him with no excuses left. I beat on the door of the apartment, but there was no answer, just a heavy, mocking silence from the other side. They were in there, together. That perfume, its phantom scent, was a constant reminder that she had never really left. It was only later I realized he had installed a GPS tracker on my phone, too. He was always one step ahead. From his studies in London to his return home, through our entire marriage, Zoe had been a ghost haunting our lives. Time and time again, I would look at the face of the seventeen-year-old boy in the photo and forgive the twenty-seven-year-old man in my bed. Finally, at twenty-eight, I threw the photo in the trash. 4. I was so tired. I didn’t have the energy to believe another one of his clumsy lies. But then he did something new. He dropped to his knees and started to cry. “I was alone in London,” he sobbed. “I didn’t know anyone. I lost my wallet, all my IDs, everything. I was just wandering the streets, completely lost, and she found me. She helped me get everything replaced. She was with me through that whole dark time.” His eyes, glistening with tears, looked up at me. During those years he was away, I’d turned down every advance, every offer of a date. I wrote him letters every week, sent him boxes of homemade cookies because I was afraid he’d be lonely. I stayed up through the night, waiting for a time we could talk, telling him over and over again, I love you. I’m waiting for you. It was clear now that none of that mattered as much as Zoe’s physical presence. He hugged my legs, his face wet with tears. “Kaley, this is the last time. I’ll never see her again, I promise!” “I swear, if I ever see her again, I’ll—” “She’ll die a horrible death,” I finished for him. His mouth hung open, his face a picture of conflict. I wanted to see just how deep his feelings for her ran. I leaned back against the sofa, looking down at him. “Say it. If you two ever meet again, she’ll die a horrible death.” He closed his mouth. He lowered the hand he’d raised to swear the oath. Silence filled the room again. I watched the color drain from his face and let out a bitter laugh. His phone rang again. This time, he answered, his voice a furious roar. “Don’t ever call me again! We’re over!” He slammed the phone down and looked at me, his eyes full of desperate hope. I watched his chest heave from the force of his shouting and just felt… empty. “It’s too late, Liam.” 5. “From the moment you were in London, the two of you never stopped. I asked you, begged you, to cut ties with her, but you never did.” “You just found more secretive ways to see her. You faked a business proposal to show me, claiming you had to work with her. You helped her set up her company in the building next to yours so you could have ‘chance encounters’ and lunch every day. You organized a ‘class reunion’ where, surprise, the two of you were the only ones who showed up.” As I laid it all out, he just shook his head, muttering that it wasn’t like that. Outside, the darkness began to soften into a bruised, pre-dawn blue. A knock on the door. A woman stood there, drenched from the rain. Liam rushed to wrap her in a towel, his eyes filled with concern. Even through the rain, I could smell that familiar, woody scent. Zoe’s eyes were red as she stared at Liam. “What do you mean, ‘we’re over’?” “Didn’t you tell me you had no feelings for her? That the only reason you didn’t divorce her was because she’d take half your money?” “Why? Why are you ending things with me now?” After that outburst, Liam looked at me, his face ashen. So that was it. He was worried I’d take his money. Zoe’s eyes fell on the divorce papers on the table. She snatched them up. On the last page, my signature sat, quiet and final. Liam tried to grab the papers back, but she dodged him. “Why haven’t you signed it?” she shrieked. “She’s not asking for a single penny!” Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice cracking with desperation. I think Liam finally snapped. He ripped the agreement to shreds, shoved her out the door, and slammed it shut. From outside, we could hear her screaming curses and questions. I remained on the sofa. Liam fell to his knees again, sobbing apologies. 6. After a while, the noise outside stopped, replaced by a woman’s shocked cry. “Oh my goodness! This poor girl’s fainted!” Liam flinched, then scrambled to his feet and threw the door open. He cradled Zoe in his arms, shaking her, his voice choked as he called her name. The girl in his arms was pale and unresponsive. He glanced at me once, then scooped her up. “Kaley, I’m taking her to the hospital. I’ll be right back. Wait for me. I’ll come back and explain everything.” I watched him leave without a backward glance and wondered if he would ever really come back. I just sat there on the sofa. Waiting. At noon, I got a friend request from Zoe. She sent me a picture, a trophy of her victory. In it, Liam was asleep, his head resting on her hospital bed. Next to him was an unfolded pregnancy report. I zoomed in on the date. Two months. Two months ago, Liam had told me he was going on a week-long business trip. He’d checked in with me every thirty minutes. But even that constant surveillance hadn’t stopped him from sneaking off to be with her. He’s going to be a father. He’s mine, Kaley. Zoe’s texts popped up. I didn’t reply. I exited the chat, opened my laptop, and started revising the divorce agreement. If he was going to have a baby with her, he was damn well going to pay for it. Then I called the movers. By the time Liam came back, the living room was full of boxes. He stepped over them and found me in the master bedroom, directing the movers. “Kaley, what are you doing?” I turned to him, my voice cold. “Packing.” “Kaley, Zoe… she has some health issues. I need to stay at the hospital with her for a few days. Can you just wait for me? Please?” he begged. We looked at each other, and a sudden, morbid curiosity took hold of me. I wanted to know how he would handle the baby. A slow smile spread across my face. “Okay.” He looked immensely grateful, pulling me into a tight hug before rushing to pack a bag and hurry back to the hospital.

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1 Just after giving birth, I was added to an online group for secondhand baby items. Inside, a single used baby bottle was up for auction. The starting bid was a staggering $9,900. “What’s the model? Weight?” I was baffled. Why would a used bottle sell for a fortune? The next second, a photo of my daughter, Lily, appeared in the chat. The group admin replied: “Eight pounds. Limited edition. One of a kind.” “Limited edition model, weighs eight pounds. For those in the know.” I stared at the screen, my brow furrowed in confusion. The picture was just a plain glass baby bottle, but the description was bizarre. Stranger still, someone immediately asked a follow-up question. “What type?” The admin’s reply was swift: “Type B. Purity guaranteed.” Before I could process it, the admin posted another photo. It was a baby’s calf, and on the fair skin was a pale red, heart-shaped birthmark. My breath caught in my throat. The location, the shape, even the faint, jagged edges of that birthmark… It was identical to my daughter’s. I stared at the screen, my throat tightening. Suddenly, the chat exploded with messages: “$20,000.” “$25,000. Don’t get in my way!” “$30,000. Cash. Can make the exchange tonight.” My fingers were ice-cold, my grip on the phone failing. Were they auctioning my daughter? “$50,000.” An ID named “Blackhawk” suddenly placed a bid. The chat went silent for a second. Then the admin sent a voice message. I clicked play. A man’s raspy voice chuckled. “Alright. Same rules as always. 11 PM tonight, Pier 3 warehouse. Inspect the goods, pay up. No funny business.” My head snapped up to the clock on the wall—8:30 PM. A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. I scrambled to my feet and ran for the bedroom. The moment I pushed the door open, my heart stopped. My husband, Ethan, was holding Lily, the keys to the stroller dangling from his hand. He looked like he was about to leave. “What are you doing?!” My voice trembled, sharper than I intended. He flinched, then frowned at me. “I was just taking her for a walk downstairs. You said she was a little fussy today and could use some fresh air.” My eyes were glued to my daughter. She was wearing her light blue bear onesie, babbling as she played with her father’s collar. The heart-shaped birthmark on her leg was faintly visible in the light. “Don’t bother!” I practically lunged at him, snatching our daughter from his arms. Ethan was startled, reaching out to steady me. “What’s wrong with you? Did something happen?” I clutched Lily tightly, my fingers digging into her swaddle. “I’ll take her for a walk. You get some rest.” He looked at me, suspicion in his eyes. “You’re pale as a ghost. And your hands are shaking.” “Probably just low blood sugar.” I forced a weak smile, backing away. “I’ll grab a snack while I’m out. You just wait here for me.” Before he could say another word, I turned and rushed out, forgetting to even grab my jacket. As the elevator doors closed, I looked down at Lily. She was staring up at me with wide, round eyes, her tiny hand gripping my collar. Tears streamed down my face. “Mommy won’t let anyone take you,” I whispered, my voice choked with sobs as I kissed her forehead. The elevator reached the ground floor. As the doors opened, a blast of cold air hit me. At the same moment, my phone chimed. I pulled it out, the screen’s cold light illuminating my ashen face. Admin: “Change of plans. Exchange moved to 11 PM tomorrow. Same location.” I stared at the message, my mind buzzing. The moment I took Lily out of the apartment, they changed the time. Thinking of Ethan’s actions, my fingers tightened. If I was only fifty percent suspicious before, I was now one hundred percent certain. The admin was Ethan. It had to be him. My daughter whimpered in my arms, uncomfortable with my tight grip. I immediately loosened my hold, leaning down to kiss her again. “It’s okay, sweetie. Don’t be afraid. Mommy’s here.” Just then, Ethan called, asking where I’d gone with the baby. He pointed out I’d forgotten my wallet. I stammered an excuse, then turned around and saw Ethan walking towards me, my purse in his hand. “Honey, you’re so forgetful. How can I not worry about you?” he said with a sigh. “Come on, I’ll go with you.” My heart hammered against my ribs, but I had no choice but to nod and walk beside him. I couldn’t afford to tip him off. That night, back home, Lily breathed peacefully in her bassinet beside our bed. But I lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling, my ears straining to catch every sound, waiting for the right moment to escape. Around dawn, my husband suddenly sat up. I squeezed my eyes shut, evening out my breathing, pretending to be fast asleep. His footsteps were light, but I felt him pause beside the bassinet. My heart was about to burst from my chest. My fingers twisted the corner of the duvet into a knot. Then, I heard the rustle of fabric. “What are you doing?!” I shot up, my voice so shrill it startled even me. Ethan froze. After a long moment, he pulled his hand back, his tone weary. “I was just checking if she was hungry. I thought I heard her whimper.” In the darkness, I couldn’t see his face, but my fear didn’t subside. “I’ll do it.” I jumped out of bed, scooping Lily up before he could, my movements almost rough. Startled from her sleep, Lily let out a few confused cries. I quickly cradled her, rocking her gently. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. Mommy’s here.” Ethan didn’t move. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “What is wrong with you today? You’re so on edge.” “Nothing. Just tired,” I said, my back to him, trying to sound calm. He sighed. “Well, feed her and try to get some sleep.” As his soft snores filled the room, I sank onto the bed, cold sweat soaking through my pajamas. At 4 AM, Lily finally fell into a deep sleep in my arms. I gently placed her back in her bassinet, but I didn’t dare close my eyes, my fingers wrapped tightly around my phone. Ping. The screen lit up. Another group notification. Admin: “Apologies, exchange time is TBD.” It was followed by a series of photos labeled “Bonus Perks.” My hand trembled as I opened them. They were pictures of my daughter sleeping peacefully in her bed. There was even one of her crying during her vaccination appointment last week. Some of these photos, I had never even seen before. My gaze snapped to Ethan, sleeping beside me. My mind raced, replaying every strange thing about him lately. He had been working late constantly. The other night, I woke up and found him on the balcony on the phone. He hung up the second he saw me. “Just work stuff. Go back to sleep,” he’d said. How could I possibly sleep? As soon as the sky began to lighten, while Ethan was still sound asleep, I quietly bundled Lily up and slipped out of the apartment. I flagged down a taxi and went straight to my mother’s house. The entire way, I kept looking over my shoulder, terrified a car was following us. Lily just played with my hair, oblivious. “What are you doing here so early?” my mom asked, surprised to see me at her door in her pajamas. I didn’t have time to explain. I pushed Lily into her arms. “Mom, please watch her for a day. No, two days!” “And don’t tell anyone she’s here. Not even Ethan!” I had to save my daughter, but I couldn’t ignore the other children. I couldn’t let Ethan get away with this. My mom was stunned. “What’s happened?” “I’ll explain later.” I kissed Lily’s forehead, my voice cracking. “Don’t let her out of your sight for a second!” As I left, I took one last look at my daughter. She was giggling, tugging at her grandma’s collar. The sight made my nose sting. When I got home, Ethan had already left for work. I locked the door and immediately opened that godforsaken group chat. A new message made my blood run cold. Admin: “Pick-up location changed. Sunnyvale Gardens, Building 3, underground garage.” That was my mother’s address. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold the phone. I dialed my mom’s number. “Hello?” Her voice was cheerful. “Mom, how’s Lily?” I asked, my voice tight. “She’s wonderful. Just had her milk and now she’s playing with her rattle.” “Have any strangers knocked on the door? Has anyone asked about a baby?” “No, dear. Why are you acting so strange?” I let out a breath of relief, but my heart was still pounding. “Mom, don’t leave the apartment for the next few days. I’ll have groceries delivered.” “Make sure no one is outside before you open the door.” Though confused, she agreed. I started secretly digging for more information in the group, hoping to gather enough evidence to go to the police. But the next morning, Ethan was gone before I woke up. I called his phone, my hands trembling. A cold, automated voice answered: “The number you have dialed is not available.” I was about to call again when my mother called me, her voice frantic. “Honey! You texted me to come downstairs to pick up some baby supplies, but I waited and you never showed up.” “When I realized something was wrong and rushed back, the baby was gone! Did Ethan take her?!” My world fell apart. “What?! I didn’t send you any message!” I checked my phone. No record of any sent texts. There was only one possibility. Ethan had realized I was onto him. He had sent the text, and then deleted it from my phone. “Mom, how long were you gone?!” “Barely ten minutes! He’s her father, he wouldn’t hurt her, would he?” My panicked tone was scaring her. I didn’t have time to explain. I hung up and bolted out the door. I jumped into a taxi. “Sunnyvale Gardens! And step on it!” As the car sped through the streets, I stared at my phone. A new message popped up in the group chat. Blackhawk: “Package received. Good condition.” Admin: “Pleasure doing business with you.” I clutched the phone, tears streaming down my face. There was nothing left but despair.

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