Category: English

Three years into my marriage with Rico Thorne, the crown prince of the city’s elite, I got pregnant. He stared at me, his jaw clenched tight. “I haven’t so much as laid a finger on you. How the hell are you pregnant?” I lowered my eyes. “You did… on your birthday. You were drunk, and you thought I was your first love…” To make it up to me, Rico wired half a million dollars to my account and started treating me like a fragile queen. The day his first love returned to the country, I removed the prosthetic belly, left a signed divorce agreement on the table, and vanished. Six months later, he cornered me in a VIP lounge, a male model draped on each of my arms. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “My dear wife,” he purred. “You’ve led me on quite a chase.” 1 When I called Rico to tell him I was pregnant, the silence on the other end of the line stretched for three full minutes. “Where are you?” His voice was tight. “City General.” When he saw the pregnancy test report, with my name printed clearly on it, confirming I was six weeks along, Rico’s face twisted into a mask of disbelief. He turned his head slowly, his eyes boring into me, his voice a low growl. “Nora Evans? I’ve never even touched you, and you’re telling me you’re pregnant?” The nurse standing nearby shot me a look of pure shock, then glanced at the top of Rico’s head with a newfound sympathy. I dropped my gaze, biting my lip hard, my expression a carefully crafted picture of hurt. “You did…” I whispered. “On your birthday… you were so drunk… you thought I was Monica…” The nurse’s sympathetic gaze instantly shifted from him to me. Rico’s dark eyes were stormy, unreadable. After a long moment, he finally spoke. “If you’re pregnant, then you’ll have the baby.” “The Thorne family will take care of you.” That evening, my bank account was half a million dollars richer. A wire from Rico. Compensation, he called it. Three years ago, the Thorne family had pressured Rico into an arranged marriage. He chose me, fresh out of college. Sweet, simple, and most importantly, desperate for cash. In the three years I’d been his wife, I’d played my part perfectly. I was the dutiful Mrs. Thorne, never causing trouble, never making waves. We were husband and wife in name only. I’d always known Rico was in love with someone else. Which is why, in three years of marriage, he had never once touched me. And I absolutely loved it. No nine-to-five grind, no soul-crushing corporate life. I got paid just for existing in his mansion. On top of my monthly “salary” of fifteen thousand dollars, Rico would frequently take me on lavish shopping sprees. It was all for show, to keep up appearances for the Thorne family, but he never asked for any of it back. The designer clothes, the jewelry, the handbags—they were all mine. This sweet deal was supposed to last for another two years. But then, a couple of weeks ago, on his birthday, he’d gotten wasted and mistaken me for his first love… And that led to this. I asked Rico not to tell his family about the pregnancy just yet. “It’s still early,” I said, my voice soft. “Let’s not get their hopes up, just in case. We can tell them after the first trimester, once everything is stable.” He saw the logic in that and agreed. After the “news,” Rico started spending significantly more time at the villa. The man who used to show up twice a month was now home two or three times a week. He was also a nervous wreck, hovering over me constantly, terrified I might trip or bump my stomach. He’d stare at my perfectly flat belly and ask, “Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” One day, tired of the question, I answered flippantly, “A boy.” He sulked for the entire evening. I found out later he’d always wanted a daughter. After two weeks of being treated like royalty, his first love came back. The day Monica Ferguson returned, Rico paced the length of the villa, a caged tiger. “Aren’t you going to the airport to meet her?” I asked. He shot me a hesitant look. I gave him a gentle, understanding smile. “It’s okay. The baby and I are very generous.” That was all the permission he needed. The moment his car pulled out of the driveway, I bolted upstairs to grab the suitcase I’d packed weeks ago. I left the signed divorce agreement on the coffee table and made my escape. I caught a late-night flight to the next state over and laid low at a friend’s place for half a year. Finally, after months of coaxing, my friend convinced me to go out. We ended up at a high-end club, where I hired two young, gorgeous models to keep me company. There I was, basking in the attention, a handsome young man on each arm, when the door to our private suite was kicked open. The man standing in the doorway was radiating a glacial fury. He just stood there, his gaze locked on me. After a long, silent moment, a faint, chilling smile touched his lips. “My dear wife,” he said. “You’ve led me on quite a chase.” 2 A bone-deep chill settled over the room, the silence thick with unspoken threats. Rico leisurely took a seat on the main sofa, gesturing toward me with a slight tilt of his chin. His voice was a low rumble. “Come here.” I cursed my traitorous legs. Even after six months, my body still obeyed him without question. His arm snaked around my waist, pulling me onto his lap. His hand came to rest on my flat stomach. “Where’s my son?” he asked, his tone deceptively light. I kept my head down, guilt coiling in my gut. “I… I miscarried.” He let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Did you miscarry, Nora? Or was there never a baby to begin with?” Game over. The jig was up. Rico was right. I was never pregnant. The report was a fake. The whole point was to squeeze some extra cash out of him. I wouldn’t have been in such a rush, but Monica was coming back. A few days before Rico’s birthday, she’d sent him a message. “Rico, I’m coming home soon! We can celebrate your birthday when I get back! xoxo” My original deal with Rico was for five years. A fake marriage, fifteen grand a month. After five years, I would walk away with just under a million dollars. But with Monica’s return, our divorce was imminent. I did the math—I was about to lose out on over three hundred thousand dollars! I couldn’t let that happen. So, I used his drunken birthday as an excuse to stage a fake pregnancy and cash in. He was definitely drunk that night. But he came home and passed out immediately. No drunken rampage, no mistaking me for Monica. Nothing. My shoulders slumped. “Mr. Thorne, I’m so sorry. I was wrong.” He tilted my chin up with his finger, his touch slow and deliberate. “Nora, what you did is called fraud.” “I could have you arrested.” I made a last-ditch effort. “We can work this out! That half a million—I haven’t touched a cent. I can give it all back.” Honestly, I’d been too busy hiding from him to spend it. “I don’t want the money,” he said, his eyes cold as ice. “Then what do you want?” “I want my son.” I was dragged back to the villa. As he put it, you can’t un-spill water. Or un-give money. Since he’d already given it to me, there was no taking it back. But now, since I’d taken the money, I owed him a son. I rolled my eyes. “What do you think I am, some kind of single-celled organism? You think I can just reproduce on my own?” He raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of which, after all these years of marriage, you still haven’t fulfilled your… wifely duties, have you?” I clutched my chest protectively. “Rico Thorne! We had a deal! My body wasn’t part of it!” He nodded slowly. “And our deal never said you’d try to extort me with a phantom child, did it?” Damn it. My own brilliant plan had backfired spectacularly. I was trapped. That night, when I came out of the shower, Rico was already in bed, shirtless. He lifted the covers, his eyes commanding me to join him. “Wh-what are you doing?” He bared his teeth in a predatory grin. “Making a son.” “But…” I hesitated. “It’s that time of the month.” The smile vanished from his face. A second later, he was out of bed, scooping me up into his arms. His brow furrowed. “And you’re walking around barefoot on a cold floor? Aren’t you cramping?” He gently placed me on the bed, then called for Mrs. Gable to bring up a thermos of ginger tea sweetened with honey. He watched me drink the entire mug before the tension in his shoulders finally eased. I have terrible menstrual cramps. Every month, a few days are pure misery. I was surprised he’d remembered such a small detail. After the hot, sweet tea, the ache in my stomach did subside. “Thank you,” I said, genuinely. He just snorted and turned his back to me. “Are you… sleeping here tonight?” I asked, confused. A large arm reached out, pulling me into his embrace, his actions answering for him. The clock on the wall read midnight. Rico was clearly exhausted. I didn’t say another word, just carefully tucked the blanket around him and drifted off to sleep. It was the first time Rico and I had ever shared a bed. Surprisingly, I slept better than I had in months. The next morning, he was gone, already at the office. After I’d showered and eaten, I was planning to spend the morning lazing around in the garden when a visitor arrived. I recognized her immediately. Rico’s first love, Monica Ferguson. She was here to see me. She was the classic damsel-in-distress type, with a gentle, sweet demeanor, dressed in a flowing white dress. Mrs. Gable clearly knew her, calling her “Miss Monica.” In the garden, I sat on the swing while she stood by the fountain. “Miss Evans, my name is Monica Ferguson. I was Rico’s first love,” she began. “I came back to take care of some… unfinished business.” She took a deep breath. “I have terminal stomach cancer. I’m dying.” Her last sentence shattered my composure. A tragic soul. I got up and walked over to her, taking her hand in mine. “Miss Ferguson, you’ve misunderstood. Rico and I may be married, but we’re not in love. The person he loves has always been you.” She looked at me, a flicker of disbelief in her eyes. “Really?” “Really.” 3 During my first year of marriage to Rico, I discovered a room in the villa that was strictly off-limits to everyone. Not even Mrs. Gable, who had worked for the Thornes for over a decade, was allowed inside. One time, using the excuse of bringing him a plate of fruit, I managed to sneak a peek. My God. It was covered in photographs. An entire room, a shrine to one woman, from her high school days to the present. I later found out that woman was Monica Ferguson. They met in high school and dated for four years in college. Rico had once sworn he would marry no one else. But then, Monica left for another country, leaving him with nothing but a curt “we’re over.” For the first year after she left, Rico practically drowned himself in alcohol. Time eventually healed some of the wound, but his love for Monica never faded. The reason he’d picked me out of all the other candidates for his sham marriage? I had been wearing my hair in a high ponytail and was dressed in a white dress. Monica’s signature look. He chose me because I looked like her. Monica was even more surprised to hear this. “He sees you as my substitute? And you’re not angry about that?” I smiled. “I’m not in love with him. Why would I be angry? He provides the money, I provide my time. It’s a fair trade.” We were talking about nearly a million dollars. Most people couldn’t earn that in a lifetime. All I had to do was give up five years of my youth, without even selling my body. It was a steal! Thinking about it, my face fell into a worried expression. “But you came back early. I might not get the full amount now.” She was sharp. She got it instantly. “How much are you losing?” “Around three hundred thousand.” “I’ll give it to you.” My eyes lit up. Now that was an offer I couldn’t refuse! That was perfect. That night, I cooked an elaborate dinner for Rico. When he got home, I was waiting at the door, eagerly taking his coat. I pulled out his chair, placed a perfectly seared medium-rare steak in front of him, and poured him half a glass of red wine. Rico raised an eyebrow. “What’s all this?” I gestured for him to drink. He took a small sip. “You’ve gone to all this trouble. What are you after?” I cleared my throat. “Rico, I cheated on you.” In that instant, the villa became so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The hand holding his wine glass tightened, his knuckles turning white. His lips pressed into a thin, hard line. He looked terrifying. My legs felt like jelly. “Rico… let’s get a divorce,” I managed to stammer out, getting to the point. His eyes darkened. After a long moment, he masked all emotion, methodically finished his steak, and even drank the rest of the wine. Then, he took my hand, his grip unyielding, and dragged me upstairs to the bedroom. He threw me onto the sofa, loosened his tie, and his voice was heavy. “So, for three hundred thousand dollars, you sold me out to Monica?” The air rushed out of my lungs. Damn it! He knew everything! Of course he did. This was his house. He must have eyes and ears everywhere. Oh God, did that mean he knew about all the times I’d badmouthed him behind his back? Whatever. That wasn’t important right now. I sat up straight. “Well, since you already know, I’ll drop the act. Monica’s back. A divorce is exactly what you want, isn’t it?” A vein throbbed in his temple. “Nora, why do you think I went to so much trouble to find you and bring you back?” “Isn’t it because I tricked you with the fake pregnancy, and you couldn’t stand being played?” I mumbled under my breath. In a flash, an impossible thought struck me. “Rico… you don’t actually like me, do you?” The room was dark, the lamps unlit. The night was like ink, with only the moonlight spilling through the windows, painting silver patterns on the floor. Half of Rico’s face was lost in the shadows, his expression unreadable. But his eyes held a strange, blazing light, a heat that threatened to drown me. I forced myself to look away, my voice turning cool. “We had a deal from the start. No one was supposed to fall in love.” It felt like an eternity passed before I heard his cold laugh, a sound that sent a shiver down my spine in the pitch-black room. “You’re overthinking it.” “The deal was for five years. That’s what I promised my grandfather. After five years, when I take full control of the company, then we can talk about divorce.” Rico disappeared for a long time after that. Monica never contacted me again. Once more, I was the enviable Mrs. Thorne. As my period approached, Mrs. Gable had already prepared a thermos of honey-sweetened ginger tea and left it on my nightstand. I smiled and thanked her, drinking the whole thing in one go. She seemed to want to say something, glancing towards Rico’s study several times, but ultimately remained silent. Rico stopped taking me shopping, stopped going on strolls with me, stopped taking me deep-sea fishing. He suddenly became incredibly busy, not coming home for months at a time. He was actively avoiding me. Ever since that day I told him no one was supposed to fall in love. It was for the best. Our marriage was a sham. Catching feelings would only lead to a devastating loss. But it was strange. The tea was sweet, but all I could taste was bitterness. 4 Rico’s birthday was approaching again. Time flew. It had been nearly a year since his last birthday, the one where I’d faked a pregnancy. This year’s party was being organized by his grandfather, the old Mr. Thorne himself. It was a massive affair, held at one of the family’s country estates, with a guest list a mile long. The evening of the party, Rico took me to a private couturier to pick out a dress and jewelry. The owner was a stunning blonde woman who, despite her looks, spoke with a flawless accent. “What style are you looking for?” she asked with a smile, taking my measurements. I thought for a moment. “Something elegant and respectable.” After all, I was Mrs. Thorne now. I had to look the part—graceful, dignified. I couldn’t embarrass him. But the woman looked me up and down, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “It’s Rico’s birthday. How about we try something… different?” When I stepped out in the red dress, Rico was on the phone by the window. He hung up, turned, and his eyes widened with an unmistakable flicker of awe. I looked at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger. The dress was the color of fire, clinging to my curves. My hair was swept up, revealing the long, pale line of my neck. My waist was cinched, my legs looked impossibly long, and the neckline hinted at a cleavage I never knew I had. I had never seen myself look so… breathtaking. But the slit ran all the way up my thigh. I shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe I should change?” He didn’t say anything. Instead, he walked to a display of jewels and selected a ruby necklace. He came up behind me, his fingers brushing against my skin as he fastened the clasp. “No,” he said, his voice calm. “It’s perfect.” The rubies were dazzling, catching the light with every movement. The accidental graze of his fingertips on my neck sent a sudden, unexpected shiver through me. It tickled. When I entered the ballroom on Rico’s arm, every head turned. After three years with him, I was used to the stares. But this time, it wasn’t just the women. It was the men, too. Their gazes were different. “I thought Monica Ferguson was back. What’s she still doing here?” “I was sure he would have kicked her to the curb by now.” “Well, it has been three years. You can get attached to a dog in that time.” I’d heard variations of these comments for years. I thought I was immune, but a strange, unidentifiable emotion churned in my stomach. I tightened my grip on my champagne flute, telling myself to let it go. They were right, after all. I’d endured it for this long; what was one more year? One more year, and I could take my money, take my mom, and disappear somewhere no one knew us. “Mrs. Thorne.” I turned to see a man with a charming smile. I recognized him. Ethan Blackwood, Rico’s biggest rival. He clinked his glass against mine. “You look more beautiful every time I see you.” I smiled and thanked him. The next moment, he was draping his jacket over my shoulders. “But at an event like this, one must be mindful of their appearance.” Only then did I notice the looks. My bare shoulders, my back, the long expanse of my leg exposed by the slit—they were all targets. Most of the gazes were from men, and they were predatory, loaded with suggestion. I frowned, a wave of displeasure washing over me. Before I could say a word, a strong hand settled on my waist. Rico was beside me. He adjusted the necklace at my throat, his voice just loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “My wife wears what she wants. That’s her right.” Ethan smiled smoothly. “I was merely offering a friendly suggestion. After all, I’m not the only one here who thinks so.” Rico’s gaze swept the room, and the other men quickly looked away. When titans clashed, the mortals knew to stay clear. “It’s the 21st century, Ethan,” Rico said, his voice laced with ice. “Are you still under the impression that women dress to please men?” Ethan shrugged. “I never said that.” Rico’s smile was thin and sharp. “Then why the hell are you telling my wife to be ‘mindful’? She can wear whatever she damn well pleases. Who do you think you are, judging a Thorne?” The room was utterly silent. Ethan, having been publicly humiliated, opened his mouth to retort, but Rico had already turned, leading me away. “Perhaps you should learn some basic respect, Ethan, before you try to lecture others.” Rico led me away from the crowd, finding a quiet balcony on the second floor. He stood there, frowning, not saying a word. The night wind was cold, and I wrapped my arms around myself. He took off his jacket and draped it over me. I pressed my lips together. “So you think this dress is too revealing, too?” A muscle twitched in Rico’s jaw. After a moment, he said, “Aren’t you cold?” …Right. He was the one who picked it out. “Why did you choose this dress for me?” “Because you look beautiful in it.” “But it’s so revealing. Everyone thought so.” Rico turned to face me, leaning against the railing, his eyes looking down at me. “I don’t think so,” he said softly. “You look beautiful. You look… sexy.” He paused, his gaze intense. “A flower is meant to bloom. If someone plucks it, it’s the fault of the one who plucked it.” “The flower itself is blameless.” A long, long time ago, my mother loved to dance. After dinner, she would put on her beautiful dance skirts and join the community group in the town square. The gossip spread like wildfire. They called her a flirt, wondering who she was trying to seduce, dressed like that every day. My father found out. To this day, I can still hear his words. “Dressing like that? You’re just asking for it.” After that, I threw away every pretty dress I owned. And now, here was someone, telling me with unwavering certainty. The flower is blameless. In that moment, as if bewitched, I took a step forward, tilted my head back, and looked up at him. “Rico, is your flower Monica?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. It was a long time before he answered. “She was.” “And now?”

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Clara’s prized protégé, Leo, loved to brag he could crack a chest one-handed. When his performance failed, he stared at the patient’s unclosing thoracic cavity, dropped the bone saw with a clatter, and ran. I got the call in the dead of night. I was the one who rushed to the hospital and, against all odds, saved the man’s life. In the aftermath, Leo was crucified online, his career facing total annihilation. Clara, my girlfriend, wanted to defend him, but I held her back, my grip tight on her arm. “If you speak up for him now, at this exact moment,” I warned, my voice low, “you can kiss the Whittaker Grant goodbye. And they won’t just come for him. They’ll come for you, too.” Leo couldn’t handle the vitriol. He threw himself into the river. His suicide note was a testament written in blood and tears, each line a furious accusation against Clara for not taking his side. Clara said nothing. She simply held the note to a flame and watched it turn to ash. In the years that followed, she ascended. From the Whittaker Grant to a full fellowship, she became a titan in the medical world, a name spoken with reverence. The day of my own surgery, she insisted on being the one to wield the scalpel. She did it one-handed. As I lay there, my own chest gaping open, she angled a mirror so I could see the reflection of my own undoing. “See?” she whispered, her voice a cold, smooth stone. “A chest can be opened with one hand. “Why did you have to make it so hard for Leo? “If I had just stopped you that night, he would be the one standing here right now. Not me.” A surge of rage and betrayal choked me. I felt a final, hot burst in my chest, and then, darkness. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back to the day of Leo’s disastrous performance, watching Clara ready herself to charge into the fray for him. What she didn’t know, what she couldn’t possibly understand, was that the man on the table was Arthur Richmond. And his sister, the matriarch of the Richmond family empire, was protective of her brother to a terrifying, absolute degree. 1 The moment I realized I had returned to the day of Leo’s one-handed stunt, the very first thing I did was turn off my phone. I slept until the sun sliced through my blinds. The next morning, I powered it on. Ninety-nine-plus missed calls, just as I expected. In my last life, the second Leo knew he’d screwed up beyond repair, he’d blown up my phone, begging me to come clean up his mess. And I did. Despite having just finished a triple-header of surgeries, despite having slept for less than an hour, I had dragged myself out of bed. I’d driven through a blizzard, racing back to the hospital to spend the entire night wrestling a man back from the brink of death. I saved his life. And because I did, his sister—Sloane Richmond, the iron-willed CEO of one of the country’s most powerful private equity firms—showed a sliver of mercy. She didn’t obliterate Leo. She simply allowed him to face the standard medical board review and disciplinary action. If Leo had just weathered that storm, he could have eventually returned to his post, maybe even salvaged his career. But he had spent his entire life sheltered and adored by Clara. He’d never known real hardship. The tidal wave of online hate was more than he could bear. He jumped. This time, when I walked into the hospital, the scene was one of controlled chaos. Leo was slumped against the wall outside the OR, his face a mask of vacant horror. My colleagues were a blur of motion, their scrubs stained crimson. “This is on you!” one of them hissed at Leo, his hands trembling with adrenaline and rage. “We told you it was reckless! A one-handed crack? Are you insane?” “Just because Dr. Pierce fast-tracked you into this residency doesn’t give you the right to play God!” another snapped. “Well, look where it got us! We’ve barely got a thread of a pulse. He’s circling the drain. If he dies on our watch and his sister finds out, none of us—none of us—will ever work in this city again!” An alarm shrieked from inside the operating room, a high, flat-lining keen. One of the nurses sank to the floor, her face ashen. “It’s over… We’re all done for…” A younger resident, fresh out of med school, started to openly sob. “Why wasn’t Dr. Hayes on call last night? If he were here, he’d know what to do…” “It’s too late now. It’s over.” Leo’s head shot up. His eyes, vacant moments before, locked onto me. A flicker of something predatory sparked in their depths. “It was him!” he shouted, pointing a shaky finger. “I was calling him all night! Over and over! But his phone was off! We’re not the ones who killed this patient! He is! The man who could have saved him but deliberately shut his phone off!” Every head whipped in my direction. “Dr. Hayes!” “Lucas… is that true? Was your phone really off on purpose?” “Of course it was!” Leo scrambled to his feet, shoving his call log in everyone’s face. Ninety-nine calls. He stalked toward me, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. “Dr. Hayes, a life was on the line. We’re doctors. Our phones are supposed to be on 24/7. You knew there was a major cardiothoracic surgery scheduled for last night. You knew you’re the best we’ve got. To turn your phone off at a time like this… Lucas, what the hell were you thinking?” Crack. The sound of my hand striking his cheek echoed in the corridor. I stood over him, my voice ice. “Have you lost your mind, Leo?” The commotion had drawn staff from other departments. They were gathering, watching. I raised my voice, ensuring they could all hear. “The on-call roster is posted in black and white. Last night’s surgery was your responsibility, Dr. Sterling. Not mine. Yes, it seems my phone died. But the person who signed the chart, the person ultimately responsible for that man in there, is you.” Leo’s face went pale. “You can’t hide behind a schedule when a man is dying! Your phone is never off. It was only off yesterday. You were targeting me, weren’t you, Lucas? That’s fine. But you don’t get to gamble with a patient’s life to prove a point!” He was so righteous, so utterly convincing, that some of the patients and families lingering in the hallway began to murmur. They were buying it. They were starting to believe I’d intentionally left a rookie to fail just to watch him burn. Before I could speak, one of my colleagues stepped forward. “Shut up, Leo! Just shut your damn mouth! Do you have any idea that Dr. Hayes performed three back-to-back marathon surgeries yesterday? He survived on two bites of a protein bar and a bottle of glucose water!” “Exactly!” another chimed in. “While you’re sitting in the resident’s lounge complaining about paperwork, he’s putting in the hours. He didn’t get home until after midnight. Forgetting to plug in a phone that’s been running nonstop for 36 hours isn’t a conspiracy, it’s called exhaustion!” Family members of a patient I had operated on yesterday nodded in agreement. “Besides,” the first colleague added, his voice firm, “Dr. Hayes fulfilled his duties during his shift. Last night was his time off. He wasn’t on call. This wasn’t his responsibility.” The murmuring crowd fell silent. The truth settled over them. Even the residents who had been in the OR with Leo looked away, unable to meet my gaze. “He’s right, Leo. This one’s on us. We just got dealt a bad hand.” Leo staggered back, slumping to the floor again. His lips were white. “What is all this commotion!” The hospital director, Dr. Wallace, appeared at the end of the hall, her voice sharp with authority. Behind her, her face a mask of cold fury, was Clara. I started to speak, but she walked straight past me without a glance. She went to Leo, kneeling down and helping him gently to his feet. “It’s okay,” she murmured, just for him. “I’m here. I’ll find a way to fix this. You’re going to be okay.” Dr. Wallace’s glare dispersed the crowd. Then, she jerked her head toward her office. I followed her. The second the door closed, her stern facade crumbled. Panic flooded her eyes. “Lucas! I know you’re not officially involved, but you have to save him! You have to! That man is Arthur Richmond. If he dies in our hospital, Sloane Richmond will burn this place to the ground, and every single one of us, you included, will be caught in the fire!” I let out a slow breath. The truth was, the only reason I’d dared to turn off my phone was because I knew my team. They were good. They were good enough to keep a patient stabilized, to keep him alive long enough for me to get a full night’s sleep. Long enough for me to arrive this morning with leverage. I looked Dr. Wallace dead in the eye. “The responsibility for what happened today doesn’t just fall on Leo. It falls on Clara, too.” The director stared at me, confused. I slid a document across her desk. It was a formal proposal for an experimental surgical technique. At the bottom was Clara’s signature, authorizing Leo to perform it. “Leo’s one-handed showboating,” I said calmly. “Clara personally approved it. We are all shouldering an insane amount of risk to pay for their arrogance. So, yes, Director, I can clean up this mess. But Leo can’t be the only one who faces consequences.” I leaned forward, my hands flat on her desk. “If you don’t handle Clara, something like this will happen again. And next time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to save this hospital.” Dr. Wallace’s expression hardened. Clara was her star, the protégé she had mentored since medical school. But the hospital’s survival, its very existence, was on the line. And right now, she needed me to save Sloane Richmond’s brother. “That arrogant little…!” She slammed the signed proposal down on the desk. “After everything I’ve done for her, she pulls a stunt like this!” She looked up at me, her eyes flinty. “Don’t you worry. Her application for the Whittaker Grant? It’s dead on my desk. Her promotion track? Canceled. From now on, she’ll be handling basic consults and paperwork. She will never be trusted with a core surgical position in this hospital again.” A slow smile touched my lips. I picked up the pen. With that single action, the glittering path that had led Clara from the Whittaker Grant to medical stardom in her past life had just been severed. It was a long day. From morning until well past nightfall, I worked. Slowly, painstakingly, Arthur Richmond’s vitals began to stabilize. My scrubs were soaked through with sweat. The moment I stepped out of the OR, my legs gave out and I collapsed. A colleague forced a bottle of glucose into my hand and I drank it down, the sugar slowly bringing the world back into focus. The same residents who had been in the OR with Leo gathered around me, their eyes filled with tears of gratitude. “Thank you, Dr. Hayes,” one of them choked out, gripping my hand. “Without you… I don’t know what we would have done.” “It’s true,” another added. “Sloane Richmond is ruthless. If her brother had died… she might have gone after our families.” I reassured them as best I could. Finally, I was free to go home, to fall into bed. I was in the underground parking garage when a footstep behind me made the hairs on my neck stand up. I spun around. Nothing. Just rows of cars and concrete pillars. Muttering to myself, I turned back toward my car. A cloth clamped over my face, and the world went black. A sweet, chemical scent flooded my senses as my consciousness faded. When I woke, my right hand was chained to a heavy steel table. In the dim, flickering light of a single bare bulb, I could just make out the silhouette of the person standing over me. “Clara!” The hand holding me down flinched. I was bound to a chair, and I thrashed against the restraints. “Clara, it’s you! I know it’s you, isn’t it? Whatever you’re planning, we can talk about it! Please… just let me go! I saved him! For you, I saved Leo’s ass!” The figure paused. When she spoke, her voice was a ghost of a sigh. “No, Lucas. You saved him from Sloane Richmond’s immediate wrath. But you still let him be cast as a villain, a reckless, incompetent doctor. You left him to face the world alone.” Her voice hardened. “I’m sorry. If you truly want to help him, there’s only one way. You have to lose a hand.” My blood ran cold. “That way,” she continued, her tone unnervingly calm, “no one will believe you performed the surgery. They’ll credit the miracle to Leo. I’ll talk to the other residents. I’ll delete the surgical logs. Lucas… this time, you have to help him. For real.” My eyes widened in disbelief. “Clara!” A heavy cleaver, glinting in the dim light, was raised high above her head. I bucked against my restraints, a primal scream tearing from my throat. “I’m a surgeon! My hands… how will I live without my hand?!” The cleaver paused mid-air. The yellow light caught a flicker of something—pity? regret?—in her eyes. “I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life, Lucas.” “Wait!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “If you do this, you’ll never practice medicine again either! They’ll find out!” She shook her head slowly. “Dr. Wallace is my mentor. She would never let it come to that. Don’t worry. I have the power to stay in this world, to protect you forever.” “She’s already abandoned you!” Her body went rigid for a second, then she let out a small, dismissive laugh. “No. She wouldn’t.” CRUNCH. “AAGGHHH!”

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Because of a single contaminated test tube, the new supervising professor of my lab, Dr. Marcus Cole, announced he was kicking me off the NSF grant project. He did it during our weekly group meeting, in front of everyone. “Evelyn,” he boomed, his voice echoing slightly off the sterile whiteboards. “Don’t think for a second that because you’ve published a few papers, you’re untouchable.” I stood silently beside my chair as my lab mates stared at their notebooks, the floor, anywhere but at me. “The lab protocols are posted on every door! All glassware must be sterilized by the end of the day. You knew the rule, you ignored it, and that makes your negligence doubly worse.” He paced in front of the projector screen, a shark in a lab coat. “As for the NSF grant… you can forget about it. You won’t touch another piece of data associated with it.” I didn’t say a word. I just picked up my laptop and turned to leave. Fire me from my own project? Fine. This whole lab was about to come to a grinding halt. 1 Dr. Cole’s face purpled with rage at my silent departure. “Evelyn Reed, where do you think you’re going? Get back here!” he yelled at my back. “You will write a formal apology, and you will read it aloud to this entire group as a testament to your profound lack of professionalism!” I paused at the door and looked back at his face, twisted with a furious need for control. “No problem,” I said, my voice unnervingly calm. A heavy silence fell over the room. I could feel the shocked stares of my friends and colleagues. Dr. Cole let out a short, triumphant huff and stormed out of the conference room. A moment later, a notification pinged on everyone’s phone. A message in the lab’s general Slack channel. From: Dr. Marcus Cole To: @channel Subject: Upholding Lab Standards PhD candidate Evelyn Reed has demonstrated a lax attitude and a severe violation of laboratory protocols. She will conduct a public self-criticism today at 3:00 PM in Conference Room A301 to rectify this behavior and reinforce the importance of our collective standards. The air in the room felt thick enough to suffocate on. My friend Maya, sitting next to me, nudged my phone under the table. A private message popped up. Maya: Evie, don’t be stubborn. Just apologize. It’s an NSF grant! This could affect your graduation! I shook my head slightly. It won’t matter, I typed back. He was the new guy, brought in to co-supervise while the department head, Professor Miller, was on sabbatical. Cole needed to assert his dominance, to make his mark. And he needed to make room for his own people. It was no secret he wanted to give my doctoral project to the new postdoc he’d brought with him from Stanford. The problem for him was that I had already completed the most difficult, groundbreaking phase of the grant’s research. The preliminary data was more than good; it was perfect. I was in his way, a living testament to work he couldn’t claim as his own. This test tube was just the excuse he’d been waiting for. I sent Maya a quick “Don’t worry ” emoji, then switched apps. I began methodically backing up every file on my laptop: years of experimental data, raw records, analysis pipelines. I encrypted the archive, uploaded it to my private cloud server, and then permanently deleted every local copy. Only when that was done did I open a new document and begin to write my “apology.” Halfway through, Dr. Cole made a point of strolling past my workstation. He saw the document open on my screen and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smug, self-satisfied smirk. At 3:00 PM, Conference Room A301 was packed. Dr. Cole stood at the front, his expression a mask of stern, official righteousness. “I want to reiterate,” he began, his voice dripping with condescension, “that a laboratory is not a dorm room. The rules are not suggestions.” He glared in my direction. “The regulations are posted and emphasized for a reason, yet some people treat them as background noise.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And don’t think that just because Professor Miller personally recruited you that you are entitled to special treatment. What good is producing data if you can’t even master basic discipline?” “Evelyn. Up here. Time for your apology. Let’s make this a teachable moment for everyone.” I stood and walked to the front, pulling out the single sheet of paper I had prepared. “I, Evelyn Reed, have made a grave and unforgivable error,” I began, my voice clear and steady. “I should not have, under any circumstances, neglected that single test tube. From this day forward, I vow to adhere strictly to every single rule of this lab, without exception.” I paused, making eye contact with him. “I am, after all, just a student. And any project Dr. Cole deems me unfit for, I will absolutely not touch.” “As long as you understand,” he cut in, clearly pleased with my performance. He then turned to the room, puffing out his chest. “Given Ms. Reed’s history of non-compliance and her negative attitude, the core project committee has decided to officially remove her from the NSF grant, effective immediately. Her previous responsibilities and all associated data will be transferred to our new postdoctoral fellow, Dr. Ethan Hayes.” The room was utterly silent. Beside Dr. Cole, the man with the gold-rimmed glasses and the perpetual smirk, Ethan Hayes, gave a small, self-important nod to the group. I glanced at Maya; her expression was a mixture of helplessness and shock. Dr. Cole added one final twist of the knife. “Evelyn, after this meeting, I expect you to immediately compile all your project-related lab notebooks and raw data files and hand them over to Dr. Hayes. Do not delay.” I agreed with an unnerving cheerfulness and slid a USB drive into the conference room’s computer. A folder containing hundreds of neatly organized files popped up on the projector screen. “It’s all right here, Dr. Cole,” I said. Good luck making sense of any of it. My cheerful compliance seemed to catch him off guard; a flicker of suspicion crossed his face. But after a quick scan of the massive, meticulously labeled file list, he relaxed. Dr. Hayes looked like he’d just won the lottery. As soon as the meeting was adjourned, he sauntered over to my lab bench. “Ms. Reed,” he began, his tone dripping with condescension. “If you could please clear out your personal effects from this station and your locker, I’d appreciate it. I’ll also need you to walk me through the inventory of reagents and equipment in the common area. We can’t have you delaying the important work Dr. Cole and I are about to begin.” 2 I knew exactly what Dr. Hayes was after. It wasn’t my bench space he coveted; it was the state-of-the-art equipment sitting on it. “Evelyn, hurry it up,” Dr. Cole chimed in from across the lab, arms crossed like a general surveying his new territory. “Lab space is at a premium, and Dr. Hayes is eager to get his new research underway.” I slowly, deliberately, closed the lid on a small equipment case without looking up. “Dr. Cole, Dr. Hayes, this is a lot of stuff to pack up. It’s going to take me some time.” I finally met their impatient gazes. “How about tomorrow? I promise I’ll have everything cleared out by then. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of progress.” Ethan pushed his glasses up his nose. My promise to be gone by the next day seemed to satisfy him. He gave another one of his prim little nods and followed Dr. Cole out of the lab. Without the crushing weight of the NSF grant on my shoulders, I felt an unfamiliar lightness. The core data for my dissertation was already complete; all that remained was the writing and some minor revisions. Now, thanks to them, I had all the time in the world. The next afternoon, after neatly packing the last of my personal items into a box, I did something I hadn’t done in years. I pulled out my phone and bought a ticket to the aquarium to see the dolphin show, something I’d always wanted to do but never had the time for. Sitting in the stands, surrounded by the delighted squeals of children as the dolphins leaped and twisted in perfect sync with their trainers, I felt a pure, uncomplicated sense of peace wash over me. The lab’s Slack channel, however, was anything but peaceful. That evening, my phone started buzzing incessantly. It was the new, grant-specific channel that Dr. Hayes had created. He was already laying down the law. From: Dr. Ethan Hayes To: @grant-team Subject: New Daily Protocols 1. Effective immediately, all team members will submit a daily progress report detailing experimental procedures, reagents used, and preliminary results. Reports are due in my inbox by 10 PM sharp. 2. Each team member is expected to complete a minimum of three full experimental cycles per week. Compiled data is to be submitted to me for review by Sunday evening. 3. Use of all major laboratory equipment must be requested and approved by me at least 24 hours in advance. Unauthorized use is strictly forbidden. A private message from Maya immediately followed. Maya: [Screenshot] Evie, are you seeing this?! He’s acting like he’s king of the world! He’s delegating every single task while he just wanders around the lab making useless suggestions. He hasn’t offered a single piece of actual help! A second message bubble appeared. Maya: Today he told me to wash a sink full of HIS beakers that had been sitting there for days! Who does he think he is?! I could practically feel her frustration radiating through the screen. Me: Deep breaths, Maya. Just say no to anything that isn’t your responsibility. You have your own work to do. She was typing for a long time before her next message came through. Maya: I just feel so angry for you, Evie. Dr. Cole is so blatantly targeting you, stealing your work. Are you really not going to do anything? Should we tell Professor Miller? I stared at her words, then slowly typed my reply. Me: Not yet. Professor Miller is at a major conference in Geneva. There’s no need to bother him with this… yet. 3 I woke up to sunlight streaming through a gap in my curtains. For the first time in years, I hadn’t bolted awake at 6 AM in a panic to get to the lab. I was pouring myself a glass of milk when my phone lit up with a text from Maya. Maya: Morning. Cole was on a rampage first thing. Ranting about how some people show their true colors once they’re kicked off a project. Lazy, no dedication, no respect for the scientific process… He basically read out your student ID number. I took a sip of milk. Let him talk, I texted back. Ignore it. I turned my phone off and was about to crawl back into bed when a shrill, insistent ringing shattered the morning quiet. I fumbled for the phone, my heart pounding. It was Dr. Cole. “Evelyn! Where is the equipment from your bench?!” he screamed without a hello. “The centrifuge, the PCR machine, and the micromanipulator rig! Where are they? I’ve torn this entire lab apart and they’re gone!” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “Dr. Cole, if some equipment is missing, why is your first call to me?” There was a choked silence on the other end, followed by an explosion of renewed fury. “Who else could it be?! You were the last one to leave last night! Did the equipment just grow legs and walk away?!” “Dr. Cole,” I said, my voice slow and deliberate as I sat up in bed. “If things are missing, shouldn’t you be checking the lab’s official checkout logs and procurement records? Or perhaps asking the other students if they borrowed something?” I let a beat of silence hang in the air. “Calling a student who was, as you so publicly announced, ‘kicked off the project’ to hurl accusations first thing in the morning seems… a little inappropriate, don’t you think?” My calm, almost innocent tone was like gasoline on his fire. “Don’t you play games with me, Evelyn! I strongly suspect that you, angry about being removed from the grant, have intentionally sabotaged this lab! That you’ve stolen university property!” “I am telling you right now, you get down to this lab and explain yourself!” I let out a soft laugh. “That’s a very serious accusation, Dr. Cole. To make a claim like that without any proof… that’s not a good look, is it?” “My proof is that you’re the number one suspect!” “You have ten minutes to show up here. If you don’t, I’m taking this to the next level. I’m calling the police! You just wait!” He roared the last words and slammed the phone down, leaving me with a dial tone buzzing in my ear. I put the phone down, yawned, and rolled over to go back to sleep. Not fifteen minutes later, Maya called, her voice a panicked whisper. “Evie! Oh my god, this is bad! He—he actually did it! He called the campus police! They’re here, in the lab! You need to get here, now!” 4 I took my time. I went out, got a proper breakfast, and enjoyed a leisurely walk to the science building. My phone vibrated nonstop in my pocket. Dr. Cole, no doubt. When I got to my floor, Maya was pacing frantically by the stairwell. “Evie, you’re finally here!” she hissed, rushing toward me. “Cole is losing his mind in there, the cops are still with him. Please… whatever you do, be careful. Don’t provoke him.” I gave her a reassuring “OK” sign and walked calmly up the last flight of stairs. The moment I stepped into the lab, the tense atmosphere was palpable. Dr. Cole was pacing like a caged animal while two uniformed campus police officers stood by, looking bored. The other students were glued to their workstations, pretending to be absorbed in their tasks, barely breathing. The second Cole saw me, his eyes went wild. He lunged toward me. “Evelyn Reed! Look! Look at your bench! It’s empty!” He jabbed a trembling finger in its direction. “The equipment! What did you do with the equipment?!” He spun around to face the officers, his voice shrill. “Officers, it was her! She’s the one who came in last night when no one was around and stole the lab’s most valuable instruments! I have the security footage! It clearly shows her leaving with several large cases! The evidence is undeniable!” One of the officers turned to me, his expression serious. “Ma’am, is what this professor is saying true? Did you remove equipment from this lab?” I nodded calmly. “Yes, I did.” A gasp went through the room. Dr. Cole looked as if he’d just been handed a winning lottery ticket. His voice trembled with vindictive glee. “You heard that, officers! She admitted it! It’s theft! Grand larceny! Arrest her!”

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Five years in the music industry and I was still a ghost. My only option was to go home and marry a man I’d never met. My fiancé, as it were, already hated me. He didn’t show up for the wedding ceremony our families had arranged, but he did call me afterward to lay down the law. His voice was a cold, distant baritone over the phone. “Let’s get a few things straight. I’m in love with someone else, so don’t waste your time on me.” A beat of silence. “You’re free to see whoever you want. I won’t interfere.” And the final blow: “This is a business arrangement. We’ll get a divorce in one year. Be prepared for that, and please don’t make a scene when it’s time to sign the papers.” He hung up without waiting for a response. I stood there, phone in hand, just outside the door to his study, lost in thought. Funny, because from where I was standing, I could see that his study was a shrine dedicated entirely to me. 1 My name is Maya, but for five years, I tried to make the world know me as Evie. I poured my soul into my music, my parents poured money into my career, but I never caught fire. My brand of indie pop was always described as “having a chilly reception.” The irony wasn’t lost on me. So, I had to swallow my pride and honor the deal I’d made with my parents: if I couldn’t make it on my own, I would come home and secure our family’s future through a strategic marriage. My designated husband was Caleb Vaughn, the eldest son of the Vaughn dynasty, known for his ruthless efficiency and ice-cold demeanor. My best friend, Chloe, had given me the rundown. “He has the kind of face that could charm a saint into sinning, Maya. Seriously, he could be the poster boy for ‘dangerously handsome.’ You look at him and think he’s this refined, gentle soul.” Her voice had dropped, laced with pity. “But it’s a mask. Underneath, he’s a shark. He only cares about the bottom line. No heart, no soul, just profit margins.” She sighed. “Everyone feels so bad for you. Being married to a man like that… it’s going to be a cold, lonely life.” I clutched my phone, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. There was nothing left to say. After hanging up, I opened my social media for the last time. I navigated to my drafts, where a farewell message had been sitting for weeks. With a deep breath, I hit ‘post.’ 2 I was never a superstar, but I had a small, fiercely loyal fanbase. The moment my retirement announcement went live, my DMs exploded. A few familiar usernames scrolled past, but one stood out, as it always did: a simple, bold ‘C’. I knew him well. For the past five years, he was the constant in my career. The first to like, the first to comment on every single post. He was my most devoted fan. His camera equipment was clearly top-of-the-line; the photos he took at my small gigs were always breathtakingly crisp and professional. He’d poured an insane amount of money into fan projects and charity drives in my name, earning the affectionate nickname “Captain C” from the other fans. His profile page was a testament to his dedication. Pinned at the top was a video montage of my performances he’d edited, followed by a clip of him—never showing his face—meticulously copying a piece of choreography from one of my music videos. You could see the intense focus in his movements, an earnestness that bordered on clumsy. But the thing I remembered most about him were his comments. He never wrote flowery compliments or over-the-top declarations of love. It was always the same simple, almost stubborn phrase: “I hope you’re happy today.” Today, however, he broke his own rule. His message was a wall of text, a torrent of words filled with typos, as if he’d typed it in a frantic rush. He wrote about stumbling upon one of my videos during the darkest period of his life. How a throwaway line in an old interview had helped him get through a sleepless night. How his fingers would tremble with excitement every time I posted something new. His final words felt like they were torn from his very soul, restrained yet profoundly sincere. “I’m sorry, I know this is forward. But I have to tell you. You were a light for me. A lifeline. You became my reason to keep going. Getting to know your music these past five years has brought me so much joy. Evie, you are more important to me than you can ever imagine. You’re like… life itself.” I stared at the screen, noticing the jumbled letters and repeated words. He must have been typing through tears, his hands shaking so badly he could barely hit the right keys. My own eyes burned as I finished reading his heartfelt essay. I took a moment to compose myself, then typed a careful, genuine reply. “Thank you for five years of incredible support and kindness. I hope you’ll be happy every day, too. Maybe we’ll cross paths again someday.” 3 After replying to every last message, I took a deep, shaky breath, steeling myself against the ache in my chest. It was time to delete the account, to close that chapter for good. But just as my finger hovered over the button, a notification banner flashed across my screen. A trending topic. And my new husband’s name was at the top of the list. #CalebVaughnCrying Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped the hashtag, and a ten-second video immediately started playing. The dim, golden light of a streetlamp illuminated Caleb Vaughn’s sharp profile as he sat in the driver’s seat of a car. His long eyelashes were cast downward, his shoulders trembling slightly. A tear track was clearly visible on his cheek. He radiated a sense of brokenness, a despair so profound it felt like it could shatter glass. The comment section was a wildfire. “Whoa, is that the Ice King himself, Caleb Vaughn, actually crying? Did hell freeze over?” “LMAO for a second I thought his car was haunted.” “Whatever cosmic entity is possessing Caleb Vaughn, please vacate the premises immediately. This is creeping me out.” “Okay, but for real… what on earth could make this man cry?” That last question sent everyone into a frenzy of speculation. Some guessed it was the stress of the forced marriage. Others thought it was a simple work-related breakdown. Whatever the reason, I found I didn’t much care. I gave the screen a cursory glance and put my phone away, turning my attention to the logistics of untangling my life from my career. 4 It was two in the morning when I finally dragged my exhausted body home. The moment I unlocked my phone, a friend request popped up. The man from the trending topic. The request was simple, no message, just a name: Caleb Vaughn. I hesitated for a second, then tapped on his profile. His avatar was a black void. His bio was blank. His username was a single letter: Z. Everything about it screamed stay away. Massaging my throbbing temples, I sighed and hit ‘accept.’ A voice message came through almost instantly. His tone was cold and detached, the kind you use for a problem you can’t get rid of but are forced to deal with politely. [Miss Miller, hello. This is Caleb Vaughn, your fiancé.] I hated voice messages, so I typed my reply: [Hello.] Caleb was clearly not in the mood for pleasantries. He got straight to the point. [I’m in love with someone else. I will only ever love her. So, after we are married, I don’t want you to waste any of your time or energy on me.] [This is a business arrangement, nothing more. I have no issue with an open marriage. You are free to pursue anyone you like, and I will not interfere. Likewise, you will not interfere in my life.] [Maya, your father mentioned you have an ex you were very much in love with, who is now living abroad. I travel internationally for work quite often. I would have no problem with you joining me on a trip to create an opportunity for you two to meet.] I froze, reading the message again. [Are you saying you’d give me cover to go see my ex?] His reply was immediate. [Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying.] [Frankly, I have no desire to be entangled with you. It would be a relief to me if you had someone else to occupy your attention.] […] I didn’t know what to say to that. [Okay. Is there anything else?] [Yes. I want you to remember that this marriage will last for one year. Exactly.] [After one year, we will file for divorce. I expect you to handle it professionally. No tears, no drama. That would be embarrassing for both of our families.] I typed back quickly: [Fine. You don’t have to worry about that.] I could almost hear the sigh of relief through the phone. [One more thing, Miss Miller.] [I see no need for a public ceremony, nor will there be any… marital obligations. We should also keep the marriage itself private. The fewer people who know, the better. It’s for the best for both of us.] I had no objections. It all sounded perfectly fine to me. He went silent for a long time after that. I imagined him running through a mental checklist, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. Fifteen full minutes passed before a final message came through. [That should cover everything for now.] [Forgive me, Miss Miller, but I am a businessman. I don’t trust verbal agreements.] [To prevent any potential change of heart on your part, I would like to draw up a contract for us to sign. Would that be acceptable?] [The contract will cover everything we’ve discussed, including asset division. One-year term, no marital obligations, my assistance in arranging a meeting with your ex, and so on.] [Is this agreeable to you?] Of course it was. [Yes, Mr. Vaughn. Draft the contract and send it over.] He seemed satisfied. [I’ll have it ready for you by morning.] I thought for a moment, then typed: [By the way, Mr. Vaughn, should we meet in person before we sign the papers?] His refusal was swift and absolute. [That’s not necessary. It would be a waste of time. There’s nothing for us to discuss. We’ll see each other at City Hall in three days.] That suited me just fine. [Perfect.] 5 Caleb was clearly terrified I would back out, because the contract arrived in my inbox with remarkable speed. By 4:00 AM, a digital copy was waiting for me. What I didn’t expect was for him to show up at my parents’ house at six o’clock that same morning with a hard copy, a thick stack of pages bound and ready. My mother yanked me out of bed and shoved me toward the bathroom while my father made polite conversation with Caleb in the living room downstairs. With a toothbrush hanging from my mouth, I crept to the landing on the second floor and peered down at him. He was just as Chloe had described. He sat on the leather sofa, one long leg crossed over the other, his impeccably tailored black suit accentuating his lean, powerful frame. It was a simple posture, but on him, with his striking features and aristocratic bone structure, it exuded a kind of forbidden, magnetic allure. I could see why my father had been so adamant that Caleb was the “perfect, top-tier match” for me. Then my eyes caught something. Peeking out from under the cuff of his expensive suit was a thin, rose gold bracelet. Rose gold was my color—the signature color my fans had adopted for me. I could spot it a mile away. Did this top-tier, alpha-male CEO have a secret penchant for delicate, pinkish accessories? How… unexpected. 6 As my dad chatted with Caleb, he kept shooting subtle glances in my direction. But Caleb was like a statue, his gaze fixed on my father, his expression unreadable. Not even an eyelash flickered. He was making it painfully, abundantly clear that he had zero interest in his unseen, unheard-of fiancée. My dad, bless his heart, finally decided to force the issue. “Caleb, why don’t you stay for breakfast? Maya’s home, it would be a good chance for you two to get acquainted.” “That won’t be necessary.” Caleb’s voice was deep and smooth, yet utterly devoid of warmth. “No need to rush it, Mr. Miller. We’ll be seeing plenty of each other soon enough. It will be difficult to avoid, won’t it?” Before my dad could argue, Caleb cut him off coolly. “I should be going, sir.” He stood and turned to leave. At that exact moment, I finished getting ready and stepped into the living room. Caleb was just stepping out, pulling the front door closed behind him. He never once looked in my direction. He might as well have had the words “NOT INTERESTED” tattooed on the back of his head. 7 The moment he was out the door, my phone buzzed with a message from him. [Miss Miller, I’ve left the sealed contract with your father. Please review and sign it. My assistant will be by to pick it up later.] I sat down and read through the entire document carefully. In addition to everything we’d discussed, the final section had a clause that made my eyes widen. All profits and assets gained as a result of our alliance would be split 60/40. Sixty percent to me, forty to him. Furthermore, upon the dissolution of our marriage, I would receive a substantial lump sum payment. The total amount was staggering. Enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life, never having to work again. I counted the zeros twice. Suddenly, my apprehension about this marriage morphed into a different kind of anxiety—the kind that comes with being handed a fortune. I typed out a message, my fingers fumbling. [Mr. Vaughn, I noticed there aren’t any clauses in the contract regarding you and the woman you’re in love with.] [Did you forget?] It was a genuine question, but his reply was sharp with suspicion and impatience. [Miss Miller, you don’t need to test me.] [I am aware that women are often at a disadvantage in marital arrangements. I have no intention of doing anything that would cause you public embarrassment during the term of our marriage.] I paused, picturing him on the other end, frowning at his phone. I could almost hear him muttering, “Damn it, why is she prying into my business?” before composing a more diplomatic response. [Furthermore, I would never ask her to be the other woman. Not even in name.] He paused, and when he continued, his tone had softened, a clear shift brought on by the thought of her. [I will wait until my marriage to you is officially and completely over. Then, and only then, will I pursue her properly. I’ll tell her how I feel, and I’ll ask her to be with me.] [Of course, that’s all contingent on her not despising me and not being in love with someone else by then.] I’ll be damned. The ruthless CEO was a hopeless romantic. After another moment, he added: [By the way, please send me your passport number.] I immediately tensed up. [What for?] [The day after we register the marriage, I have a business trip. To the same city where your ex lives. I assume you still want to see him?] [I’ll book your ticket along with mine. As per our agreement, I’ll provide you with cover. We’ll tell our families we’re on our honeymoon.] I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. He must have sensed my reluctance, because his tone became persuasive, almost coaxing. [Miss Miller, this is a golden opportunity.] [It’s unlikely our schedules will align this perfectly again. You should think carefully.] [If you miss this chance, who knows when the next one will be.] I was still wavering. After our breakup, I had blocked him on everything. [Your father mentioned the breakup was… unpleasant,] Caleb typed. [I happen to have a friend who is an expert in relationships, he specializes in helping estranged couples reconcile.] [I can bring him along. I’m certain he can help you two patch things up.] His persistence was starting to win me over. At the very least, it would be a free trip. I finally sent him my passport number. [Alright… thank you. I appreciate it.] [You’re welcome.] His mood instantly brightened. Even his texting style felt lighter. He really, really didn’t want me getting attached to him. 8 The plan was for Caleb’s assistant to pick up the signed contract, but late that evening, he sent me another message. [Miss Miller, I’ve been pulled into a last-minute meeting. My assistant is tied up. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to drop the contract off at my house.] [And I’d prefer if you brought it yourself. I don’t trust couriers. The sooner this is signed and settled, the better for both of us.] He wasn’t wrong. He was afraid I’d back out; I was afraid he’d secretly change the numbers. I glanced outside at the torrential downpour and sighed. Gritting my teeth, I dragged myself out of bed. Thankfully, he lived just a few blocks away, a short ten-minute walk. Standing outside his house, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu. The layout of the front porch, the specific type of planters… it all felt incredibly familiar. I punched in the code he’d given me and the door clicked open. The houses in this neighborhood all had similar floor plans, so I easily found what I assumed was his study. But I stopped dead in my tracks, staring at the door. It was a glaring, out-of-place bubblegum pink. The rest of his house was a symphony of cold, minimalist design—cool white walls, black furniture, even black curtains. This one door was a splash of defiant color in a monochrome world. With a furrowed brow, I pushed it open. The first thing I saw was a massive, life-sized poster. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The person on the poster was me. It was from a photoshoot I did in my second year as Evie. I’d completely forgotten it existed. But it wasn’t just the poster. The room was filled. Photo cards, keychains, magazine spreads, merchandise from every brand I’d ever endorsed. There was even a cup holder from a bubble tea chain I’d been the face of for a summer. Every single item was meticulously labeled with a date. There were at least a dozen boxes of this memorabilia, all arranged with the care of a museum curator. Each piece was preserved as if it were a priceless treasure. 9 I rubbed my eyes, hard, convinced I was hallucinating. I wasn’t. And the setup of his desk, the specific angle… it looked identical to the background in ‘C’s’ videos. I pulled out my phone, comparing a screenshot to the room around me. The conclusion was staggering, undeniable. Caleb Vaughn—the cold, ruthless, contract-obsessed CEO—was my hardcore, devoted, anonymous fan, ‘C.’ Before I could even process this earth-shattering revelation, my phone buzzed again. A new message from him. “Miss Miller, I forgot to specify. The study I need you to leave the contract in is on the second floor, not the first.” My face flushed. [Sorry. I already put it in the first-floor study.] His reply was instant, tinged with panic. [?] [In that case, please leave immediately after dropping it off. And do not touch anything in that room.] [Those items are extremely important to me. If anything is damaged, I will not be lenient.] [Uh, don’t worry. I just put the contract on the desk and left. Nothing is damaged.] I paused, my gaze sweeping over the collection again. Some of these items were so rare, even I didn’t have them anymore. Yet here they were, perfectly preserved by him. An audacious thought sparked in my mind. [Mr. Vaughn, that celebrity… the woman you’re in love with… is it the one whose posters are all over this room?] A long silence followed before he replied with a single, solemn word. […Yes.] Me: […] Caleb: [Why? Do you know her? Are you a fan too? …Wait, are we fans of the same person?] Me: […Ha.] Caleb: [?] I managed a weak laugh. [I don’t think I know her.] His reply was tinged with a strange sadness. [That’s not surprising.] [She never made it big. I was going to finally take over the company this year, and I had plans to secretly funnel resources to her, things a thousand times better than what she had before. But… she retired.] [What is she going to do now? Will she get married this year?] [I wonder what kind of lucky bastard gets to be with her.] [That bastard better treat her right. If he doesn’t, I’ll hunt him to the ends of the earth. I will physically castrate him, then dismember his body. I will not let him get away with it.] Me: […] 10 I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead and decided to push my luck. [By the way, Mr. Vaughn, are you absolutely sure we don’t need to meet before we go to City Hall?] Caleb: [Yes. I’ve already said so. I am absolutely certain a meeting is unnecessary.] Me: […Alright. I hope you don’t regret this.] His tone turned to ice. [What do you mean by that, Miss Miller? Are you having second thoughts? Are you planning to violate our agreement?] [Don’t forget, we have a signed contract. You can’t back out now.] Me: […] I chuckled. [Relax. I have no intention of backing out.] He still didn’t seem convinced. [Miss Miller, I recall the contract states there are penalties for breaching the terms.] I smiled. [I know. Don’t worry. Whoever backs out is a fool.] He mulled that over for a second, then replied with the conviction of a man making a solemn vow. [It’s a deal, then. Whoever backs out… is the biggest fool!] Me: [Heh. Mr. Vaughn, I bet people compliment you on your intelligence all the time, don’t they?] Caleb: [Of course. I often pride myself on my superior intellect.] Me: […] 11 Three days passed in a blur. We didn’t speak. On the day we were scheduled to go to City Hall, I arrived half an hour early. I was leaning against a wall, half-asleep, when Caleb’s Maybach finally pulled up to the curb. The moment he saw my face, his hands clenched the steering wheel. He froze, as if he’d been turned to stone. I didn’t hesitate. I pushed off the wall and started walking toward his car. At the same time, my phone began vibrating nonstop in my purse. It was Caleb, spamming me with messages. All his cold, detached arrogance from the past few days had evaporated. His texts were frantic, giddy with excitement. [Miss Miller, can we possibly postpone City Hall for a bit? I just saw her.] [She’s walking toward me right now. I just want to say one word to her. Just one. Please.] [Oh god, my heart is beating so fast. Am I having a heart attack? I think today might be the day I…] I reached his car and tapped my fingers lightly on the driver’s side window.

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Liam Archer lost a bet with his newly adopted “little sister.” The punishment: be single for a month. So he handed me the divorce papers. “Just sign them. It’s only for a month. You’ve got to have a sense of sportsmanship.” I didn’t say anything. I just obediently wrote my name. Not long after, Liam lost another bet. “This time, I have to spend the night with her. We’re just talking, nothing else. Don’t get any ideas.” As he spoke, a small, square foil packet fell out of his pocket. He cleared his throat, made an excuse about a work emergency, and headed for a hotel. Once he was gone, I replied to a message that had just come in. [I’m leaving the country in a week. Want to come?] [Yes.] 1 The next day, I started packing. Halfway through, Liam, who hadn’t been home all night, walked in. There were fresh, angry red marks on his neck, and he yawned from lack of sleep. “Going on a trip?” I nodded, a knot of guilt in my stomach. Liam didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. “It’s about time you got out. You’re always cooped up in this house, you have no idea what’s going on in the world. Not like Zoey. We can talk about anything.” Zoey. The “little sister” he’d met at a bar six months ago. They were inseparable, constantly making bets. The stakes started small—a coffee, a meal—but had escalated to hugs and kisses. I had cried. I had thrown fits. All it earned me was Liam’s disgust. “It’s just a game. Why do you have to be so serious?” Gradually, I stopped speaking up. So now, hearing him praise her at my expense, I just stayed silent and continued packing. After a moment, Liam asked, “When do you leave?” “Six days.” The next thing I knew, I was airborne. He lifted me, tossed me onto the bed, and pulled me into his warm embrace. “Don’t move. Just sleep with me for a bit.” I couldn’t break free. I was forced to breathe in the scent of another woman on his skin, my mind conjuring a chaotic slideshow of images. Tangled limbs, frantic passion, filth. Tears started to fall, hot and silent. Liam frowned, annoyed. He gave my back a few perfunctory pats. “You know, I’m the only one who could ever put up with you being so dramatic, Kiara.” “Without me, you’d be worse off than a stray dog on the street.” He repeated the same lines he’d said a thousand times before and slowly drifted off to sleep. I wiped my tears and carefully slipped out of his arms. Staring at the face I had loved for ten years, a cold resolve settled in my heart. Even if I had to live like a dog, I wouldn’t stay by his side any longer. 2 As the day of my departure grew closer, I started having vivid dreams of the past. The first time eight-year-old Liam saw me, he stared so intently that he tripped and fell flat on his face. It left a small, permanent scar on his forehead. He wore it like a badge of honor, announcing to everyone that he would be my one and only knight, protecting me for the rest of our lives. He was a boy of his word. When the chubby kid next door stole my candy, Liam cornered him in an alley after school and knocked out two of his teeth. When a girl in my class, Chloe, deliberately spilled ink on my dress, he drew ninety-nine hideous caricatures of her and plastered them all over the school, scaring her into staying home. Back then, wherever Kiara Reed was, Liam Archer was never more than a few feet away. We were inseparable. We were in love. Until eighth grade. On a perfectly ordinary day, my parents died in a plane crash. I was an orphan. My uncle took me in. I changed schools, moved my legal records, and traveled thousands of miles to a new city down south. In that strange new world, I learned to go to school alone, to eat alone, to be alone. My days were full, but my heart was always empty. The day I was diagnosed with depression, the confused, accusatory look in my uncle’s eyes was a weight I couldn’t bear. I found myself standing at the foot of a thirty-story building, gazing up at the roof with a strange sense of longing. When I looked away, I saw him. Liam. I thought I was hallucinating, but he walked right up to me, his eyes shining like stars. “Kiara, I’ve been going crazy thinking about you.” I broke down, sobbing. “Take me with you. Please.” “I can’t stand it here anymore! The clothes get mildewed if you leave them out, and the roaches are indestructible!” Liam held me for a long time. Then he went to my uncle and got down on his knees. He swore an oath: “I will take care of Kiara. I’ll help her finish school, we’ll get into our dream college together. If I fail, may I die a horrible death.” And just like that, he took me home. After college, he married me. At our wedding, as he slipped the ring on my finger, he cried like a child and swore on his life, again, that he would make me happy forever. But now, I opened my eyes. The other side of our king-sized bed was empty and cold. Liam hadn’t been home in five days. The only way I knew what he was up to was through his social media. In his latest post, there was a sterile white gauze patch on his forehead, like he’d just had surgery. A comment below asked what happened. He replied: “Zoey said the old scar was ugly and ruined my good looks, so I had it removed.” I froze. The mark of my knight was gone. He wasn’t going to protect me anymore. It’s okay, I told myself. I was leaving tomorrow. There was no point in dwelling on it. But the sharp, needle-like pain in my heart was impossible to ignore. 3 A long time later, my phone buzzed with a new message. [Get to Midnight Sun now.] Midnight Sun was the city’s biggest and most exclusive nightclub, a chaotic, anything-goes place. It was also where Liam and Zoey had met. I hated it there. I put my phone down, pretending I hadn’t seen the message. Another one came through immediately. [If you’re not here in an hour, you’re not going anywhere, ever.] He knew I was leaving tomorrow. It was a threat. I gritted my teeth and went. As I pushed open the door to the designated VIP room, a roar of cheers erupted. “Forty-two minutes! Liam bet she’d be here in thirty! Liam loses! Zoey wins!” “That’s eighteen losses for Liam tonight! Is he throwing the game on purpose?” “He’s so whipped!” Liam glanced toward the door, a flicker of excitement in his eyes, but he didn’t acknowledge me. He turned, grabbed Zoey from across the table, and pulled her into a brutal, passionate kiss. A bottle of expensive liquor was knocked over, crashing to the floor, but neither of them noticed. When they finally broke apart, a thin, silvery thread of saliva connected them, disgustingly intimate. The catcalls and whistles from the crowd were deafening. A wave of nausea washed over me. I had to get out of there. I took one step back, but a voice stopped me. “Kiara. Over here.” Fighting back the sickness, I walked toward him. Liam pulled me onto his lap. He pinched my cheek, his voice scolding. “That was just a game. Don’t you dare get jealous. It’s your fault for being so slow. You made me lose.” “I’m sorry,” I said automatically. Someone at the table clicked their tongue. “Damn, Mrs. Archer is so obedient. Liam can do whatever he wants, and she doesn’t say a word. I need to find a girl like that.” Liam waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, don’t. Too obedient is boring.” “Then I’ll find one like Zoey. Fun, exciting.” “Go for it,” Liam said, “if you’re not afraid of a little pain.” He tilted his head, revealing a fresh bite mark on his neck. Zoey, who was taking a drink, laughed and shot back, “Like you weren’t the one begging me to bite harder last night. Said it didn’t feel good unless it hurt.” Liam threw a banana at her playfully. “You need to work on your technique.” They bickered as if I wasn’t there, as if no one else was in the room. The curious, judgmental stares of everyone else were like knives, pressing in on me, making it hard to breathe. I clutched the fabric of my dress. “Can I go home?” I whispered. “I’m getting tired.” Liam seemed to notice me for the first time. He rubbed his nose and called for a server to see me out. But Zoey objected. “She just got here. Let’s make one more bet, for fun.” 4 My first instinct was to refuse. But Liam answered for me. “Sure. You’re on.” Zoey immediately produced a set of dice, blocking my exit. “Simple game. High or low.” “The winner gets to ask for one thing from the loser.” Her eyes glinted with a sly, unsettling light. Liam squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t be nervous. Zoey just likes purses and jewelry. If you lose, just let her pick something from your closet.” I never cared about those things anyway. So I agreed. The dice rattled in the cup. Ten seconds later, she slammed it down on the table. “I call high!” Zoey declared. That left me with low. I lost. She immediately held out her hand. “I like your necklace. I’ll take that.” I froze, my hand flying to the pendant at my chest. I took a step back. “Not this one.” Zoey’s face darkened. “What’s your problem? Can’t afford to lose? Where’s your sportsmanship?” A dozen pairs of disdainful eyes turned on me. “This was my mother’s,” I explained frantically. “It’s the only thing I have left of her. I can’t give it away. Pick something else. You can have anything from my jewelry collection, even the pieces worth millions.” My parents didn’t leave me much, and over the years, I’d lost some of it during moves. This necklace was all that was left. I couldn’t lose it. Zoey scoffed. “You should have said that before the bet. It’s too late now. A deal’s a deal. If we start changing the rules, no one will ever want to play again.” She was relentless, refusing to back down. I looked to Liam for help. He knew how much this necklace meant to me. He would help me. But he just said, “Kiara. Take it off.” I stood there, stunned, all the strength draining out of me. Zoey, impatient, stepped forward to claim her prize. She yanked at the chain, her nails scratching my neck, drawing blood. I didn’t even feel the pain. I just stared at Liam. His expression was cold, indifferent. “You can always win it back later. You…” He was cut off by a sharp crack from the floor. “Oops,” Zoey said, feigning surprise. “My hand slipped. This thing is so fragile. It shattered into a million pieces. How ugly.” She stepped on the shards as she walked away, even giving one a kick. The room was dead silent. My hands were numb as I knelt to pick up the pieces. The last one was near Liam’s foot. He moved to help, but I snapped at him. “Get away from me!” Liam was used to being the center of attention. Being challenged like this, in front of everyone, extinguished any flicker of guilt he might have felt. His voice was glacial. “Kiara, there’s a limit to your tantrums.” I ignored him. I carefully wrapped the fragments in my handkerchief and turned to leave. Behind me, there was a loud crash as he kicked something over. Someone tried to play peacemaker. “Liam, maybe you should go after her. She looks really hurt.” Liam snorted. “Let her go. We’re already divorced. If she drops dead in a ditch, it’s got nothing to do with me.” “I’ve been too good to her over the years. I’ve spoiled her rotten. She thinks the whole world revolves around her. Now she’s throwing a fit and ruining everyone’s fun over some stupid dead person’s necklace. Is it really that serious? She’s insane.” “Let her go. Mark my words, she’s got no parents, no friends. I’m the only savior she’s got. In three days, she’ll come crawling back, begging for my forgiveness.” He kept talking, his words a venomous torrent. I didn’t look back once. I didn’t shed a single tear. This time, we were really, truly over. 5 Back home, I put the pieces of the necklace into a small silk pouch and hung it back around my neck. I stared at the empty room, feeling a profound sense of nothingness. It was like I had nothing left. After all these years, I hadn’t managed to hold on to anything. Useless. I found myself thinking again, why wasn’t I on that plane with them? Then I would be with my parents forever. I wouldn’t have been taken in by an uncle who only wanted my inheritance, and I wouldn’t have been rescued by a boy whose heart would eventually change. I wouldn’t be like a piece of driftwood, tossed about, unwanted. I sent a message to the person I was supposed to meet. “I’m not going to make it tomorrow. Have a safe trip.” Then, I went into the bathroom. Just as the water in the tub was about to close over my head, my phone started ringing, loud and insistent. By some strange impulse, I struggled to the surface and answered it. My throat was raw and swollen from the water. It took all my strength to force out his name. “Ethan?” Ethan Vance was a student I had sponsored. After Liam and I got married, he had turned down every job offer I received. He said the world was a dangerous place, and he was afraid that if I was exposed to too much, my depression would return. He said he would take care of me, that I should just stay home and be happy. For the first two years, it was bliss. I was completely cared for. I watched movies, surfed the web. One day, I came across a website for underprivileged students, kids who were struggling but full of dreams. My heart ached for them. I had the money, so I sponsored a dozen of them. Later, I found out most of them were scams. Only Ethan was different. He had the saddest story—no parents, working since he was in elementary school. He was also the most honest. He never asked for an extra penny. As long as he had enough for food each month, he would return the rest. He gave me all his personal information, sent me regular updates, shared his awards and certificates with me. I watched as Ethan got into a top university and started his own company with a friend. The day he graduated, he was not only the valedictorian but also a successful young entrepreneur. I was so proud of him, but I declined his invitation to the ceremony and cut off all contact. My father always used to say, “Lend a hand when they’re down, but disappear when they’re on top.” Until six months ago, when we met again at the headquarters of Liam’s company. He was there for a business meeting; I was there to bring Liam lunch. The negotiation had just ended. Liam, furious that he hadn’t gotten the terms he wanted, took his anger out on me, knocking the lunch I’d brought to the floor before storming out. The soup I had spent hours simmering stained the floor and the hem of my dress. The silence in the room was thick with embarrassment. Then, a man in a sharp suit walked over, knelt down, and began to wipe the mess from my dress. “Ma’am,” he said, looking up at me, “your husband has a terrible temper.” It was Ethan. He was no longer the hardened negotiator from the meeting, but a gentle, tame wolf. That was the first time we had met in person. Because of his business dealings with Liam’s company, we started running into each other more often, and we reconnected online. The day I walked out of the city records office, Liam had rushed off to his hotel. Ethan happened to message me. [How have you been?] I told him the truth. [Not great. I’m divorced. I don’t know where to go.] He suggested, [Maybe you should travel. Clear your head.] But a bird that has been caged for too long forgets how to fly. Then he said, [I’m going to Switzerland on business in a week. It’s beautiful there. Want to come along?] [Yes.] 6 “Did you make other plans?” he asked now, his voice tight with worry. I looked at the overflowing bathtub and was at a loss for words. “No.” “Then why did you change your mind?” “Because… I’m just tired.” My bleak, pathetic life was exhausting. I didn’t want to fight anymore. There was a long silence on the other end of the line. For a while, all I could hear was the sound of the wind. I thought he was about to hang up. I was about to get up and go back to the bathroom. Then he spoke again. “Let me take care of you. Then you won’t have to be so tired.” I froze. My resolve to leave this world alone crumbled. With a trembling finger, I managed a single, affirmative sound. “Okay.” Ethan was unbelievably fast. I don’t know how fast he was driving, but by the time we hung up, he was already downstairs. He changed his flight, picked me up, and we headed straight for the airport. It was so sudden it felt like a kidnapping. When we boarded the plane, my hair was still damp. I was in a daze. He got me a blanket, draped it over my shoulders, ordered me a hot drink, and pressed it into my hands. Then, like a magician, he pulled a stack of magazines from his bag and set them in front of me. “You can look at these if you get bored. You studied art, right? These are some of the most respected publications from the last few years. I thought you might be interested.” His voice was gentle, comforting. “I just have a little work to do. Let me know if you need anything.” After I nodded, he turned to his laptop and began to work. The light from the screen illuminated his handsome face, his long fingers flying across the keyboard. He looked exactly like the stoic, unapproachable executives from the movies. But for some reason, I felt a sense of peace. I sipped my drink, feeling the warmth return to my body. I opened a magazine, and a riot of color filled my vision, a stark contrast to the black and white world I had been living in. The moon outside the window was bright. It lit up the sky. It felt like it could light me up, too. 7 When we arrived in Bern, the capital of Switzerland, Ethan took me to our hotel. One suite. I took the master bedroom, he took the guest room. He was there to inspect a potential partner’s manufacturing plant, a deal that was crucial for his company’s future. So the first week was incredibly busy. He was gone before I woke up each morning, leaving only a handwritten note and a freshly made breakfast. And a new, updated travel guide for the day. The guides were meticulously detailed: which bus to take, which restaurant to eat at, the best time to visit each attraction. He was like an invisible tour guide—I couldn’t see him, but he was everywhere. Following his guides, I visited art galleries, museums, clock towers, rose gardens… I took pictures, ate delicious food, saw incredible sights, and experienced all kinds of performances. It was magical, exhilarating. Even the most ordinary streets were fascinating. I could spend ages just looking at a uniquely designed streetlight. I felt like a country bumpkin, wandering through this magnificent city. But I had never felt so relaxed, so free. Liam had never taken me on a real trip. He always said that with my history of depression, I needed to limit my exposure to the outside world, to keep my mind from wandering. Trapped in his gilded cage, I had thought life was utterly pointless. But now, I found myself falling in love with the world. Ethan and I would meet for dinner, our second meeting of the day. He would listen patiently as I shared my adventures, a gentle smile always on his lips. Then he would turn into my personal hype man. “You should seriously consider photography. Your pictures are amazing.” “You’re a walking encyclopedia! I learned so much about art history today.” Being praised like that by someone five years younger than me made my cheeks burn. “Stop it,” I said, embarrassed. “Who taught you to flatter people like that?” “You did.” My heart skipped a beat. The soft light in his eyes pulled me back years ago, to when we first met. He was the student, I was the sponsor. “First place again? You’re incredible!” “You broke the record! You’re going to be amazing one day.” It was as if fate had come full circle. The tree I had planted all those years ago had grown, and now it was sheltering me from the storm. 8 While I was enjoying the peace and quiet in Switzerland, on the other side of the world, someone was losing their mind. The VIP room, usually a scene of wild partying, was thick with a tense, oppressive atmosphere. At the center of the storm was Liam, chain-smoking, his face a dark, terrifying mask. No one dared to speak. Because Kiara was gone. It had been seven days since their fight, and he still hadn’t gotten the apology he was waiting for. A strange panic had started to set in, and he had finally gone home to look for her. But she was gone. Her clothes, her documents, all her personal belongings were missing. He tried to call her, but he was blocked. Every other way he tried to contact her was met with a red exclamation point. This wasn’t a trip. This was a severing of all ties. Liam refused to believe Kiara would actually leave him. He had domesticated her, turned her into a helpless, broken-winged canary. She couldn’t survive without him. But what if? The thought gnawed at him. He tried to drink it away, but the alcohol only fanned the flames of his anxiety. Something had slipped from his control, and it infuriated him. Zoey arrived late, dressed in a slinky black dress that showed off a lot of skin. She slid in next to Liam, pressing herself against him. “Who upset my big brother?” she purred. “Tell me, and I’ll fix it.” Liam waved her away dismissively. “It’s nothing. Stay out of it.” “Is it because Kiara ran…” Zoey began, trying to be clever. “I said, stay out of it!” Liam roared, his voice suddenly sharp and dangerous. Zoey flinched, her eyes filling with tears. But this time, Liam didn’t comfort her. He just kept drinking, his voice cold. “If you’re going to be a buzzkill, you can get the hell out.” Zoey shut her mouth and quickly poured him another drink, a silent apology. For all her wildness, she was still just a parasite, surviving on the whims of men. Cut off from her source, she would quickly wither. That night, Liam drank himself into a stupor. Someone had to carry him home. Lying on the cold, empty bed, he groaned, “Honey, get me a glass of water…” But the only answer was a vast, crushing silence.

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I dated Jaxon when I was younger. Three months, then we were done. He said I was too much of a good girl, no fun to mess around with. I tried shadowing my best friend, who was deep in her edgy phase. After two weeks, she blew a perfect smoke ring in my face and told me to just stick to the books. I didn’t have the “bad girl” gene. I accepted my fate. After a period of deep reflection on my youthful foolishness and the flawed belief that “love is all you need,” I decisively found myself a rich kid. His name was Marty. He was rich, generous, and handsome. His only flaw was a long list of exes and a flock of female “friends.” The moment Marty’s engagement ring was on my finger, I received a sonogram from one of his closest “friends.” She was eight weeks pregnant. I sat in the coffee shop, thinking long and hard, before finally saying with the utmost sincerity, “My love for Marty is simply too deep. I can’t bring myself to leave him.” “Why don’t you have the baby? I may be young, but I don’t mind being a stepmother.” 1 I swear, I was being completely genuine when I said that. But I think his friend, Isabelle, took it as sarcasm. Seeing that I wouldn’t leave Marty on my own, she started recounting their history. How they went to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower, climbed snow-capped mountains together, celebrated New Year’s Eve side-by-side. How Marty would be on a video call with me, telling me he missed me, only to hang up and fall into bed with her seconds later. Isabelle was a fantastic storyteller; I felt like I was listening to a beautifully written, poetic novel. After about fifteen minutes of this, I glanced at my watch and politely interrupted her. “I’m so sorry, but I have to get back to work.” The look on her face was priceless. She just stared at me, utterly speechless. I put on my coat, wrapped my scarf around my neck, and stood up to leave. “Are you really that shameless? Clinging to Marty like this? You, a woman whose entire style screams ‘wife material.’ Do you honestly think a guy like Marty, who’s seen countless beautiful women, would ever truly be interested in you?” Her voice was sharp, and the previously buzzing coffee shop fell silent. I stopped and turned back to look at her. Her expression was twisted with anger. But a beautiful woman is still beautiful, even when her face is contorted in a sneer. Far more beautiful than me. I smiled, but in the end, I didn’t say a word. 2 It was true, I didn’t want to break up with Marty. After all, of all the men I knew, he was the best overall package. His family was wealthy, he had a cheerful personality, and he was generous with me. Aside from being a player, he had no other faults. But what rich man isn’t a player? He could party, fool around, and have his female “confidantes.” It didn’t matter. As long as I was his official girlfriend, the woman he wanted to marry, that was enough. I had a very clear understanding of my own value. If I broke up with Marty, I’d never find another man in his league. Stepping into the elevator, I examined my reflection in the polished steel doors. A knit scarf, a mid-length wool coat, and a pair of snow boots. My entire outfit screamed “plain and simple.” I was miles away from fashionable, a perfect match for the internet’s stereotype of a “wife material” girl. I thought of my best friend Maya’s assessment of me: “You’re too quiet, too straight-laced. You’ll never be the kind of bad girl who can wrap a man around her finger.” “You’re a bookworm who can’t think outside the box. The best you can hope for is to land a safe government job. You’ll never be some high-flying career woman.” “If you ever want to change your life, your only shot is to play the ‘good woman’ card. While you’re still young and have the looks, find a rich man.” “A rich heir is fine, a self-made millionaire works too. Be his comfort, cater to his every need. But most importantly, you have to be gracious. You have to be virtuous.” “But you need to hurry. A woman’s prime years are fleeting. Once you’re older, it won’t matter how gentle or considerate or gracious you are; no rich man will give you a second look.” Thinking of this, I looked down at the ring on my middle finger and sighed. My only hope now was that nothing else went wrong before the wedding. Once I was married to Marty, I could accept a secret son or daughter. But sometimes, the thing you fear the most is exactly what comes to find you. 3 Just before the end of the workday, I got a message from Marty. He sent me an address, telling me to come over. A get-together with friends; he wanted to introduce me. This had never happened before. There were certain things Marty and I both understood without ever saying them aloud. We weren’t from the same world. Our lifestyles were completely different. Marty kept his world split into two distinct halves. When he wanted to play, he partied with his childhood friends, bringing along this girl or that one, living life on his own terms. When he was tired of playing, he came back to me, to enjoy my devoted care. Did he love me? Of course not. But he couldn’t leave me. That’s why, even though my background was average and I didn’t know how to dress, there were moments he would impulsively want to marry me. But that was all it was. He would never introduce me to his friends, never let me into his circle. Because in his eyes, I wasn’t presentable. And I was always smart enough never to ask to meet them. After all, while I was fully aware that I was reaching above my station with Marty and had accepted my subordinate role, I had no desire to become the subject of their gossip, to give them the chance to look down on me to my face. On this point, Marty and I had always had a tacit understanding. But today, he broke it. 4 I rushed to the restaurant. The heating was cranked up high, so I had to take off my coat and scarf, draping them over my arm as I followed the waiter through a maze of corridors. We finally stopped outside a private room. I stood at the door, took a deep breath, and mentally prepared myself before pushing it open. It turned out, my mental preparation was not nearly enough. The room was buzzing with a crowd of young men and women. The first person I saw wasn’t my boyfriend, Marty. It was Jaxon, standing at the center of it all. My first love. He was as devastatingly handsome as I remembered, a single diamond stud in his left ear, radiating an aura of untamed rebellion. Jaxon. Jaxon. I mouthed his name twice, a silent, ghost of a word on my lips, then calmly tore my gaze away to find Marty. He was in a corner booth, laughing and talking with a woman. In the middle of their playful banter, she reached up and tapped Marty’s forehead with her knuckles. It was intimate. Sweet. I knew who she was. Marty’s childhood best friend. They’d grown up together, their bond incredibly close. If I had to describe it, it was more than friends, but not quite lovers. I understood. Sometimes you know someone too well to cross that line, afraid you might lose the friendship altogether. I was rather glad they never got together. Otherwise, where would there be room for me in this game of love? I stood by the door for a long moment, completely ignored. A familiar sense of helplessness began to creep up from my bones. I felt like I was eighteen again, excitedly going to a bar to find Jaxon, only to be hit with a wave of alienation and despair the moment I opened the door to his private room. I was hit with the profound realization that I was not, and had never been, a part of their world. Back then, I forced myself not to care because I loved Jaxon. Now, I forced myself not to care because I loved money. I quietly made my way to Marty’s side and tapped him on the shoulder. His eyes landed on me. I saw the smile in them fade just a little. I put on a gentle, serene smile of my own, brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and said in a soft voice, “Sorry, I had to work late.” He finally snapped out of it, taking my hand in his and rubbing it. He frowned slightly. “Is the heat not on high enough? Why are your hands so cold?” “It’s probably just the temperature difference. My body hasn’t adjusted. Are you cold?” I said, trying to pull my hand back. Marty instinctively tightened his grip. “I’m worried you’ll catch a chill.” The noisy room had somehow quieted down. The atmosphere hung thick and strange for a few seconds before someone spoke up, their voice dripping with amusement. “Marty, is this your mythical girlfriend we never get to see? Now that she’s finally graced us with her presence, aren’t you going to introduce her?” I followed the voice to its source. The speaker was a guy in a flashy baseball jacket, slouched next to Jaxon, looking every bit the troublemaker. Jaxon was leaning back lazily, fiddling with a lighter in his hand. Click, flick. Click, flick. His signature move when he was annoyed. Marty stood up, wrapping an arm around my waist and leading me toward the group. “Alright, everyone, this is Clara. My girlfriend.” “Girlfriend? She’s wearing a ring. When are we getting an invitation to the wedding?” someone with sharp eyes pointed out, laughing. My hand clenched into a fist, then quickly relaxed. Marty’s body tensed for a second before he recovered. “As soon as you guys have your wedding gifts ready, I’m ready to get married.” Someone was about to tease us more, but Marty stepped in to defend me. “She’s shy. You can joke with me all you want, but leave her out of it.” This, of course, only made them louder. Marty was pulled away by his friends for a round of drinks. With nothing to do, I sat quietly in the corner, playing on my phone. Though there wasn’t much to play. I didn’t watch reality TV, didn’t play games, didn’t read novels, and didn’t scroll through short videos. I liked to just zone out, but in such a lively atmosphere, it felt inappropriate. So I started to eat. Slowly, in small bites, I ate the pastries from the coffee table. I hadn’t had dinner yet, and I was actually a little hungry. I sat in that room for two hours and nineteen minutes. I ate a plate of green bean cakes, three cherry tomatoes, and drank two glasses of juice. The entire time, a pair of eyes were fixed on my back. But I never once turned around. 5 It was past midnight when the party finally broke up. Marty had been forced to drink too much and was stumbling. Several girls tried to help him, but Marty waved them away, finally choosing his childhood best friend to support him. As for me, I was in charge of his coat and car keys, ready to be the perfect designated driver. Halfway to the door, Marty turned back dazedly and called my name. “Clara…” I answered softly, “I’m here.” When we reached the parking garage, I opened the back door of the car and watched his friend struggle to get him inside. I said my goodbyes to the others. Once I was in the driver’s seat, ready to start the engine, my eyes happened to glance at the two coats on the passenger seat. I realized I’d forgotten my scarf. But his friend had already closed her door and was waiting for me to drive. Whatever. It wasn’t anything valuable. If it was gone, it was gone. Before leaving, I couldn’t resist one last look in the rearview mirror. Jaxon was standing with his side to me, his head bowed as he lit a cigarette, a cold, unapproachable aura surrounding him. I pulled my eyes away and gave a small, silent smirk. A mockery of the naive girl I used to be. 6 The car pulled into the garage of Marty’s family home. I had planned to stay and take care of him, but the house had plenty of staff. There was really no need for me. His friend also gently implied that Marty’s parents preferred a sensible, discreet girl. Since Marty hadn’t officially brought me home to meet them yet, I should know my place. So at two in the morning, I discreetly stood outside the gates of the luxurious gated community, freezing for half an hour until my rideshare finally arrived. God bless big cities, you can even get a ride in the middle of the night. But forgetting my scarf was a disaster. The winter wind was biting, and I was nearly frozen solid. It was three a.m. by the time I got back to my apartment building. I dragged my exhausted body to my door. As the elevator doors opened, I fumbled for my keys. A thick smell of smoke hit my nose. My tired brain sluggishly wondered if someone’s apartment was on fire. Then I saw him. A tall man standing in front of my door. The floor around his feet was littered with cigarette butts. A red ember glowed between his long fingers. In his other hand, he was holding my lost scarf. 7 I never really imagined what it would be like to see Jaxon again. When I was younger, I thought he had broken my heart. It’s no exaggeration to say my world had ended. I was a zombie, with no will to live. But time passes, and you realize it was just a small thing, a simple case of “I love you, you don’t love me.” In the grand scheme of things—money, career, health—what isn’t more important than love? Besides, I was exhausted today. Once you pass a certain age, your body just starts to give out. These days, if I go to bed after eleven, my brain turns to mush. I can’t think straight. So I just numbly unlocked my door, numbly changed into my slippers, and numbly turned to close the door in his face. Jaxon’s hand shot out, blocking it. “We had something, you know. Not even a ‘hello’? That’s pretty rude.” His voice was hoarse, probably from all the smoking. Sometimes I think I’m just too conservative. I can’t understand this modern way of living, where people stay on good terms with their exes, message them privately, and even have a “relapse” when the mood is right. I once discussed this with Maya. As someone who had definitely slept with an ex again, she assured me it was perfectly normal. She said it was nostalgia. Like a toy you loved as a child. You grow out of it, but that doesn’t stop you from picking it up and looking at it with fond memories when you see it again. I couldn’t understand it at the time. “But shouldn’t people be faithful in a relationship?” Maya laughed at my naivety. “This era has a new definition for faithfulness. We call people who are hopelessly devoted to one person ‘love-sick fools.’ And someone like you, who gave everything to Jaxon with a sincerity that was almost laughable, we call that a ‘simp.’” Back then, to understand Jaxon’s mindset, I diligently followed Maya around for a while. She took me to all sorts of places, introduced me to all sorts of people. Unfortunately, I was never a quick learner. I could never grasp their way of life. In the end, I had to accept the truth: Jaxon and I were from different worlds. He would never slow down for me. He didn’t love me. Not one bit. In fact, he probably only got with me in the first place for a good laugh. I had clumsily followed him around, racking my brain for ways to make him happy, going to absurd lengths to be good to him. I once took a two-hour bus ride from one end of the city to the other just because he casually mentioned he was craving pork ribs, so I immediately cooked them and brought them to him. In Jaxon’s eyes, all my efforts were probably just cheap and pathetic. But what could I do? I was just an ordinary girl with no special qualities, nothing to make me stand out. The only thing I had was my heart. I reverently cut it out and offered it to Jaxon. He took it, looked it over, examined it from all angles, found it boring, and tossed it aside. And so my heart shattered. Later, I gathered the pieces and realized I had been using the wrong method. A true heart can’t be exchanged for another true heart. But it can be exchanged for money. Marty gave me plenty of feedback. Every time he found a new “friend,” he gave me an expensive gift. From jewelry to handbags. His guilt was very valuable. For example, the fact that I had to take a taxi home alone tonight would probably earn me another new handbag once Marty sobered up tomorrow. All I wanted was the handbag. I didn’t want anything to do with an ex who had hurt me so deeply. So I held the doorknob and stared at Jaxon for a long time. His expression was obscured by the haze of smoke, or maybe the light was just too dim. I couldn’t really see his face. I asked him, “Are you here to return my scarf?” He said, “No.” I nodded and carefully pushed his arm out of the doorway. This time, I was able to close the door. And lock it. 8 Marty started calling me out to hang with his friends more frequently. And, of course, Jaxon was always there. After a while, Marty would inevitably start talking about his friends. That’s how I finally learned who Jaxon was now. A hotshot rookie race car driver. The long-lost heir to the Vance family fortune. It was surreal. The Jaxon I knew was a defiant teenager who lived with his grandmother. He did love cars, but back then, he could only afford a beat-up old motorcycle to cruise around on. In our short-lived romance, the most memorable moment was probably him putting a heavy helmet on my head, telling me to wrap my arms around his waist as I sat behind him on the motorcycle, and saying he was going to take me far away. Back then, I really believed him. 9 In front of Marty’s friends, I never shied away from showing my meticulous care for him. At first, they would tease us, but after seeing it enough times, they got used to it. Whether they were secretly scornful or envious, I didn’t care to know. As for Marty’s pregnant “friend,” I don’t know how he handled it. But his attitude toward me remained the same, which put me somewhat at ease. Still, a subtle anxiety began to grow inside me. Maybe it was the almost predatory way Jaxon’s eyes were always on me, or maybe it was Marty’s lack of enthusiasm for our wedding plans. I was always worried something would change. And, of course, something did. During a weekend camping trip, Marty suddenly got a phone call. His face immediately soured. He just said he’d deal with it when he got home. A little while later, Marty announced he had an emergency and had to leave. Instantly, I felt several pairs of eyes on me. I had come in Marty’s car. If he was leaving, and I didn’t know anyone else well, I would have to go with him. But Marty was clearly in no mood to drive me home. I was thinking of just catching a ride down the mountain with him and then getting a cab from there, when I heard Jaxon speak up. “Marty, go take care of your business. I’ll give your girlfriend a ride home later.” The moment the words left his mouth, Marty casually nodded. “Alright, thanks, man.” Clearly, Marty didn’t care if I stayed or left. My movement to stand up froze, and I slowly sat back down. Before he left, Marty gave me a long, deep look. I had a strong feeling that this was it. Once he drove away, we were probably over. For the first time ever, I broke our unspoken rule and made a request. “Marty, I want to go with you.” “Be good. Listen to me,” Marty frowned, stepped on the gas, and drove off. I stood there, frozen. My phone vibrated twice. A new message. I looked down. It was from the “friend,” who had been silent for a while. She told me she had gone to see Marty’s parents, and they had agreed to let her marry him. A warm body pressed against my back. Jaxon shamelessly leaned over my shoulder to look at my phone screen and let out a lazy laugh. “She moves fast.” My eyelashes fluttered. I looked up at him. “Clara, she has a good family, a beautiful face, and now she’s carrying Marty’s child. What do you have to compete with?” “I thought you would have backed down after you two met at the coffee shop.” “You didn’t really think that just by endlessly pandering to Marty, he would actually marry you, did you?” 10 Of course Marty would marry me. If Jaxon hadn’t interfered. But now that his parents were involved, the chances of him marrying me were slim to none. I was disappointed, but there was also a sense of resigned finality. From the day I saw Jaxon again, I knew my plans wouldn’t go smoothly. I silently put my phone away, ready to pack my things and call a cab. This campsite was remote; it wouldn’t be easy to get a ride. But it didn’t matter. I would rather walk for two hours down the mountain than get into Jaxon’s passenger seat. Charging cable, water bottle, sunglasses—I shoved them all into my bag. Jaxon followed behind me, a thunderous look on his face, watching my every move. Finally, he snapped. He snatched my bag and threw it. The contents spilled everywhere. The clearing fell silent. Curious eyes darted between me and Jaxon. I glanced at the bag. A bit of a shame. It was expensive. If Jaxon hadn’t been here today, I probably would have scurried over to pick everything up. But right now, I just felt drained. “Sorry, you guys have fun. I’m heading back,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. But turning and walking away empty-handed just made me look pathetic. Jaxon’s body was tense. He grabbed my arm, his grip tight. I stopped, raised my hand, and slapped him. Hard. I could hear gasps from the people around us. Jaxon’s head snapped to the side from the force, but his hand on my arm didn’t loosen. “Feel better? If not, want to do the other side?” he asked, pointing to his other cheek.

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1 For my twenty-ninth birthday, my husband gave me a bottle of perfume. I sprayed it on without a second thought and went into anaphylactic shock. When I finally came to in the hospital, Liam was there, a bouquet in hand, with his childhood friend, Chloe, hovering by his side. I calmly asked for a divorce. Chloe immediately rushed to his defense, her voice choked with tears. “Ava, please don’t blame Liam! The perfume was my idea. I just thought the scent would be perfect for you.” Liam wrapped an arm around her, comforting her, then turned to me with an impatient glare. “You’ll regret this.” The next time I saw Liam was a month later. After being discharged, I’d spent some time recovering at my old apartment before finally returning to our villa. The housekeeper informed me that Liam had only come back once, right after I was hospitalized, and hadn’t been seen since. I wasn’t surprised. This wasn’t his only home. He had another one with Chloe. I took a USB drive to the study and printed out the divorce papers. Two copies. I signed my name and then called him. He arrived late that night, a gift bag dangling from his hand. Seeing me on the sofa, he casually issued his usual command. “Make me some soup. I was out with Mr. Harrison and the board. Drank too much. My stomach is killing me.” He tossed the bag onto the couch and went upstairs to the master bedroom. He showered, changed into his pajamas, and then came back down. He noticed I hadn’t touched the bag and pushed it toward me. “A replacement birthday gift.” I didn’t take it. He placed it on my lap. I stood up and set it aside. “Aren’t you going to see what it is?” I tried to smile, but couldn’t. I looked up at him. Our house was littered with identical gift bags. I already knew what was inside. Ever since we’d had our son, he’d put zero thought into my gifts. Skincare sets, handbags, jewelry. The styles were always the same, the brands predictable. It was as if he spent less than three minutes picking them out. He never seemed to notice that sometimes, his gifts would sit unopened for months. Only that bottle of perfume had been different. The box was unique. I’d opened it, sprayed it once, and regretted it instantly. It was rose-scented. And I am deathly allergic to roses. Even the scent is enough to trigger a reaction. I picked up the divorce papers from the coffee table and handed them to him. “My lawyer drafted these. Take a look. If there are no issues, just sign.” He froze, his hand hovering over the papers. “The soup… did you make it? I’ll go check.” I let him escape to the kitchen. He was back in a moment, his expression grim. “You didn’t make it.” “I’m tired. I don’t feel like it.” His stomach must have genuinely been hurting. He pressed a hand to his abdomen and sat back down. I pretended not to see. He sidled up next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist, his voice suddenly soft. “Ava, I was wrong. I’ve just been so busy, I asked Chloe to help me pick out your gift. How about this? I’ll book a restaurant, and tomorrow, we can have a proper birthday celebration. Just the two of us.” I looked at him and shook my head, gently removing his hand from my waist and scooting away. His face hardened. “Why? Is it really just because of the perfume?” It wasn’t just the perfume. It was because the author had stopped writing. The sweet romance novel was over. His heart had wandered, and I had developed a mind of my own. We were no longer just characters, forced to be sweet for the sake of the plot. The day after our wedding, my memories had returned. I was the female lead in a cliché romance novel. Beautiful, smart, the campus ice queen with a fatal allergy to roses. Liam was the male lead: the cold, handsome CEO-in-training with a chronic stomachache who would do anything for me. We had a sickeningly sweet college romance. After graduation, one night of passion led to an unexpected pregnancy. I had terrible morning sickness, and Liam, ever the doting partner, insisted I quit my job so he could take care of us. During the difficult months of my pregnancy, he’d scold my belly, telling our unborn son to stop tormenting me or he’d get a spanking when he came out. It was shortly after my memories returned that Chloe came back from studying abroad. She started working at Liam’s family company, becoming his special assistant. That’s when I learned that their families were old friends. After Chloe’s parents died, Liam’s family had taken her in. They were childhood sweethearts, and she had always been in love with him. And I, the supposed love of his life, had never even heard her name. A character who had never appeared in the sweet romance novel had suddenly materialized the moment it ended. But I couldn’t blame Chloe. She had confessed her feelings to Liam long ago. He knew how she felt, yet he kept her by his side. His motives were his own. While I was pregnant, they traveled for business together, drank together, attended high school reunions together. In the beginning, when I’d get jealous, he would just laugh it off. Eventually, I stopped bringing it up. And Chloe silently wedged herself between us, where she remained to this day. And now he was asking if this was all about a bottle of perfume. A wave of pity washed over me. “The perfume was just the final straw.” “Liam, I’ve wanted to divorce you for a very long time.” His brow furrowed, his eyes turning cold. “Ava, are you seeing someone else?” “I forbid it!” Before I could call him insane, he lunged, pinning me to the sofa. “Liam, no!” I struggled, but he was too heavy. When his hand started to slip under my dress, I slapped him. Hard. The sting of it stopped him. His eyes were bloodshot, a cruel glint in them. “Ava, don’t forget you’re still my wife. Am I not even allowed to touch you anymore?” The memory of the D&C I’d had to undergo after the miscarriage flooded my mind, and my whole body began to tremble. “You disgust me.” Our eyes met. I didn’t back down. He finally pushed himself off me, slumping to the floor. A self-deprecating laugh escaped his lips. “So that’s it. No wonder you want a divorce.” “Who is he?” I said nothing. He grabbed his jacket from the sofa and stalked toward the door. “Ava, you can dream on about a divorce!” “You’d better hide him well. Because when I find out who he is, I’ll kill him.” As he reached the door, a sharp pain lanced through my chest. I called out his name. “Liam.” He stopped but didn’t turn around. “Do you love me?” I asked. He was silent. I pressed on. “If you loved me, would you keep a woman who’s been in love with you for years by your side? If you loved me, would you let your mother take our son away from me, to another country?” “Liam, the day you agreed to let her take our son, I started to doubt everything you’ve ever said about love.” He finally turned, his eyes filled with confusion. “I thought we agreed to let Mom take Ethan so we could have some time to ourselves.” “You wanted that. I didn’t.” “He is the child I carried for ten months. I would never send him away for the sake of some ‘alone time.’ I’m not that kind of person.” He shook his head slightly. “But we said we’d have another baby.” A bitter laugh escaped me. “There is no other baby. I went into anaphylactic shock from the perfume. I miscarried.” The expression on his face was beyond grim. “Why didn’t you tell me when I came to the hospital?” he demanded. “I was going to tell you on my birthday. But you never came. You sent Chloe with the perfume instead.” “Liam, what good would it have done to tell you?” He was silent for a long time. “We can have another child,” he said finally, his voice flat. “No, we can’t. Liam, let’s just get a divorce.” “If we don’t, I don’t know what I might do.” I walked over to him with the papers. “Sign them.” He took them. “And you, Ava? Do you still love me?” “I’ve let go.” “Recently? Or a long time ago?” I didn’t answer. He did. “A long time ago. You stopped being clingy. When I went on business trips, you stopped telling me to be safe. When I drank, you stopped telling me to drink less. The longest I was away was that trip to Moscow. I waited ten days, and you never sent me a single message. Just like tonight, with my stomach. You couldn’t care less.” “Ava, you were the one who stopped loving me first.” “I stopped being clingy because Chloe was always with you, leaving no space for me. I stopped asking about your trips because she would post pictures of the two of you together. I stopped telling you to drink less because you were always taking drinks for her. And that trip to Moscow? I didn’t message you because I saw a video of the two of you dancing intimately in a club. I didn’t want to interrupt.” “As for tonight… you’re right. I don’t love you anymore.” “Liam, I’m making way for Chloe. I wish you both the best.” His knuckles were white as he gripped the papers. His eyes, red and furious, watched me as he tore the documents to shreds. Then, he stormed out. I had the housekeeper clean up the mess and went back to the study. I printed ten more copies. An hour later, I saw Chloe’s latest social media post. A selfie of her sitting on the edge of a bed, Liam asleep behind her. The caption read: “The man I love has never learned to love himself. If you don’t love him, why can’t you just let him go? Why do you have to torture him?” I took the ten copies of the divorce papers, got in my car, and drove to Chloe’s house.

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At nineteen, the man I loved drugged me and left me unconscious in an abandoned building during a thunderstorm—my greatest fear. He stole my father’s badge to go undercover, spending five years infiltrating the Black Vulture syndicate to avenge my parents. He returned a decorated hero, but confined to a wheelchair. I found him, made him marry me, and for five years, he rebuilt his life while shielding me from everything. Then I discovered our marriage was a lie—his legal wife wasn’t me. When he begged me to abort our long-awaited child for the sake of his other family, I agreed. Seven days later, I jumped from a skyscraper. And he went mad. 1 My hand instinctively went to my stomach as I fought back the urge to scream, to rip the world apart with my questions. The storm of emotions inside me finally subsided, leaving behind only the bitter taste of ash. I forced the tears back, blinking them away until my vision cleared. I looked up at the man who had once sworn to shield me with his life, and my voice was a hollow echo of itself. “So that’s it, Caleb? You’re not going to explain this marriage certificate? You just want me to get rid of the baby we tried for three years to have… to make way for your little lover?” His eyes instantly reddened. He reached for me, but the dead, empty stillness in my gaze made him flinch back. “Elara… I’m so sorry…” His voice was a raw, ragged whisper. “But I can’t just stand by and watch Seraphina die.” “During my undercover years,” he continued, his words tumbling out in a desperate rush, “she saved my life. Not once, but multiple times. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have been able to avenge your parents. I wouldn’t have even made it back to you alive!” “She’s… damaged because of me. The trauma left her with severe depression, crippling anxiety. She has no one else, Elara! Only me!” His voice cracked with a pleading desperation. “Just let her have her baby first. I swear, after that, my life, everything I have… it’s all yours to make up for this. I’ll spend the rest of my days atoning.” “Atoning?” A sharp, twisting cramp seized my lower belly. “I endured three years of medication, countless injections, of vomiting until I passed out, all for this child. And you want me to kill him?” My voice rose, trembling. “This is a life, Caleb. A living, breathing life. What could possibly compensate for that?” I finally broke. The control I’d been clinging to shattered. “If you try to trade my child’s life for hers,” I shrieked, my voice raw with agony, “I swear to God, I will die right in front of you!” “Elara!” he roared, his face flashing with raw frustration. “You’re going to pressure me too? Why can’t you just understand?” “Seraphina is a… a ‘Player’! It’s complicated, but she’s part of some system. If she doesn’t successfully give birth to this child, the system will erase her! She’ll cease to exist!” “You’re stronger than she is,” he pleaded, his logic a poisoned knife. “You have me, you have everything we’ve built. But she only has me. All she wants is a chance to live. I’m begging you, Elara. Understand. Just this once. Give her a chance to live.” He couldn’t meet my eyes. He spun his wheelchair around with a jerky, panicked motion and fled the room, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed the splintering of my heart. I collapsed to the floor, my arms wrapped around my stomach, the tears finally flowing in a silent, scalding torrent. How did we get here? How did the man who once held me tight through thunderstorms, the man who would press his face to my belly and whisper, his stubble tickling my skin, “It’s okay, little one, Daddy’s here,” become this stranger who would so easily cast that same life aside for another woman? I don’t know how long I lay there before my phone rang, piercing the silence. Seraphina’s voice, laced with a triumphant, sickly sweetness, stabbed at my eardrums. “Elara, sweetie. As one woman to another, I’ll give you a second of my pity. I’m in such a good mood today, I’ll even let you in on a little secret. Caleb left you to be with me… for my prenatal check-up. You know, he looks incredible when he stands. It’s a shame he never told you he could.” My blood ran cold. “Oh, and sweetie? You’re a smart girl. You must know I’m not some ‘Player’ in a game. And I’m certainly not depressed. That was just a little act.” “I pretended to have a breakdown,” she purred, her voice dripping with venom. “Forced him to choose between your baby or me and mine. A little test, you see, to show you who really matters to him.” “You may have been his childhood sweetheart, but that’s nothing compared to the bond forged in darkness. The woman who stood by his side, who bled for him when he had nothing… that’s a bond you can never break.” “Did you really think your five years of marriage were happy? He never stopped looking for me. We’ve had our own little home on the west side of town for three years now.” “And that marriage certificate? He wanted you to find it. He was hoping you’d just give up, you see. Do us all a favor and set him free.” She paused, her tone hardening into pure malice. “Don’t make him lose that last little bit of affection he has left for you.” The video she sent seconds later shattered the last vestiges of my world. There was Caleb, standing tall and straight, gently, carefully guiding her through the clinic. My hero, the man who had faced down a criminal empire for me… now stood for her. He was a stranger. A nurse smiled at them. “Mr. Hayes, you take such wonderful care of your wife.” He only frowned slightly. He didn’t correct her. That single, tender moment obliterated every fantasy I had ever held. A tidal wave of furious, helpless despair consumed me. I scrambled to my feet and ran to the balcony, fumbling to dial his number. “Elara? What is it? Have you thought things through?” His voice was weary, but underneath it, I could hear the hopeful expectation that I had finally bent to his will. I looked down at the city lights below, a glittering, merciless abyss. My own voice was terrifyingly calm. “Caleb.” The line went quiet. He must have sensed the change in me. “I’m standing on the balcony,” I said softly. “Twenty minutes. I’m giving you twenty minutes.” I took a deep breath, enunciating each word with chilling precision. “If you’re not here,” I said, “I’m going to jump. I’ll take this child you’re so desperate to kill, and I will disappear from your life forever.” 2 A raw, guttural roar of pure terror ripped through the phone. “Elara, don’t you dare! Stay right where you are! Don’t move! I’m coming! I’ll be right there! Do you hear me?!” I ended the call, letting the cold rain soak through my clothes, chilling me to the bone. Less than two minutes later, a text from Seraphina buzzed on my phone, incandescent with rage. You bitch! You actually copied my suicide act? What a pathetic move! You think you’ve won just because you made Caleb leave me alone at the hospital in a storm? I’ll make you pay for this. I swear it. My face was a mask of stone. I screenshotted the messages and sent them to Caleb. I wanted him to see the true face of the “lonely,” “depressed” woman he was sacrificing everything for. On the nineteenth minute, a car screeched to a halt below. Caleb didn’t bother with the wheelchair, didn’t bother with the charade of being disabled. He stumbled out of the car and sprinted into the building, bursting into the apartment a moment later, drenched and wild-eyed. He yanked me back from the ledge, his arms trembling as he crushed me against him. “Elara, I was wrong! We’ll keep the baby! Just don’t do this, I’m begging you, never do this again… I can’t lose you…” I shoved him away with all my strength, wiping the rain and tears from my face. My voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. “I was going to give you divorce papers. But my lawyer informed me that I haven’t been your legal wife for three years.” I watched the color drain from his face as I delivered the final blow. “Caleb, I’m already divorced, so I can’t exactly divorce you again. Let’s just break up.” “Get out. I don’t want you anymore.” “I don’t want to see you again. I don’t want you to… to destroy the image I have left of the nineteen-year-old boy who would have died for me.” My gaze dropped to his legs, straight and strong. “And congratulations. On being able to walk again.” It was as if all the strength had been ripped from his body. Caleb staggered, reaching for me again, his voice thick with anguish and self-loathing. “Elara, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t trying to hide it from you! I wanted… I wanted to wait until I was fully recovered, to surprise you! I never, ever thought about leaving you. I can’t live without you…” There was a time I would have believed every word without question. Now, each syllable was a nauseating lie that crawled under my skin. Seeing my resolve, he grew more frantic. “Don’t listen to anything Seraphina sent you! She’s having a depressive episode, she’s not in control of what she says! I’ll handle her, I promise! I’ll never force you to do anything again.” “I will fix the mess with Seraphina and I’ll make it right with you! Please, just stop this. Don’t leave me…” I was tired. So incredibly tired. I whispered a single word: “Okay.” He reacted as if he’d been granted a divine pardon. He swept me into his arms, carried me to bed, and began gently toweling my hair and skin dry, treating me like a priceless, fragile treasure as he coaxed me to sleep. I closed my eyes, feigning exhaustion and surrender. As I expected, not fifteen minutes later, once he was certain I was “asleep,” he rose from the bed. He moved quietly but quickly, slipping out of the room and closing the door behind him. That desperate, hurried retreat extinguished the last ember of hope in my heart. I got up immediately, threw on a coat, and followed him out. I needed to see it for myself. I needed to see what his idea of “handling it” and “making it right” truly looked like. I followed the red glow of his taillights through the rain. As I was about to hail a cab, a windowless van screeched to a halt beside me. A large hand clamped over my mouth, dragging me violently inside as a sickly chemical smell flooded my senses. Just before my consciousness faded, I saw them. Not far down the road, Caleb was pulling Seraphina, who was huddled and crying in the rain, into a fierce, protective embrace, his eyes filled with nothing but aching tenderness. 3 When I woke again, it was to the cloying stench of rust and mildew in a derelict warehouse. I thrashed wildly, the coarse ropes biting into my wrists, tearing the skin, but it was useless. I heard hushed voices outside and immediately squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to be unconscious. “The boss’s orders. Rough her up good. Teach her a lesson for the missus.” “Just don’t go all the way. And don’t kill her. Anything else is fair game.” The next three days were a descent into hell. They used every method imaginable to torture me, to strip away every shred of my dignity. I curled up on the filthy floor, my arms wrapped protectively around my stomach, begging them over and over. “Money… I have money… I’ll give you anything you want… please, just don’t hurt my baby… Call my husband… he’ll pay the ransom…” They laughed at my naivete, but to my surprise, they actually dialed Caleb’s number and put it on speaker. “We’ve got your wife. Five hundred grand for her and the kid in her belly. Or you get two corpses!” In that moment, a flicker of hope ignited in the abyss of my despair. But the voice that came through the phone was cold, impatient, and utterly dismissive. “Who is this? Some kind of prank call? My wife is perfectly fine at home. Call me again and I’m reporting you to the police.” The line went dead. One of the kidnappers spit on the floor. “Hear that? Your old man doesn’t want you!” I broke down, sobbing and pleading. “No, that’s impossible! Call again! Please! Let him hear my voice!” They dialed again. It went straight to voicemail. That robotic, impersonal voice crushed the last bit of life within me. The torture intensified. Finally, amidst a searing, gut-wrenching agony, I felt a warm gush of liquid between my legs… My child was gone, reduced to a pool of blood on the concrete floor. One of the kidnappers checked my pulse and, assuming I was dead, cursed under his breath before they finally left. I don’t know how much time passed. Running on a single, desperate breath, I dragged my blood-soaked body out of the warehouse and began the agonizing journey back. As I neared our home, I heard the sound of laughter and conversation from inside. I hid in the shadows, peering through the window. I saw Caleb, gently applying ointment to a small cut on Seraphina’s finger. Around him, the men he once called his brothers were talking loudly. “I bet the wife has learned her lesson this time. A little taste of the real world should teach her that a man of Caleb’s status having a few women on the side is normal.” “Exactly. Caleb’s been patient with her for years. It’s just a baby. So what if Seraphina has one first? The girl needed to be put in her place.” “I don’t know, man. She’s not the type to share.” “You know how she is. Can’t stand a single grain of sand in her eye. You really think she’ll tolerate sharing Caleb with another woman?” “And aren’t you guys worried this went too far? This whole thing, Caleb not sending anyone to protect her… it feels like playing with fire.” “What if she finds out this whole kidnapping was his idea? That he did it to get rid of the baby and ‘discipline’ her? You think they have a future after that?” Someone scoffed. “Please. I’ll bet a million bucks she loves him so much she can’t live without him. Even if she knew the truth, she’d forgive him. She’s just throwing a tantrum right now. Give it time, she’ll compromise for love.” Their words were poison-tipped needles, plunging deep into my already ravaged heart. So this was it. The hell I had endured, the loss of my child… it was all his design. A calculated cruelty to make me more “obedient,” to appease Seraphina. Just then, Caleb frowned, cutting them off. “All of you, shut up. Keep a close eye on things. Don’t let anything actually happen to Elara.” He turned to another man. “And the rest of you, get the house on the west side ready. Finalize the arrangements for the cars and the ceremony tomorrow.” “I owe Seraphina this wedding. It has to be perfect.” “And after tomorrow, arrange to have my wife brought home, completely unharmed.” One of them asked, a strange note in his voice, “Caleb… now that you have two wives… do you still love Elara?” He didn’t hesitate. His voice was clear and firm. “Yes. More than my own life. And I will spend the rest of my days making it up to her.” I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle a sob, scrambling away from that house of horrors, that place of sickening betrayal. The cold rain mixed with my blood and tears as I stumbled through the city, finally collapsing at the foot of my parents’ grave, the last of my strength giving out as I wept until my soul felt hollowed out. 4 I woke in the downpour before my parents’ tombstone, my body frozen, but my heart colder still. With trembling fingers, I pulled out my drenched phone. The screen was shattered, but it still worked. I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. It was answered on the first ring. A calm, steady voice came through the line. “It’s me. Elara.” My own voice was a hoarse, unrecognizable rasp. “Can you help me…?” There was a moment of silence on the other end, then a single, firm word: “Yes.” Just before he hung up, he added, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of everything.” By the time I made my way, ghost-like, back to the city center, Caleb and Seraphina’s wedding was the only thing anyone was talking about. The news was everywhere, plastering their faces across every screen, gushing about the lavish, billion-dollar fantasy wedding the CEO of Hayes Corp. had created for his beloved bride. I wore the simplest clothes, a specter haunting the celebration from afar. I went to the observation tower across from their wedding venue. The Spire. It was where the city’s elite came to watch the stars, to make grand romantic gestures. It was where Caleb had once proposed to me, where he had sworn his wedding vows to me under a canopy of constellations. I stood at its base and looked up. Through the vast panes of glass, I could see the glittering party, the swirl of expensive gowns and the clinking of champagne glasses. Caleb was there, devastatingly handsome in a tailored suit. And beside him, Seraphina wore the wedding dress he had once designed exclusively for me, the one he said was for “my Elara, who deserves something one-of-a-kind in this world.” But the final, soul-crushing blow was the necklace adorning her throat. The sapphire pendant, the last thing my mother had ever given me. The one he had promised to treasure for me forever. In that instant, my sanity snapped. I ran toward the hotel like a madwoman, driven by a primal need to reclaim what was mine. But before I could even reach the doors, four familiar faces blocked my path—my kidnappers. They clamped a hand over my mouth, grabbing my hair and brutally dragging me away. “Ms. Thorne,” one of them sneered, “Mr. Hayes gave specific orders. No one is to disturb the wedding today. Don’t humiliate yourself any further.” I fought back with the strength of the damned, sinking my teeth into one man’s hand. He cried out in pain, his grip loosening just enough for me to break free. I sprinted back toward the hotel, toward the life that had been stolen from me. But there were too many of them. They surrounded me again, forming a human wall between me and that path of roses, a beautiful shore I could never reach. From a distance, I saw Caleb slide the ring onto Seraphina’s finger. I saw the men who were once my friends raise their glasses in a toast to the “happy couple.” And suddenly, I stopped struggling. I turned around. With the last ounce of my strength, I ran into the tower across the street, all the way to the top. The wind howled around me as I stepped onto the ledge and switched on the massive public address speaker. A low hum echoed across the plaza, turning into a piercing feedback squeal that instantly captured the attention of every guest at the wedding below. I saw Caleb’s head snap up, his triumphant smile freezing on his face, morphing into a mask of pure horror. I leaned into the microphone. My voice, terrifyingly calm, boomed across the wedding venue and beyond. “Caleb Hayes, congratulations on your wedding day.” “I wish you and Seraphina a lifetime of happiness together.” “And I hope you and your brothers never forget today. I hope you remember your little ‘lesson.’ I hope you remember how my unborn child was washed away in a pool of blood.” His face went ashen. He started running toward me, screaming my name, but the wind snatched his words away. “You all bet that I would forgive you, didn’t you?” Facing the wind, I smiled. It was the first time I had smiled in three days, and it was my last. A thing of tragic, desperate beauty. “Well, now I’m making a bet of my own. I’m betting my life that you, Caleb Hayes, will never know a moment of peace for the rest of yours.” And with that, as he watched, his eyes wide with frantic, disbelieving terror, as the crowd below gasped in a collective wave of shock, I took one final step forward and leaped from the top of the world.

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I found it by accident. A password-protected blog linked to my husband’s email, an account I never knew he had. We’d been married for ten years. For ten years, I thought I knew everything about Ethan. The blog was a digital scrapbook, meticulously documenting a love story. Their love story. My fingers trembled as I scrolled to the very last entry, a knot tightening in my stomach. But then, the dates started looking… familiar. **[May 20, 2015]** *He said yes. He put my ring on his finger.* That was the day Ethan proposed to me. **[January 20, 2016]** *Can’t wait to meet the new life we created.* That was the day I found out I was pregnant. Ethan was so ecstatic he lifted me up and spun me around right in front of the hospital entrance. We lost the baby, a heartbreak that haunted us for years, a result of my own health complications. **[May 21, 2016]** No text, just a single photo: a massive bouquet of 999 red roses. That was the surprise Ethan arranged for our first wedding anniversary. My frantic heartbeat began to slow. Relief washed over me. This wasn’t about another woman. This was just Ethan’s private way of chronicling our life together. How sweet. And then, just as I was about to close the laptop, the page refreshed. A new entry appeared, posted seconds ago. **[Tonight]** *Hubby says he’s making his special coconut curry chicken for me and our son.* Before I could even process the words, Ethan’s custom ringtone—a clip from our wedding song—blared from my phone. “Hey, baby,” he said, his voice warm and familiar. “Listen, Mark’s back in the country, just for a night. A few of us are taking him out to celebrate.” “Don’t worry, I won’t drink too much,” he continued, pre-empting my usual concern. “But it’s going to run late. I’ll probably just crash at a hotel downtown so I don’t wake you. Okay?” It was the usual considerate check-in. The usual Ethan. Any other day, I wouldn’t have thought twice. But now, with that blog post burned into my mind, his sudden night away felt like a deliberate deception. Mark was Ethan’s best friend from college, a guy who’d been working in London for years. I immediately called him. The sound of deafening club music blasted through the speaker before I could even say hello. “Mia! Checking up on your man?” Mark yelled over the noise. “Don’t you worry, he’s right here with me!” I forced my voice to sound steady. “Okay. You guys have fun.” I waited up until 2 a.m. As I suspected, the blog updated again. This time, there was a photo. A little boy, maybe eight years old, was beaming next to a homemade cake. The caption read: **Leo is eight! He and Daddy made a cake together today.** In the second photo, a man’s arm was wrapped around the boy. I’d know that arm anywhere. On his wrist was a woven cord bracelet, a one-of-a-kind piece I’d bought for him at a street fair during his “golden birthday” year. I’d tied it on him myself. There was only one in the world. My hands shook so violently the phone nearly slipped from my grasp. My fingertips were white from gripping it so hard. An eight-year-old boy. Calling him Dad. Proposed to on the same day as me. A pregnancy discovered on the same day as mine. Even their anniversary seemed to fall on the same date. The whole thing was so absurd, so utterly insane, I almost laughed. A piercing alarm pulled me from my stupor. I’d been sitting there all night, staring into space. I shut off the alarm—the one I set to remind me to make Ethan a hangover-cure smoothie on mornings like this. After washing the dried tear tracks from my face, I looked at my red, swollen eyes in the mirror and dialed the number for a private investigator. Thirty minutes later, I was parked outside a pristine suburban house not ten miles from our own. “Mrs. Hayes,” the investigator said over the phone, “this is the address Mr. Hayes has visited most frequently over the past decade, aside from your home and his office.” “Last night, he stopped at a bakery supply store, then a supermarket where he bought a fresh chicken and coconut milk. He went into this house and never came out.” Baking. Chicken. Coconut. It all clicked into place. The blood in my veins turned to ice. In the rearview mirror, my face was a ghostly white. The perfect, enviable love story I was so proud of was nothing but a complete and utter fraud. I didn’t have to wait long. Just after 8 a.m., Ethan walked out the front door, dressed for work. A woman, holding a sleepy little boy, came out to see him off. “Bye, Daddy,” the boy mumbled. Ethan bent down and squeezed his cheek affectionately. “Be good for your mom, buddy.” The scene of this perfect little family was a dagger in my eyes. I watched, torturing myself, staring so hard I could taste the metallic tang of blood from biting my lip. “Okay, I’m off,” Ethan said to the woman. “I’ll see you guys next time.” As he turned to leave, the woman dropped the boy’s hand and lunged forward, trying to hug him. Ethan sidestepped her smoothly. I saw a flash of annoyance cross his face before he quickly masked it. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low. The woman froze, her smile faltering. “Right,” she managed, her voice tight. “I promised.” I watched as Ethan got into his car and immediately picked up his phone. A second later, mine rang. His voice was thick with feigned exhaustion and longing, the same performance he gave after every late night out. “Baby, I feel awful. I could really use one of your smoothies right now.” A pause. “It’s been twenty hours since I saw you. I miss you so much.” Ethan had always been demonstrative. He’d declared he would be my boyfriend in front of the entire student body during his valedictorian speech. The day we started dating, he called his parents and announced he’d found their future daughter-in-law. At our wedding, he cried from morning till night, so much that his groomsmen kept their distance. Even my own parents were in awe of him, often asking me, “Are you really that special? How did you land a man who worships you like this?” Until yesterday, I believed it, too. Now, all I felt was a wave of nausea. When I didn’t respond, he must have thought I was mad about him staying out all night. “I promise, I’ll never drink that much again. No old friend is more important than my wife. Please don’t be angry, Mia.” I’m not good at hiding my feelings. His soft, coaxing voice broke through my resolve, and I was about to demand where he’d really been. Just as I opened my mouth, a sharp tap on my car window made me jump. It was her. The woman from the house, holding the little boy by the hand. She had on a full face of makeup, her red lips curved into a smirk. She mouthed the words: “Let’s talk.” I mumbled a quick excuse to Ethan and hung up. I followed her to a nearby coffee shop. “My name is Sarah,” she said, sliding into the booth opposite me. “I’m Ethan’s legal wife.” My hand, hidden under the table, clenched into a fist. The sharp sting of my nails digging into my palm was the only thing keeping me upright. I would not fall apart in front of her. “What a coincidence,” I said, my voice surprisingly level. “Because I also have a marriage license, and a wedding, that says I’m his legal wife.” I expected shock. Anger. Some sign that she was another victim in this. But her expression was calm, almost smug, as if everything was going according to her plan. She pulled a folded document from her purse and laid it on the table. A marriage certificate. The date, the city official—it all matched mine. Except for the photo. Hers was next to Ethan’s. “Look familiar?” Sarah asked with a slight smile. “That’s because Ethan had a perfect, high-quality forgery of this one made just for you.” My throat tightened. “What are you talking about?” “Your marriage certificate,” she said, her voice dripping with condescending pity. “It’s fake.” The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. Every part of me ached. Sarah watched me, savoring my reaction. “I’m sure you’ve already had me investigated,” she continued, “and you’ve decided I’m the homewrecker who stole your husband. How are you planning to get rid of me? Money? Your family’s influence?” She picked up her certificate and tucked it back into her purse, her smile turning into a triumphant sneer. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m the legal Mrs. Hayes. You,” she said, leaning in, “are the other woman. The one he keeps in the dark.” I fought to control my breathing, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me break. The little boy, who had been playing quietly nearby, ran over to our table. He pointed a small finger at me. “Mommy, is that the pretty lady from Daddy’s phone wallpaper?” I knew Ethan kept our wedding photo as his lock screen. But I never imagined he’d be so brazen as to let his own child see it. What shocked me more was Sarah’s reaction—or lack thereof. She clearly knew about me all along. She wanted me to find that blog. She wanted this confrontation. “What do you want?” I whispered. Instead of answering, Sarah pulled another document from her bag. A DNA test. It stated, in clear, clinical black and white, that Ethan Hayes shared no biological relationship with the child, Leo. I sat in that coffee shop until the sky went dark. My dad called, his voice laced with annoyance. “Are you fighting with Ethan again? He’s worried sick, says you’re not answering your phone.” There was a pause. “You’re thirty-two years old, Mia, not a child. When are you going to grow up?” The lecture continued. “Ethan runs the company flawlessly, so your mother and I don’t have to worry about a thing. On top of all that, he has to take care of you. And the second you have a disagreement, you pull a disappearing act. Can’t you be more considerate? Stop being so dramatic. With your inability to do anything practical, who else would put up with you if you manage to run him off?” The mountain of betrayal I was carrying was too heavy to explain. In their eyes, I was the clueless heiress, and Ethan was the perfect son-in-law who held our world together. My entire future depended on him. “But Dad,” I choked out, “what if he doesn’t love me?” “Impossible,” he said, without a hint of doubt. He was right. Everyone could see how much Ethan loved me. Even I had believed it. I pulled myself together, deciding to play along, to pretend I knew nothing. So what if one piece of paper was fake? Our life, our friends, our family—everyone knew me as his wife. And the boy wasn’t his. We could have our own child. When I got home, Ethan rushed to me, wrapping me in a desperate hug. I told him I’d gone to a movie and put my phone on silent. I felt his body relax, a silent sigh of relief against my chest. I dug my nails into my palms again, forcing down the suspicion. Later that night, after my shower, I put on a silk slip I’d bought years ago but had always been too shy to wear. Taking a deep breath, I walked up behind Ethan and wrapped my arms around him. He seemed surprised and pleased by my forwardness, but when I whispered that I wanted to try for a baby again, his whole body went rigid. He was silent for a long moment before gently removing my arms. “Why are you suddenly thinking about that?” he asked. The rejection was so clear it felt like my heart had dropped into my feet. My voice trembled. “You don’t want to?” He looked at me with the kind of patient exasperation one reserves for an unreasonable child. “Mia, you know what the doctors said after the miscarriage. Your body can’t handle another pregnancy. It would be dangerous for you. If something happened to you… what would I do?” My mind flashed back to that day, to the feeling of being alone, bleeding, and helpless. “Besides,” he added softly, “kids are so noisy. They cry all the time, they’d ruin our time together. I don’t like kids, you know that.” He ended up sleeping in the guest room, saying we both needed some space to “cool off.” Every word was a carefully crafted defense, painting me as the one making an impulsive, irrational demand. At 2 a.m., my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. Then another, and another. A dozen videos flooded in. They were all of Ethan with Leo. The first was from October 2016. Ethan was cradling a newborn, pacing back and forth, rocking him gently. That was the same time Ethan told me he had to fly to Europe for three months to handle a crisis at the international branch. Another lie. More videos followed. Every birthday. Ethan holding Leo’s hand at Disneyland, at the aquarium, building a model airplane together. There was even a clip of him at a parent-teacher conference. In every video, Ethan was smiling. A deep, genuine smile of pure happiness. A look I had never seen on his face before. He told me he didn’t like kids. Another lie. But then why… why had he spent so many nights back then, sitting alone on our balcony, silently crying while holding the tiny baby clothes I had bought? It was as if he was trying to make up for something. For the next few weeks, Ethan was a model husband. He left work early and came home on time. He spent every free moment with me, turning down all invitations and pushing all his networking duties onto his assistant. “I need to be home with my wife,” he’d say proudly into his phone. “Yeah, I’m a whipped husband. So what?” Just as I started to think our life was returning to normal, that Sarah and Leo were just a nightmare I’d had, Ethan shattered the illusion himself. The company was on annual leave, and Ethan had planned a surprise trip for us to Iceland to see the Northern Lights—something I’d always dreamed of. We were at the airport, about to check in, when he took a call. The color drained from his face. “It’s an emergency at the office,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “Baby, I’m so sorry. We’ll have to do this another time.” I stared at his face, a mask of practiced regret. I had to know. “Is it really the office, Ethan?” He stopped walking, turning back to me with a flicker of confusion. The old me would have just nodded and accepted it, always putting his work first. “Of course it’s…” My last shred of patience snapped. I held up my phone, showing him the text that had arrived three minutes earlier. It was from Sarah. **[Leo has a 100-degree fever. Let’s see if his daddy will abandon you for him.]** Ethan froze, a look of pure panic and disbelief flashing in his eyes. “Who do you choose?” I asked, my voice flat. He reached for me, but I pulled away. Through his phone, I could hear the faint, pained cries of a child. “Daddy… I don’t feel good… I want you…” Ethan’s hand tightened around his phone. He looked at me, his eyes dark with a conflict I couldn’t decipher. “You don’t have a child, Mia,” he said, his voice strained. “You don’t understand how terrifying it is when they get sick. We can see the Northern Lights anytime. If you really want to go, just go ahead. I’ll fly out and meet you when this is over.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll explain everything later,” he threw over his shoulder. In ten years of marriage, I had seen Ethan run towards me countless times. This was the first time I had ever seen him run away, a desperate, frantic sprint in the opposite direction. An airport attendant offered me a tissue, and I realized my carefully applied makeup was streaming down my face. A dull, constant ache in my chest made it hard to breathe. My phone vibrated again. A text from Sarah. **[I told you. You’re the other woman. Why won’t you just leave him?]** On that day in the coffee shop, after she showed me the DNA test, I had asked her what she wanted. She’d smiled brightly. “To take back my rightful place as Mrs. Hayes, of course.” I turned off my phone, ignoring her taunts, and headed for the airport exit to catch a cab. I absentmindedly pressed the wrong button in the elevator and ended up in the deserted underground parking garage. As I turned to go back, a hand clamped over my mouth from behind, and I was dragged into a windowless van. My hands and feet were bound, my mouth gagged. “You move, you make a sound, and I’ll gut you,” a gruff voice hissed, pressing the cold steel of a knife against my side. I huddled in the corner, trembling, trying not to make a sound. “Call Ethan Hayes,” the man ordered his partner. “Tell him if he doesn’t back off the Southridge deal, he’ll never see his precious wife again.” The Southridge deal. Ethan had told me about them. A rival firm he was trying to acquire, a group that was fighting back tooth and nail. “We’ll just wait them out,” he had said. “Starve them until they give in.” They used my phone. The first call went to voicemail. The second. The tenth. Each unanswered ring felt like a drop of ice water on my heart. “Dammit!” the man yelled. “I thought this guy was obsessed with his wife! Call him again!” This time, he answered. His voice, crackling with suppressed fury, filled the small van. “Mia, what the hell is your problem? Why do you have to take it out on a child?” He didn’t even let me speak. “So you miss one trip, but a little boy is sick! Do you have any compassion at all?” He was practically shouting now. “You know what? You could never be a good mother. Deciding you shouldn’t have our baby was the rightest decision I ever made.” My breath hitched. “What did you just say?”

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1 I was the real heiress, switched at birth. In my past life, I died in a staged car crash. Before losing consciousness, I saw Vivian Forte—the girl who stole my life—watching from a distance. Then I understood the terrible truth. I had endured every insult, believing my birth family would someday accept me. But it was all a one-sided delusion. Reborn, I faced my “parents” again, hearing the same hollow words: “Erica, we’ve come to take you home.” I smiled coldly and slid a ledger across the table. “First, let’s settle the bill: 18 years of expenses—$385,000 owed to my real parents. Cash or transfer?” … The air in our little diner froze. A collective gasp rippled through the neighbors and customers crowded around. My adoptive parents looked like they’d seen a ghost. Mom snatched the ledger from my hands, her own trembling as she waved them off. “No, no, Mr. and Mrs. Forte, please, she’s just a kid, talking nonsense! We never wanted any money, not a single penny!” My dad chimed in, forcing a nervous laugh. “That’s right, that’s our Erica. Always joking around.” As he spoke, he was jabbing me frantically in the ribs behind his back. I ignored him, my gaze fixed on the two people who were supposed to be my real family. William Forte’s face was as dark as thunder. This was clearly not the heartwarming reunion he’d envisioned. As for his wife, Victoria, the flicker of guilt in her eyes had vanished, replaced by a deep, undisguised contempt. “Erica, we know you’ve had a difficult life. We understand you’re resentful,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. She retrieved a platinum credit card from her Hermès bag and placed it on the table with a theatrical sigh. “There’s fifty thousand dollars on this. A little something to compensate you. The PIN is your birthday.” Her eyes narrowed. “Now, stop with these cheap theatrics. Come home with us, and don’t make things difficult for your adoptive parents.” Her words were a slap in the face, a charity handout meant to shut me up. As if my demand was just a pathetic ploy for attention from a girl who’d never seen real money. In my last life, this very card was all it took to buy their way out of eighteen years of gratitude. And I, like a fool, had accepted it with tears in my eyes. This time, I just laughed. I slid the card back across the table. “Mrs. Forte, you’ve misunderstood.” “First,” I began, my voice steady and clear, “my life hasn’t been difficult at all. My parents love me. We may not have much money, but we’re happy.” “Second, this isn’t compensation; it’s a transaction. You want your daughter back? You pay the price. There’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world.” “And third, if you think three hundred eighty-five thousand is too much, that’s fine.” I paused, letting my words hang in the air before delivering the final blow. “You don’t have to acknowledge me at all. I’ve managed for eighteen years without you. I think I’ll be just fine.” My words struck them like a physical blow. The Fortes, William and Victoria, stared at me in disbelief. They had probably never imagined that their immense wealth and status, the very things they used to control the world, would mean absolutely nothing to me. William’s lips trembled with rage. “You… You’re being utterly unreasonable!” Just as the standoff reached its peak, the door of their Bentley opened, and a girl in a white sundress emerged. Vivian. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed as she drifted timidly to Victoria’s side. “Dad, Mom, please don’t pressure her,” she whispered, her voice a fragile, honeyed thing, brimming with manufactured kindness. “It’s all my fault. If it weren’t for me, my sister wouldn’t have suffered so much.” She turned to me, her expression a perfect mask of empathy. “We should be more understanding.” She approached my counter, her eyes wide and pleading. “Sister… my name is Vivian. I know you must hate me right now, but… I’m so, so happy you’re back.” “From now on, I’ll share Mom and Dad’s love with you. I’ll give you half of everything! No, I’ll give it all to you! I’ll treat you like my real sister. Can’t we please be a family?” It was a masterful performance. The onlookers were completely captivated, their expressions softening with sympathy and admiration. Look at her, their faces said. So kind, so generous. A true lady. And then there was me. The cold, calculating monster, shaking down my long-lost family for cash. In my last life, that innocent act had fooled me completely. I’d truly believed she was just a sweet, naive little sister. Now, it just made me sick. I slammed my metal spatula down on the hot griddle. CLANG! Hot oil spat, and Vivian flinched back with a tiny yelp. I met her gaze, my lips twisting into an ice-cold smile. “Let me guess,” I said, my voice low and sharp. “You’re terrified I’m going to come back and take everything from you, aren’t you? Your fiancé, your inheritance, this perfect little life you’ve built. So you came running over here to play the part of the loving sister, just to feel out how much of a threat I am.” The color drained from Vivian’s face. I slapped a menu down on the counter in front of her. “Stop the act. It’s exhausting to watch.” My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Order something, or get lost. You’re holding up my line.” 2 Tears welled in Vivian’s eyes, spilling over and tracing glittering paths down her cheeks like perfect, practiced pearls. She looked so utterly wounded, you’d think I was the one who had wronged her. “Sister, I… I didn’t…” she choked out, turning a desperate, pleading gaze to William and Victoria. Victoria immediately wrapped a protective arm around her. “Erica, that’s enough!” she snapped, her voice sharp with fury. “Vivian is trying to be kind to you! What is this attitude? Have you no manners at all?” I almost laughed out loud. Manners? In my last life, after they took me “home,” they forced me into etiquette classes I hated and dresses I couldn’t breathe in. They tried to sand down every rough edge, to erase every habit I’d ever learned. If I slipped up, even once, they’d say it: “See? You can take the girl out of the gutter, but you can’t take the gutter out of the girl.” Their idea of “manners” was just another word for a leash. “The only manners I know are the ones my parents taught me,” I shot back, my voice ringing with defiance. “You treat people with respect, and they’ll treat you with respect. You try to screw them over, you get what’s coming to you.” The great family reunion ended right there, with William Forte storming away in a cloud of impotent fury. They dragged the sobbing Vivian with them, leaving a wake of chaos. I thought that would be the end of it. But I had underestimated their need for control. The next day, my dad’s supervisor called him into the office. He was being “temporarily” laid off due to “restructuring.” Soon after, the supermarket where my mom worked let her go, citing “overstaffing.” Then, an anonymous complaint was filed against our diner. A sudden health code violation. We were forced to shut down pending an investigation. In the blink of an eye, every source of income we had was gone. My parents were beside themselves with worry, their faces etched with anxiety. That night, we sat in the suffocating silence of our living room. My dad finally let out a long, weary sigh and slid a credit card across the coffee table toward me. “Erica,” he said, his voice heavy. “This is… from your birth parents. They had someone drop it off. It’s the fifty thousand.” His eyes were a storm of conflicting emotions. “They said… as long as you agree to enroll at Northwood Preparatory Academy, our lives can go back to normal.” Northwood Prep. The most elite private high school in the state. The school where Vivian and her older brother, Ethan Forte, were students. I stared at the card, a bitter cold seeping into my bones. So, this was their game. They never cared about what I wanted. They only cared about forcing me into the life they’d chosen for me, all under the guise of “what’s best.” They thought that by cutting off our livelihood, they could starve me into submission. Force me back into their gilded cage, where I could finally play the part of their obedient, grateful long-lost daughter. In my last life, it worked. My parents, heartbroken but not wanting to hold me back, had tearfully put me in the Fortes’ car. This time, I wouldn’t let them win. I pushed the card back. “Dad, Mom, don’t worry about this,” I said. My heart ached seeing the despair on their faces, but my voice was unwavering. “We can find new jobs. We can move the diner. We can start over.” I looked from one to the other, my resolve hardening. “But if you lose your daughter, she’s gone for good.” “I don’t want to go to Northwood Prep. And I don’t want to go ‘home’ with them. The only place I want to be is right here, with you.” Tears streamed down my mother’s face as she pulled me into a fierce hug, sobbing too hard to speak. My dad’s eyes were red, and he slammed his fist on the table. “That’s right!” he declared, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re not going! To hell with them and their money! I’ll go work construction if I have to! I can still provide for my family!” A profound warmth spread through my chest. Having parents like them was the greatest treasure I could have asked for, in this life or the last. But I knew this wasn’t over. Hiding wouldn’t solve anything. I had to go on the offensive. The next day, I put on my faded public-school uniform, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and walked straight through the gilded gates of Northwood Preparatory Academy. 3 Northwood Prep lived up to its reputation. Even the front gates were gold-plated, gleaming ostentatiously in the morning sun. My worn, slightly-too-small blue and white uniform stood out like a sore thumb in a sea of custom-tailored blazers and luxury cars. Nearly every eye was on me, filled with a mixture of curiosity and undisguised disdain. The Fortes’ network was ruthlessly efficient. Before I’d even set foot on campus, the story of my “legendary” origins had already made the rounds. I was the long-lost heiress from the wrong side of the tracks, the charity case desperate to claw her way into a world she didn’t belong to. I ignored the whispers and stares, heading straight for the administration office. But I was intercepted before I could even round the first corner. A clique of girls blocked my path, with Vivian Forte, of course, at its center. When she saw me, her face lit up with a look of feigned, delighted surprise. “Sister! You really came! This is wonderful!” She rushed forward, reaching to link her arm with mine. I took a sharp step to the side. Her hand froze awkwardly in mid-air. The color drained from her face, and her eyes immediately welled with tears. “Sister… are you still angry with me?” One of her friends instantly stepped forward, jabbing a finger in my direction. “Hey! Who do you think you are? Vivian was just trying to be nice to you. What’s with the attitude?” Another girl chimed in. “Yeah, I heard you were Vivian’s long-lost… sister? She’s the sweetest person here. You better not be planning on bullying her.” Vivian quickly intervened, playing the part of the gracious peacemaker. “Don’t say that! It’s not her fault. My sister… the place where she grew up was… a lot simpler. She’s just not used to this environment. We should be patient with her.” With just a few carefully chosen words, she had painted me as the jealous, uncivilized rube from the sticks, while she remained the kind, benevolent princess, suffering my brutishness with a saintly grace. The crowd of onlookers grew, their whispers turning into a low hum of judgment. “So that’s the real heiress? She looks so… cheap.” “Right? Compared to Vivian, she’s like a different species.” “God, how embarrassing. If I were her, I’d just leave.” I stared at Vivian’s perfectly crafted mask of innocence, feeling nothing but a profound sense of boredom. In my last life, her little games had worked perfectly, isolating me until I became the paranoid, bitter person everyone already believed I was. This time, her high-school theatrics were just pathetic. Just then, the crowd parted, and a tall, handsome boy strode through. He wore the student council uniform, the president’s badge pinned neatly to his chest. His expression was one of innate, casual arrogance. It was her older brother, Ethan Forte. The moment he appeared, Vivian’s tears overflowed. “Ethan…” she whimpered, scurrying to hide behind him like a frightened kitten. Ethan didn’t even glance at me. He just frowned, patting Vivian’s shoulder with practiced concern. Then, his cold eyes finally found mine. “You. Come with me.” He led me to the deserted rooftop. The wind was strong, whipping at the hem of his perfectly pressed blazer. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing to get into Northwood, but you need to understand something,” he said, his voice low and menacing as he looked down at me. “Vivian is the most precious person in this family. She’s pure, kind, and incredibly sensitive. If you do anything to hurt her, I swear, I have a hundred ways to make your life a living hell here.” It was the exact same speech he’d given me in my past life. Word for word. Back then, his threat had terrified me. I’d stammered and tried to explain, but he hadn’t listened. But now… I lifted my chin, meeting his icy gaze without flinching. “Are you done?” I asked calmly. Ethan blinked, thrown off balance. This was clearly not the reaction he’d expected. I took a step closer, closing the distance between us. My voice was quiet, but every word was a shard of ice. “First, I’m not here for you, or for Vivian, or for the Forte family. So you can take your self-important warnings and shove them.” “Second, her being ‘pure and kind’?” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “That’s not kindness. That’s because you’re blind.” “And finally,” I said, watching his face slowly turn crimson with rage, “you need to control your little sister. Tell her to stay away from me.” “Because if she tries anything again, I can’t guarantee that precious, innocent little mask of hers will stay in one piece.” 4 Ethan’s face went from red to a deep, mottled purple. He’d probably never been spoken to like that in his entire privileged life, especially not by someone he considered to be nothing more than trailer trash. He lunged forward, radiating a palpable fury. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?” “Who am I?” I met his rage with unnerving calm. “You’ve already had me thoroughly investigated, haven’t you? I’m Erica Harris. Eighteen years old. Your biological sister. And the single greatest threat to your precious Vivian’s fairy-tale life.” Without another word, I turned and walked away, leaving him seething on the rooftop. I could hear his enraged shout behind me, but I didn’t look back. There was no point in reasoning with people like this. They only understood one thing: power. The only way to make them feel anything was to systematically dismantle everything they held dear, piece by painful piece. In the days that followed, I became the laughingstock of Northwood Prep. Under Ethan’s direction, no one dared to speak to me. My desk was regularly filled with trash, and my homework would mysteriously disappear. Vivian, meanwhile, followed me around with her entourage, constantly putting on a show of sisterly affection that only made me look colder and more ungrateful. I ignored it all. I was just biding my time. Soon, it was time for the school’s annual Arts Festival. The grand finale, as always, was a piano solo by the one and only Vivian Forte. When I saw the program and the title of her piece—a composition she was claiming as her own, retitled “Awakening”—a sharp, familiar pain lanced through my heart. The song’s real name was “Echoes of Home.” My adoptive mother had once been the most promising student at her music conservatory, with dreams of becoming a composer. But she had given it all up. To adopt me, to pay for my childhood medical bills, to give me a chance at a good life, she and my dad had abandoned their stable careers to run a small diner, working themselves to the bone day and night. Her dreams were ground to dust by the harsh realities of life. She never touched a piano again. “Echoes of Home” was the only complete piece she ever wrote—the embodiment of her lost youth, her sacrificed dreams. She had only ever taught it to me, and the hand-written score was the most precious gift she had ever given me. This time, I had locked the score away in a hidden drawer. I never thought Vivian would find it. But she had. She hadn’t just stolen my mother’s dream; she was about to use it to build her own pedestal of fame and glory. I would not let that happen. The night of the festival, the auditorium was packed. William and Victoria Forte sat in the front row, center stage, their faces beaming with pride. Vivian, dressed in a flowing white gown, floated to the Steinway grand piano at the center of the stage. The spotlight followed her, making her look ethereal, almost angelic. She gave a graceful bow, her eyes flickering for a split second in my direction where I stood in the shadows. Then she sat, her slender fingers caressing the keys. The familiar, haunting melody filled the hall. When she finished, the auditorium erupted in thunderous applause. The host rushed onto the stage, breathless with excitement. “That was simply breathtaking! Vivian, I heard that you composed this piece, ‘Awakening,’ yourself. Can you tell us about your inspiration?” Vivian took the microphone, a perfect, practiced smile on her face. She was just about to speak when I emerged from the darkness and walked onto the stage. Every head in the auditorium turned. Every spotlight swung to find me. The smile on Vivian’s face froze. “Sister? What are you—?” I ignored her. I took the microphone from the stunned host’s hand and faced the audience. “A beautiful performance,” I said, my voice ringing out with perfect clarity. I paused, my gaze sweeping over the shifting, uneasy faces of the Fortes before landing squarely on Vivian’s ghostly pale one. “Too bad it’s not original.” “In fact,” I continued, my voice dropping into a deadly calm, “it was stolen. By a thief. From my home.” A shocked gasp swept through the crowd. Before anyone could react, I pulled a folded document from my pocket and held it up for the stage cameras to capture. “This song’s real name is ‘Echoes of Home.’ And its copyright,” I announced, letting the words sink in, “was officially registered three days ago. By me, Erica Harris.” I brandished the copyright certificate, my voice sharp and clear. “Vivian Forte, what you’ve just committed is not just plagiarism. It’s breaking and entering, theft, and copyright infringement.” My eyes locked onto hers. “So, what will it be? Shall we settle this privately… or should we see each other in court?”

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