Category: English

It was the third day of my business trip to Seattle when a new member joined the long-dormant parent group chat for my son’s first-grade class. A voice memo popped up. I tapped it, and a sweet, unfamiliar female voice filled the air. “Hi everyone, I’m Sarah Jenkins, the new language arts teacher. I’m also Leo Sterling’s mom. It’s so nice to meet you all!” A cold paralysis seized me. I scrolled through the member list, my thumb shaking as I compared the names. My son is Leo Sterling. She’s Leo Sterling’s mom. Then who the hell am I? My fingers fumbled as I dialed my husband’s number. “Cole? Did someone get added to Leo’s class chat by mistake?” There was a fractional pause on his end, then a breezy, unconcerned laugh. “Oh, probably just a mix-up. With so many kids in the school, you know, same names happen. Is something wrong?” “No, nothing,” I said, matching his casual tone. I ended the call, and before my bag was even packed, I was booking the first red-eye back to New York. 1 The plane touched down at JFK before dawn. I took a cab straight to Brookfield Elementary. Leo is seven. First grade. It was 1:40 in the afternoon, just after the first bell. The security guard at the front desk, a kindly older man named Arthur, was diligent. He recognized me and immediately called the main office to let them know a parent had arrived. A few minutes later, a young woman in a crisp white blouse and a black pencil skirt hurried out. She looked like she’d graduated college last week. She wasn’t beautiful, more plain than anything, but she had a gentle, soft-spoken way about her. A woman’s intuition is a brutal, unerring thing. I knew, instantly, that this was her. The moment she saw me, her composure shattered. Her face went chalk-white, and a tremor ran through her hands, as if she were staring down a category-five hurricane. “Ma’am, can I… can I help you with something?” she stammered, the words catching in her throat. She was too terrified to form a coherent sentence, yet she’d had the gall to announce herself as my son’s mother to a group of thirty parents. “I saw your message in the group chat,” I said, my voice flat and cold. I wasn’t going to play games, not here in the lobby with Arthur watching. “You said you’re Leo Sterling’s mother. I’m curious about that.” Her hands, dangling at her sides, clenched into tight fists. Her eyes darted nervously toward the security desk before she forced a brittle smile. “Oh, that! The parent-teacher conferences are coming up, you see. Leo’s father mentioned that he and his wife are just so busy, they wouldn’t have time to come.” She took a shaky breath, trying to sell the lie. “He asked me to… to pretend, just so Leo wouldn’t feel left out or sad. I am so sorry if it caused any confusion!” It was a seamless explanation. It absolved her of any wrongdoing and, with a subtle twist of the knife, painted me as the absentee mother, too consumed by her career to show up for her own child. If I hadn’t spent the flight meticulously scrolling through her public Instagram profile, I might have actually believed her. Wednesday, 8:00 PM. The Lincoln Center. A photo of a man’s back as he bought a bouquet of roses from a street vendor. Her caption: He’s not a prince, he’s my king. The next day, I was in an urgent care clinic in Seattle with a severe allergic reaction to a bouquet of lilies my hotel had left in my room. Friday, 6:00 PM. A torrential downpour over the city. A selfie of her, looking doe-eyed and forlorn under the school’s awning. Her caption: Waiting for my king to rescue me from this downpour. Three minutes later, a text from Cole had come through. Hey, honey. Going to be stuck late at the office tonight. Can’t pick up Leo. You’ve got it, right? Thanks, you’re a lifesaver. I was dozing in a hospital bed, an IV dripping antihistamines into my arm. By the time I saw his text, two hours had passed. My son had waited in the school’s office, watching the storm, for two solid hours. He spiked a fever of 103 that night. On the way to the emergency room, Cole sighed heavily, his every word a veiled accusation about my failure to check my phone. I believed him. I thought I was a terrible mother. I spent the whole night stroking Leo’s flushed face, whispering apologies he couldn’t hear. But it turns out I wasn’t the one who needed to be sorry. My grip on my purse tightened until my knuckles were white. My gaze drifted from her pale, guilty face down to her earlobes, where a flash of brilliant blue caught the light. I let a small, sharp smile touch my lips. “Those are beautiful earrings, Ms. Jenkins. Did your boyfriend get them for you? They look expensive.” Last Valentine’s Day, I’d seen the charge on Cole’s credit card statement. A diamond tennis bracelet. A pair of sapphire earrings. The bracelet, worth four thousand dollars, was on my wrist. The earrings, worth twenty-five thousand, were dangling from the ears of the woman standing in front of me.

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1 At a company dinner, in front of the entire team, my fiancée’s assistant nonchalantly dropped a piece of eggplant he’d just bitten into right into her bowl. Without a second thought, Ava picked it up with her chopsticks and ate it. The moment we got home, I told her I was calling off our engagement. She pinched the bridge of her nose, annoyed. “Because I ate the eggplant he gave me?” “It was the eggplant he’d already taken a bite of,” I corrected her. “Jeffrey, honestly, calling you insecure isn’t an exaggeration. You blow every little thing out of proportion.” She scoffed. “Fine. You want to break up? Go ahead. Just don’t come crawling back to me when you regret it.” She was so sure that I loved her, that I could never leave her. But she didn’t understand that even the deepest love can be eroded by a thousand cuts. This time, I was really leaving. … I told my parents I wanted to change our families’ arrangement that very night. They were surprised, but they respected my decision. After that, Ava and I fell into our usual cold war. She blocked my number, unfriended me on all social platforms, and removed me from her gaming friends list—her standard operating procedure after every fight. She was confident I couldn’t bear to lose her, that I would eventually swallow my pride and come back to her, begging. But this time, as my cursor hovered over the ‘Send Friend Request’ button, I didn’t click it. A week later, a notification popped up in the company group chat. “Today is Ms. Willow’s birthday. She’s treating everyone to dinner tonight. Attendance is mandatory, no exceptions.” Not wanting to make things awkward for everyone else, I went. When I entered the private room, the first thing I saw was Ava in the seat of honor, with Liam pressed up right beside her. His lips were practically touching her ear as he whispered something to her. They were in their own bubble, a world no one else could enter. A moment later, they both burst out laughing, their faces so close they nearly kissed. I couldn’t watch anymore and found a seat in a quiet corner. People started presenting their gifts to Ava. I ignored it all, pouring myself drink after drink. But soon, a shadow fell over me. I looked up into Ava’s beautiful, impatient face. “Jeffrey, where’s my present?” In the past, I would have started planning for her birthday months in advance. The most memorable one, I spent over six months building her a perfect, to-scale replica of the house from her favorite movie, Up. When the balloons lifted it into the air, she’d said we would be just like the main characters, together until the very end. I believed her then. I never imagined her promise wouldn’t even last three years. Faced with her demanding question, I just said flatly, “I forgot.” My indifference clearly infuriated her. She lost all patience. “Jeffrey, are you done with this tantrum?” “Is this little incident really worth a week of sulking?” I looked at the smudge of her lipstick near Liam’s ear and felt a wave of nausea, like I’d swallowed a fly. “I’m not throwing a tantrum. And I was serious about calling off the engagement.” Her expression froze for a second, but she regained her composure when Liam took her hand. “Jeffrey, please don’t misunderstand,” Liam said, his voice dripping with false sincerity. “I only gave the food to Ava because I didn’t want to waste it. If you hate me that much, I… I just won’t eat at the table next time. I can eat leftovers when everyone’s done.” His words immediately sent Ava into a protective frenzy. “Liam, don’t say things like that! You deserve the best in the world. The one who shouldn’t be here is Jeffrey. Who does he think he is? Does everyone have to cater to his whims?” “Ava, don’t say that,” Liam cooed. “Jeffrey might be a little sensitive, but he’s still your fiancé. You have to be patient with him. I really don’t want you two to fight because of me.” “Patient with him? Who does he think he is? If my parents hadn’t begged me to go through with this engagement, I would never have gotten involved with him. He’s always getting upset over nothing. He’s not a real man at all.” Liam walked over to me and patted my shoulder, his tone patronizing. “Jeffrey, man to man, you’re being a bit dramatic this time. Ava’s been so upset she can’t even sleep. I know you two aren’t the most compatible, but you have a family arrangement to think of. You should both just take a step back.” I slapped his hand away. “You know what I admire most about you, Liam?” I sneered. “Your ability to play the victim. The way you can steal someone’s girlfriend with your two-faced act and not even blink.” Liam’s smug expression faltered. Ava exploded. “Jeffrey, who gave you the right to slander Liam?” “Slander? Then tell me, why does he have a matching version of everything you buy for me, which he then flaunts at the office? Why is it that every time we fight, he’s the one spreading a twisted version of the story in the breakroom? And how does he know about the mole on your—” “Enough!” A sharp crack echoed through the room. Ava had slapped me, hard, in front of everyone. The world went muffled for a moment, but my vision was crystal clear. I could see the pity, the scorn, the contempt on the faces of my colleagues. As the ringing in my ears subsided, I heard Ava’s loud declaration. “From now on, everyone is welcome to like the photos of me and Liam together. When we hit one thousand likes, I’m dumping Jeffrey and marrying Liam.” With that, she grabbed Liam’s hand and stormed out. Just before the door closed, he shot me a triumphant, mocking smirk. After they left, the room started to empty. Someone snickered. “He pushed his luck without having the capital to back it up. I bet he regrets it now.” A kinder colleague offered some advice. “Pride is worthless, man. Just apologize. Otherwise, she’s really going to marry that guy.” I knew this was just her way of forcing me to apologize. But this time, I couldn’t bow my head. Not even if it killed me. Soon, the once-boisterous room was empty except for me. I picked up a bottle of hard liquor and downed it. The alcohol burned its way down to my stomach, and the sting brought tears to my eyes. A decades-long relationship was ending, just like that. Maybe an engagement a thousand miles away in Crestwood would finally get her off my back. I didn’t know why, but my face was wet with tears again. Back home, I started packing. Ava and I were childhood sweethearts. We’d spent more than half our lives together. The ties were so deep, there was too much to sort through. This little red flower—the first prize she ever won in kindergarten. She’d run over to me on her chubby little legs and given it to me. I vaguely remembered her saying, “I want to give my Jeffrey all the best things.” This photo—a secret shot I took of her blushing face when she got her first period. She hadn’t paid attention in health class and thought she had a terminal illness. She’d run to me, telling me to take care of myself for the rest of my life, that I could get a new girlfriend, but not one prettier than her. I was completely bewildered until I realized what was happening. I ran to the store to buy her pads and we looked up how to use them online together. I teased her for not listening in class, and she bit my arm in embarrassment. It didn’t hurt. It just made my heart itch. Later, we got together. Different universities forced us into a long-distance relationship. Our memories from that time were a stack of train tickets. Four years. One hundred and twenty thousand miles we traveled to be with each other. Back then, her world revolved around me. She never once complained about the long journeys. My fingers brushed against a small, hard box. Inside were the rings we had made together. For her, I came back to this northern city right after graduation. The day I got back, she dragged me to a workshop to forge these rings. I still remember her words as she slipped mine onto my finger: “Jeffrey, with this ring, I’ve got you for life. You can never, ever leave me.” Neither of us ever thought she would be the one to let go. Liam’s interview for the company had been a disaster. Ava had found him completely unimpressive, and I hadn’t given the underqualified candidate a second thought. But somehow, he was hired. He went from being an invisible nobody to Ava’s executive assistant. The first real red flag was when the matching ring, the one that was supposed to be ours, appeared on Liam’s hand. At first, Ava would patiently explain and comfort me when I questioned it. But soon, her patience wore thin and was replaced by annoyance. My repeated willingness to forgive, to compromise, to please her, only made her more brazen in her favoritism toward him. Company dinners now featured only Liam’s favorite dishes. He worked half a day a week, spending the rest of his time with Ava, while I was saddled with his assistant duties. She talked about him more and more, first with unconscious praise, then by comparing me to him, complaining that I wasn’t as romantic or as sweet-talking as he was. It came to a head during an afternoon tea break. Ava mentioned how much she liked her milk tea. Liam said he wanted to try it, and without a word, she handed it to him. He drank from her straw, his lips touching the mark of her lipstick. Then she took it back and continued drinking as if nothing had happened. In that instant, a vise gripped my heart, sharp and painful. After that, his transgressions became more frequent. He’d go with her for facials and help apply her lotion. When she sprained her ankle, he swept her into his arms and ran to the nurse’s office, even though I, her actual boyfriend, was standing right there. She even canceled the birthday celebration she’d promised me because Liam came down with a cold. Every time I expressed my unhappiness, she would snap, “Jeffrey, you have such a dirty mind. Liam and I have a purely platonic friendship. Stop projecting your filthy thoughts onto him.” But as time went on, even she said it with less and less conviction. The final straw came during a major industry event. The invitation specified bringing a partner. Ava never even told me about it. She took Liam instead. I only found out after several people asked me if we had broken up. When I confronted her, she was angrier than I was. “I was just helping Liam network! It’s for the good of the company! Why are you being so petty?” We didn’t speak for a long time after that. So long that I thought we were really over. Until she sent a late-night text: “Babe, my stomach hurts.” All my carefully constructed defenses crumbled in an instant. And so the toxic cycle began again: I would confront her, she would get angry, I would appease her, and she would forgive me. I closed the ring box and threw it in the trash. In the back of a drawer was a handwritten apology note from when we were eighteen. She’d written it because she’d missed one of my texts. She cared so much back then. Now, the only person she cared about was Liam. I took out the letter, tore it into tiny pieces, and let them fall into the trash. With decades of memories cleared out, the house felt empty. My heart felt empty, too. The company chat was still buzzing with photos of Liam celebrating Ava’s birthday, making her laugh. Knowing where her favoritism lay, my colleagues were all too happy to validate them. “OMG, Ava and Liam are so perfect together.” “Find a guy like Liam, not a petty, moody one like Jeffrey.” “Jeffrey only has his family to lean on. Liam got to where he is all by himself. There’s no comparison.” I couldn’t look anymore. I called my lawyer and told him to pull all of my investments from Willow Corp. The next day, I went to the office to clear out my things. I found Liam in my private lounge, wearing shorts with his feet propped up on my desk. His belongings were scattered everywhere, and all of my things had been thrown outside the door. This was the lounge Ava had designed specifically for me. Everyone in the company knew it was my sanctuary. No one else dared to set foot inside. This was him, shamelessly taking a dump on my head. I didn’t bother arguing. I just called the police. At the station, Liam started to panic. “I was just getting some documents for Ava. Do you really need to call the cops over this?” “That is my private space. Did I give you permission to enter?” I said coldly. “Entering without permission is called trespassing. Taking things is called stealing.” He didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes filled with tears. I had a bad feeling. Sure enough, I turned around and saw Ava standing there, her face a thundercloud. “Ava,” Liam whimpered, throwing himself into her arms. “I was just trying to get your files, but Jeffrey seems to hate me. He’s accusing me of being a thief. The villa you gave me is already overflowing with your gifts. Why would I want any of his shabby things?” This little room was Ava’s gift to me, a private haven. It was a reciprocal gift for the wooden cabin I had built for her. We had so many sweet memories here. I thought this, at least, would be our last untouched piece of sacred ground, the final shred of dignity for our love. But Ava was determined to shatter even that last illusion. She comforted Liam while explaining to the officer, “It’s all a misunderstanding. We all know each other. Sorry for the trouble.” Then she turned to me, her voice dripping with disgust. “What have you become, Jeffrey? A jealous shrew? Does it make you feel powerful to abuse your authority and hurt an innocent subordinate like Liam? You’ve disappointed me so much.” The accusations rained down on me. Before I could even respond, Liam started his performance again. “Ava, don’t blame Jeffrey. It was my fault for being careless. I can spend a few days in jail, I don’t mind being laughed at. Just don’t let me come between you two.” Ava squeezed his hand, her face full of adoration. “Liam, you’re just too gentle. That’s why people always take advantage of you.” She glared at me. “Jeffrey, I’m telling you, this isn’t over. Apologize to Liam. Now.” “He entered my private space without permission, and you want me to apologize to him? You think he’s the victim here?” At my words, Liam started sobbing again. Ava sneered. “Your private space? That lounge is Willow Corp’s property. And in case you forgot, the entire company is in my name. You just have temporary access. And if you keep this up, I don’t mind filing a complaint against you for false accusation.” With that, she took Liam and sorted out the issue with the police. Her words were like daggers to my heart. A heart I thought was already dead began to ache again. All these years, I had poured everything into building up her company, thinking I was working for our future together. In the end, all I got was: you just have temporary access. Before leaving, Ava shot me a warning. “Just so you know, the like count is at 990. If you don’t change your attitude, I’m really going to marry Liam.” I looked at Liam’s contemptuous smirk from behind her and suddenly saw how pathetic I’d been. His schemes were always clumsy. A smart woman like Ava couldn’t have missed them. She had simply chosen to ignore them. The scales of her affection had tipped long ago. This was all just an elaborate way to get rid of me, the clingy boyfriend she was tired of. And I had been the fool, begging for reconciliation time and time again. With that realization, the last embers of my love for Ava died out completely.

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I discovered that my guardian, the man I secretly adored, isn’t human. He’s a devastatingly handsome werewolf. When I found out his secret, he chained me by the ankle. I leaned in close, pleading, “Brother? Guardian? Dad? Please, just let me go…” He loomed over me, a dangerous glint in his wolfish eyes. “The best way to keep a secret,” he whispered, “is to turn the keeper into one of two things: dust… or family.” I caught on immediately: “Okay, I get it! But can we maybe… try it out first?” 1 The night draped itself over the estate of my guardian, Alaric Thorne, like a shroud of damp, cold velvet. He had me cradled in his arms before the hearth, his voice a low thrum against my back, like the deep notes of a cello. The warmth of the moment felt potent enough to melt stone. My heart was a frantic bird trapped in the cage of my ribs. But then I tilted my head back, and my breath caught. Reflected in his eyes, flickering in the firelight, was a haunting, amber glow. My gaze shifted slightly, and there, behind him, a massive, thick-furred gray wolf’s tail unfurled from the shadows. A scream clawed its way up my throat, but an invisible pressure clamped it shut. A sharp pain lanced through my chest, and I jolted awake. It was a dream. But it had been so vivid I could still trace the chilling curve of his fangs in my mind. Once my pulse settled into a less frantic rhythm, I slipped out of bed, needing the cool water of the washroom. The stone floor was icy against my bare soles. I’ve never liked slippers, and the chill was a welcome shock. Tonight, the oak door at the far end of the hall was unlocked. A weak, trembling sliver of candlelight seeped from beneath it, painting a quivering line on the floorboards. That room. The one Alaric had forbidden me from ever approaching. In the dead of night, curiosity is a vine that snakes around your reason and squeezes. After a moment’s hesitation, I crept forward, my bare feet making no sound on the cold stone. At the threshold, I peered inside. The sight froze the blood in my veins. I stared, my teeth chattering uncontrollably, at Alaric. The man who took me in, the lord of the manor I secretly adored, was kneeling in a posture that wasn’t human. He was before the enormous stained-glass window, moonlight pouring through it, bathing him in a silver glow. And in that ethereal light, his body was contorting, elongating—transforming into a colossal gray wolf. 2 I knew, with sickening certainty, that the wolf was Alaric. Last summer, by the lake, I’d caught a glimpse of him swimming. On his back was an old, crescent-shaped scar, like a sliver of a broken moon. And now, on the identical spot on the gray wolf’s powerful back… was the same exact scar. I swallowed hard, my body screaming to run, but my limbs were stone. My hand fumbled, bumping against the iron door ring. Creeeak. The ancient wood groaned, a sound that echoed like a death knell in the silent hall. Instantly, the great wolf’s head snapped around. Its eyes met mine. Amber, glowing, and utterly feral. Exactly like in my dream. A deep, bone-rattling chill shot up my spine. I spun to flee, but my legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the floor in a heap. I watched, paralyzed, as the wolf’s form seemed to shrink and fold in on itself in the shadows, melting back into the handsome, severe features of Alaric. God, how pathetic. Even then, with my life on the line, my heart still stuttered for that face. And then—he chained me by the ankle, a prisoner in my own bedroom. 3 The candlelight overhead was dim, casting long, dancing shadows. I leaned against the headboard, the chain on my ankle a cold, heavy weight. Alaric stood over me, his presence filling the room. From this angle, his brow was severe, his features carved as if from granite. Even in the oppressive gloom, he was flawlessly, dangerously beautiful. But he wasn’t human. The tension was so thick it was making me physically uncomfortable. “Alaric…” That’s what I’d always called him. Just Alaric. “I need to use the washroom.” He glanced at me, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a cruel smirk. He let a single word drop into the silence. “Hold it.” …So werewolves really were monsters. After a beat of silence, I leaned forward, pitching my voice to its softest, most placating tone. “Brother? Guardian? Dad? Please, just let me go…” For the first time, a real smile touched Alaric’s lips. He leaned down, his face suddenly inches from mine, so close my breath hitched. “The best way to keep a secret, Eliza,” he whispered, his breath like a winter wind, “is to turn the keeper into one of two things: dust… or family.” I caught on immediately. “Okay, Dad! I get it!” Alaric’s brow arched, a flicker of something dangerously playful in those wolfish eyes. It made him even more magnetic. “Did it ever occur to you,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, “that I was referring to… my mate?” Mate? I swallowed against a dry throat. “Don’t be ridiculous.” I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “An interspecies union… we couldn’t even have children.” My words seemed to amuse him. “Who said?” He leaned closer still, his lips almost brushing my ear. “Want to try?” 4 Honestly, for a split second, I was tempted. But then I met those eyes again, and the image of that powerful, wild wolf’s tail under the moonlight flashed in my mind. A shiver traced its way down my spine. “Alaric, trying or not, I really can’t hold it any longer…” The curve of his lips deepened. “Hmm,” he mused, “that does sound… more interesting.” …I was completely lost. Was this really the same man who was usually as cold and remote as a mountain peak? My shock must have been written all over my face, because in the end, he didn’t push it. He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. The chain on my ankle clicked open. “Go.” Granted a reprieve, I practically scrambled off the bed. As I sat in the washroom, I was calculating whether a jump from the second-story stained-glass window would result in a broken leg or a broken neck when Alaric’s voice materialized right behind me. “You could try.” I whipped my head around to find him impossibly close, a ghost who’d appeared without a sound. His eyes were dancing with amusement. “Thinking of running?” I shook my head frantically, but before I could form a denial, he cut me off. “Jump.” He grabbed me by the collar of my nightgown and hauled me to the open window. “Try it.” The night air was cool on my face, but as I reached out, my hand hit something solid and invisible, like a pane of glass. I looked back at him, confused. Alaric just raised an eyebrow. “I put up a ward.” …So, just telling me that in the first place would have killed you? We were at a standoff by the window in the dead of night. I licked my dry lips, trying to pledge my allegiance. “Alaric, you have my word. I will never tell anyone.” It was useless. He dragged me back to the bed. Dangling from his grip, I couldn’t help but think: werewolves are ridiculously strong. He tossed me onto the mattress, and his body followed, hovering over me. His breath was hot on my skin. This was it… was he really going to try? I squeezed my eyes shut, a wave of shame and anticipation washing over me. But the touch I was bracing for never came. Instead, a woman’s voice drifted up from the courtyard below, musical and seductive. “Alaric…” My eyes flew open. I saw the playful look vanish from his face, replaced in an instant by a cool mask. He moved to the window. “Stay here. I’m coming down.” The tenderness in his voice was a tone I had never, ever heard from him before. He shot one last glance at me, then turned and was gone. I recognized that voice. It belonged to a countess from Alaric’s circle, one of his own kind. She was also the woman who had publicly rejected his advances months ago. I sat on the edge of the bed, a leaden weight settling in my chest. Damn it. I was actually jealous over a goddamn werewolf. 5 I decided werewolves must be cold-blooded creatures. He went off for a midnight rendezvous with the countess and left me locked in my room. No phone. No laptop. The door wouldn’t budge, and the window was a lie. This was a nightmare. I forced myself to fall asleep by counting the ornate plaster details on the ceiling, but my dreams were a chaotic mess of Alaric and that enormous wolf tail. In the morning, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring into space. Alaric hadn’t come back all night. It was over. He was captivated by her. That bastard. One minute he’s talking about making me his mate, the next he’s running off to someone else. I sighed, my eyes landing on the grandfather clock against the wall. Suddenly, I shot to my feet. It was nine forty-five. I’d completely forgotten. I had an arrangement to meet an old acquaintance today at ten. His name was Caleb. A friend I knew from before Alaric took me in. We were supposed to meet right at the estate gates. A surge of adrenaline hit me, and I started pacing. Caleb… he was a little unusual. I’d heard rumors his family belonged to an ancient line of hunters. My escape today depended entirely on him. As if on cue, a voice faintly called from the courtyard. “Eliza?” I rushed to the window and looked down. Sure enough, a man was standing at the gates, tall and well-built. I couldn’t make out his face from this distance. “Caleb! I’m up here!” I yelled, my voice cracking with desperation. He seemed to pause for a second, then I saw the flash of a smile. “Why climb when there’s a perfectly good gate?” And with that, he pushed open the heavy iron gates, strode through the courtyard, opened the manor’s main door, and then… my bedroom door swung open with a gentle click. I stood there, gaping. Was Alaric’s ward that weak, or was this hunter that skilled? I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Caleb was standing right in front of me. The boy I’d passed a love note to in our teens, only to be shot down with the excuse that “the pursuit of truth leaves no room for childish romance.” I hadn’t seen him in a year. It seemed he’d really committed to that path. Our eyes met. I swallowed. “You… I didn’t think you’d actually come.” Caleb tilted his head, his expression as earnest and straightforward as ever. “I said I would.” 6 There was no time for catching up. I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the doorway. “Caleb, break it!” He tilted his head again. “Break what?” “The ward! The barrier!” His next words almost made me choke. “There’s a ward here?” If there wasn’t a ward, I would have been gone hours ago! He must have seen the frantic seriousness in my eyes, because he stepped cautiously toward the threshold and took one slow step forward— He was thrown back as if he’d hit a trampoline, flying backward and crashing into me, sending us both sprawling to the floor by the bed. After shoving him off me, I scrambled up, frustrated beyond belief. “Caleb, you told me you were dedicating your life to the ‘truth,’ and this is all you’ve got?” Caleb helped me to my feet, his gaze sincere. “I’m the most promising new recruit in my organization.” …What kind of sham organization was he in? Before I could say anything, Caleb’s expression shifted. “He’s back.” “Who?” He gave me a complicated look. “Your father.” My father? I opened my mouth to say my father had been dead for years, then remembered what I’d desperately called Alaric just last night. Oh, great. How did Caleb know what I’d said? I didn’t have time to ask. I heard footsteps in the hall. Deliberate. Heavy. Each one seemed to land directly on my heart. And there was another sound… something heavy being dragged across the floor. My nerves screamed. What was I going to tell Alaric? How would I explain Caleb’s presence? But Alaric was impossibly fast. Before I could invent a lie, his figure filled the open doorway. Alaric. He was dressed in a dark, formal suit, looking impeccably sharp for a man who was secretly a wolf. His gaze flickered over me for a second before landing squarely on Caleb. “Who is he?” Alaric’s voice… was terrifyingly cold. I was trying to decide whether to make up the name of an impressive-sounding hunter organization to intimidate him when Caleb spoke first. “I’m the guy she hired to piss you off.” I froze. What?? This guy wasn’t just useless, he was suicidal. To avoid getting an innocent hunter killed, I had no choice but to nod. “Right, I, uh… hired him.” Alaric didn’t say a word. He just crooked a finger at me. “Come here.” I shuffled forward slowly. My obedience wasn’t because I was mesmerized by his face, but because I was utterly, completely terrified. When I reached the doorway, Alaric’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. He pulled, and I passed through the invisible barrier without any resistance at all. He dragged me to the bedroom next door—his room. He pushed the door open, and I gasped, sucking in a breath of frigid air. There was a woman on the bed. A woman bound hand and foot, completely naked, her head turned away from me. I couldn’t see her face. So that’s what he’d been dragging… a living person. Alaric gave me a shove from behind. I stumbled toward the bed. A moment later, a dagger clattered onto the floor at my feet, its blade gleaming with a sinister light. Alaric’s voice came from behind me, low and menacing. “Kill her, and I’ll let you go.” My knees felt weak. This day just kept getting worse. After a long moment, I managed a shaky laugh. “Alaric, this isn’t funny…” He took one step. I swear, it was only one step, but he moved from the doorway to right behind me in a blink. The next thing I knew, his hand was wrapped around my neck. His breath was cold, and the warmth was gone from his eyes, replaced by a chilling darkness. “Eliza. Kill her, or I kill you. Make a choice.”

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In elite circles, we were the infamous deaf-mute couple: Seraphina Beaumont, deaf, and I, mute. I married into her family five years ago. She gave me dignity and even got an IUD for my “ultimate worry-free experience.” Then one night, drunk, she asked for medicine. I arrived to hear her laughing with friends: “Aren’t you tired of pretending to be deaf? That mute husband is convenient, but boring in bed—like fucking on mute!” Seraphina sipped her cocktail, smiling coldly. “He’s just a toy. A mute can’t talk, so I play wild and he never knows. When we fight, his sign language twists up—quiet and peaceful.” She added softly, “Him being mute means Hyde—our child raised abroad—will be the undisputed Beaumont heir.” My heart froze. The medicine dropped from my hand into the trash. If she wasn’t deaf, I didn’t need to be mute anymore. I turned and dialed a long-untouched number, my voice rough: “Bring down the Beaumont empire, and I’ll divorce her instantly.” 1 The woman on the other end of the line sounded intrigued. “Well, well. Look who finally came to his senses. While your wife was turning you into a city-wide joke, I was the only one who ever truly cared for you.” “Wait for me. It won’t take more than three days.” As I hung up, the sound of their laughter washed over me, a tidal wave of mockery. “Damn, Seraphina, you’re a genius,” one of her friends slurred. “You faked being deaf for five years just to get your grandfather to accept Hyde. Who knew a mute would just fall into your lap!” “Exactly! We all thought after you declared yourself ‘damaged goods,’ no one in our circle would touch you. Then this mute comes along and practically glues himself to you. Even paid a three-hundred-million-dollar dowry to marry in. I’ve never seen a bigger fool!” “And now that your and Hyde’s kid is old enough to walk and talk, it’s the perfect time to bring them back and claim the inheritance.” Through the crack in the door, I saw Seraphina lounging on the sofa. She traced the rim of her glass, her voice as cold as ice. “My child with Hyde will not be illegitimate.” “Grandfather’s birthday is in three days. It’s the perfect time for the Beaumont family to announce its new heir.” My heart felt like it had been ripped open, a gaping wound exposed to a howling wind. When I first learned of Seraphina’s “deafness,” my father had refused to approve our marriage. I knelt in the pouring rain for three days, but he wouldn’t budge. It was only after I collapsed with a raging fever, my voice gone, that I conspired with a doctor to convince my father I had become permanently mute. Only then did he consent to me marrying into the Beaumonts. To ensure I wouldn’t be mistreated, he gave me a dowry of three hundred million dollars. For five years, I never spoke a single word in her presence. I believed that two broken souls could find a unique resonance. Even in our most intimate moments, at the peak of passion, I would stifle every sound. But the truth was, her grand gesture of getting an IUD for my “ultimate experience” was nothing more than a calculated move to pave the way for her secret child. How absurd. The Seraphina I first met wasn’t like this. The girl who had given me her only tent during a blizzard was gone forever. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I opened it to a flood of images—dozens of photos of Seraphina with another man. There she was on our first anniversary, surfing in Phuket with him while I was at home, alone. There she was in our second year of marriage, claiming she was “too busy” with work in the US, when in reality she was giving birth to her and Hyde’s son. I kept scrolling. A photo with a date stamp caught my eye. It was the day I was rushed to the hospital with acute appendicitis. I had called her countless times, but she never answered. While I was lying in a cold hospital bed, writhing in pain, she was in America, celebrating her son’s first birthday. Photo after photo, a gallery of her betrayal. Then, a voice message played, shattering the last remnants of my pride. “You must be Seraphina’s mute husband. You poor thing. I bet you want to curse me out right now, but you just can’t, can you?” I trembled as I saved every piece of evidence. I sent one last message to the number I had called. “Three days. On her grandfather’s birthday, I want the bankruptcy of the Beaumont empire to be his birthday gift.” 2 The storm raged outside, rain lashing against the windows. There was a time when Seraphina would cuddle up to me during a thunderstorm, covering my ears and whispering, “Darling, are you scared?” Now, she was probably lost in another man’s arms. The bedroom door opened, and the mattress dipped beside me. In the darkness, I could smell the alcohol on her breath as she leaned close, her lips brushing my ear. “Hyde, darling, don’t worry,” she murmured in her sleep. “I’ve made you wait for five long years. I’ll make that pathetic mute give you back everything that was rightfully yours.” A wave of revulsion washed over me. Night after night, she had held me just like this. And all this time, it was never me she was holding. Tears welled in my eyes. Beside me, her breathing evened out into a deep sleep. I didn’t sleep at all. My mind drifted back to our first year of marriage. Seraphina had gotten pregnant with my child, and had it terminated without a second thought. “A mute has no right to be the father of my child,” she had said. I woke with a start, my shirt soaked in cold sweat. My phone rang. It was my father, his voice frantic. “Adrian, what is going on? Did you and Seraphina have a fight? All of our contracts with the Beaumonts were just cancelled overnight!” I wiped the sweat from my brow, a cold fury hardening in my eyes. I hadn’t expected her to move so quickly, to sever ties with my family to protect her son’s future. My mother’s tearful voice came on the line. “Adrian, your sister… she went to a club last night, and she hasn’t come home!” “What if something’s happened to her?” Before I could respond, another call came through, from an unknown number. I answered, and my sister’s terrified voice screamed from the other end. “Adrian, help me!” The line went dead. A moment later, a photo appeared on my screen. My sister’s hand was pinned to a table, a knife resting on her finger. It was poised to slice it off. Hyde’s voice, smooth and demonic, came through on a new call. “Mr. Alistair, your sister is being a bit… difficult. Should I take the index finger, or the ring finger?” “You know what, maybe I’ll just take them all. Oh, that’s right, you can’t talk. If you take too long, I’m afraid she might lose the whole hand.” Just before he hung up, I heard a sickening crack, followed by my sister’s bloodcurdling scream. 3 I threw on my clothes and raced to the club. I burst into the private room to find my sister crumpled on the floor, her face a bloody mess. A man’s leather shoe was pressing down on her cheek, grinding it into the carpet. She reached a trembling hand towards me, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Adrian… help… me…” I lunged towards her, but I was seized from behind by two large bodyguards. The click of high heels approached, and a familiar voice dripped with venom. “Mute. It seems I underestimated you. When did you start having me followed?” One of the bodyguards yanked my head back by the hair. I looked up into Seraphina’s furious eyes. Hyde kicked my sister away and turned to Seraphina with a wounded expression. “Seraphina, darling, you got here just in time. This little bitch was trying to grope me.” My sister crawled towards me, sobbing. “Adrian, I didn’t touch him! I swear!” Hyde added more fuel to the fire. “If you hadn’t shown up, I would have drunk that spiked cocktail she was trying to give me. I even heard her say she was going to have me dumped in an alley for anyone to find!” Seraphina didn’t even glance at me. With a flick of her wrist, her bodyguards slammed my sister’s face back to the floor. As I fought against their grip, I heard a sickening crunch. Seraphina had crushed my sister’s right hand—her piano hand—under the heel of her stiletto. A scream tore through the room. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. My voice, unused for five years, ripped from my throat. “SE-RA-PHI-NA!” The room fell silent. Then, it erupted in laughter. “Look, Seraphina! You’ve shocked the mute into speaking!” “It’s a medical miracle! Ha!” A flicker of surprise crossed Seraphina’s face. As she stepped towards me, Hyde whined, “Darling, I’ve just come back, and someone’s already trying to hurt me. Who knows what they’ll try next!” I ignored the questioning look in Seraphina’s eyes and rushed to my sister, wiping the blood from her face with my sleeve. Her skin was raw and scraped. “Adrian,” she whispered, “I didn’t do it. It was a set-up.” I held her close, a wave of guilt washing over me. “I know. I know. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.” Seraphina and Hyde walked past us, her arm linked through his. “This was just a warning,” she said, her voice cold. “Next time you send someone after Hyde, you can collect the body from the morgue.” As the door closed, Hyde shot me a look of pure triumph. I didn’t leave my sister’s side until she was stable in the hospital. Seraphina knew my sister. She knew she would never do something so sordid. But years of our shared life meant nothing against a few lies from Hyde. A voice message from him popped up on my phone. “So you can talk after all. What good does it do you? Seraphina still doesn’t want you.” “And just so we’re clear, I framed your sister on purpose. What are you going to do about it?” “Oh, and by the way, to make it up to me, Seraphina said she’s going to acquire your family’s company.” 4 A sense of dread washed over me. A moment later, a call came from my mother. “Adrian! Your father… the stress… he had a massive stroke! He’s in the emergency room!” The phone slipped from my fingers. I looked at my sister, unconscious in her hospital bed, and then ran for the ER. My mother was on her knees in the hallway, sobbing. “Please, let him be okay. Please, God, what did our family ever do to deserve this?” When she saw me, she scrambled to her feet and slapped me across the face. “This is your fault! You did this to your father, to your sister!” “I told you not to marry into that family, not to be their lapdog! But you wouldn’t listen! Are you happy now?” “The Alistair family is ruined! And it’s all because of you!” I held my mother as she collapsed, my own voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. Mom, I’m so sorry.” Her anger finally broke, replaced by despair. “Adrian, it was Seraphina. She cut off all our funding, blacklisted us with every bank.” “She drove us into a corner, and then she forced your father to sign over the company. The shock… it was too much. She’s a monster, Adrian. A monster!” She beat her fists against the floor until they were raw and bloody. I held her trembling body and made a silent vow. “Mom, I promise you. I will make Seraphina pay for this.” Just then, the red light above the ER doors went out. I helped my mother to her feet, and we stumbled towards the doors. A nurse pushed a gurney out, a white sheet covering the body. My heart stopped. “Doctor,” I stammered, “my father… he’s…” “I’m sorry. We did everything we could. It was an acute cerebral thrombosis. We couldn’t save him.” The rest of his words were a dull roar in my ears. My father… gone? My mother stared at me, her eyes wide with horror. “No! I don’t believe you! I don’t believe you!” She collapsed onto the gurney, her wails echoing through the silent hallway. “Honey, wake up! Please, wake up! What will we do without you?” Then, she went limp. My world shattered. “Quick, get her to a room! She’s fainted!” I watched as they lifted my mother onto another gurney, and I sank to the floor, my strength gone. In a single day, my father was dead. My mother and sister were in the hospital. Yesterday, everything was fine. And now… it was all gone. Seraphina. I hate you. I curled into a ball in the corner, on the verge of breaking. Then, my phone rang. Her number. “Tomorrow. Be at the Beaumont estate for my grandfather’s 80th birthday. Wear a suit. Oh, and bring your parents.” “I have an important announcement to make.” She hung up before I could say a word. The dead attending a party for the living. Fine. I’ll give you exactly what you want. The next day, the Beaumont estate was buzzing with activity. I walked through the grand entrance wearing a white funeral suit. In my hands, I held my father’s portrait. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. “What’s going on? Why is the Beaumonts’ son-in-law carrying his father’s portrait?” “How disrespectful! On Mr. Beaumont’s birthday, of all days!” When Seraphina saw me, she smashed her wine glass at my feet. “Adrian, are you trying to disgust me? How dare you curse your own father to death! You’re vile!” Her grandfather, trembling with rage, threw down his cane. “I was against letting Seraphina’s son into this family, but you… you have no class! You can’t buy breeding!” Hyde, dressed to the nines, stood with a small boy by his side. “Seraphina, darling, he’s not just disrespecting you. He’s disrespecting your grandfather!” Seraphina put her arm around Hyde, her other hand on the boy’s head. “Since everyone is here,” she announced, her voice ringing through the hall, “I have an important announcement to make.” “Adrian and I are divorced.” “And as you can see, this is my son. From this day forward, he is the heir to the Beaumont empire!” As a cheer went up from the crowd, a new voice, dripping with amusement, cut through the noise. “The Beaumont empire? What empire? What’s left for your son to inherit?” A moment later, Seraphina’s assistant ran in, his face pale with panic. “Ms. Beaumont! It’s over! We were set up! The company… it just went bankrupt!”

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After signing the divorce papers, I went back to Ethan’s to pack. He leaned in the doorway, smirking, as I boxed every pot and pan I’d ever bought. “For someone getting divorced, you look more like you’re looting the place,” he sneered. “What’s next? The toilet?” He always spoke with such venom. I used to shout back, but not anymore. We were done. My silence seemed to infuriate him. He turned and yelled into the house, “Rick! Get your piggy bank—your mother bought that too.” Soon, little footsteps approached, and a boy ran out holding a ceramic pig. He held it out to me. “Mom,” he said flatly, “I know you’re broke. Take this for bus fare. But promise you won’t come back. Don’t bother me, Dad, or Aunt Beth.” Hearing my son mention his father’s mistress used to feel like a knife to the gut. But now, I just smiled, knelt, and ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry,” I said softly. “Even if you came back begging on your knees, I would never return.” 1 After I spoke, I took the piggy bank from Rick’s hands. Then, I simply let it slip from my fingers. The ceramic shattered on the hardwood floor, a perfect metaphor for the five years of love I’d poured into my son. He came from my own body, yet our bond had rotted to the core. Rick stared at me, his eyes wide with shock. I just offered him a cold, mocking smile. Grabbing my suitcase in one hand and the heavy box in the other, I walked out of that house for the last time. As soon as I reached the street, I hailed a cab and headed for the train station. On the way, the kid-friendly smartwatch I’d bought him started calling me, over and over. I had no idea what he wanted. It used to be that no matter what I was doing—in a meeting, in the bathroom, fast asleep—I would always answer his call. This time, I blocked his number. What was there to talk about? I remembered his fifth birthday like it was yesterday. His face was aglow with excitement as he made his wish. “Mommy,” he’d said, “you know how you read in that picture book that you’d make any wish of mine come true? Is that right?” “So for my wish,” he’d continued, his eyes sparkling with innocent cruelty, “I want a new mom. I don’t want you anymore. I want Aunt Beth to be my mom. Can you do that?” The color drained from my face. Beside him, Ethan let out a derisive laugh. “See, Amy? You’re just so unlikable, even your own son wants to trade you in.” He’d grinned. “You should be grateful I stuck with you for seven years without doing the same.” His words had felt like stones in my throat, and I’d fought back the tears that threatened to spill. Then Rick, my own son, had twisted the knife. “Dad, why are you even talking to her? A nagging woman like her doesn’t deserve to be loved by anyone.” So, a child like that? Why would I ever want him back? Besides, at the end of the long journey ahead of me, Rick was gone. And another child, one who also called me “Mommy,” was waiting. 2 The journey was grueling. An eight-hour train ride, a four-hour bus journey, and the last thirty minutes on the back of a sputtering motorbike. I finally arrived at my destination. But just as I was about to push open the gate to find the little girl, my phone rang. It was Ethan. My first instinct was to hang up. But he was relentless. I’d decline the call, and he’d immediately call back. Finally, I snapped and answered. His angry voice shot through the receiver. “Amy, what the hell are you doing? Why did it take you so long to answer? Rick has a fever!” Hearing those words—Rick has a fever—my heart clenched instinctively. A mother’s reflex, buried deep. I remembered when I was pregnant with him. Ethan’s business had just collapsed, and he’d sunk into a deep depression. I spent my days fending off his creditors and my nights trying to manage his dark moods, my own body flooded with anxiety. As a result, Rick arrived early, at thirty-five weeks. My water broke first. I was frantic, pounding on Ethan’s bedroom door, but he was lost in his illness, refusing to answer or open up. So I had to grab the hospital bag myself, stumble down the stairs with amniotic fluid soaking my legs, and hail my own cab, all while enduring the rhythmic agony of contractions. But I was too late. Rick nearly suffocated inside me. The doctors performed an emergency C-section and saved him, but he still spent a month in an incubator. Even after he came home, his premature birth left him fragile. He was constantly sick, his tiny hands, feet, and head a roadmap of needle pricks from IVs. Every time he cried in pain, I felt a wave of guilt so profound I wished it were me lying there instead. Over the years, worrying about him, hurting for him—it had become part of my very bones. So even though I wanted to scream back at Ethan—We’re divorced, remember? You have full custody. You’re the one who added that clause to the papers saying I couldn’t see him unless it was an emergency, so his fever is your problem!—the words got tangled up with that deep-seated maternal instinct. What came out instead was a sigh. “Ethan, take his temperature. If it’s over 101.5, give him the children’s ibuprofen.” My voice was automatic, tired. “It’s in the living room cabinet, third shelf. The dosage is on the bottle, follow it exactly.” “If it’s not that high, there are cooling patches on the same shelf. Stick one on his forehead and wipe him down with a lukewarm cloth.” “After that, give him 10ml of the cold medicine from the orange box. No more than 10ml.” “And if his fever spikes to 103 tonight, you have to take him to the hospital.” I was meticulous, first because Rick’s weak constitution meant a small mistake could make things much worse, and second, because I hoped that if I taught Ethan how to do it this one time, he would never have to call me again. But my careful explanation only fueled his anger. “You think I’m a damn doctor? You think I can just follow a list of instructions?” he roared. “And what kind of mother are you, giving orders over the phone instead of getting your ass back here to take care of your son?” His shouting was so familiar. I squeezed the phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure. This wasn’t the first time. It was an old, ugly pattern. After his business failed and depression took hold three years ago, he’d refused to work, refused to earn a single dollar. To keep us afloat and care for a baby, I started running food deliveries by day and ghostwriting academic papers by night. I even timed my deliveries so I could race home every two hours to breastfeed. But even in those two-hour windows, Ethan wouldn’t watch Rick. I’d come home to his bitter reproaches and a baby wailing in a diaper heavy with his own filth, his little hands red from chewing them in hunger. After eight months of this hell, I finally broke. One day, I came home to find Rick screaming, a terrible rash blooming from a soiled diaper Ethan hadn’t bothered to change. In a blind rage, I slapped him. Hard. “You have depression, Ethan, you’re not a paraplegic!” I’d shrieked, my voice raw and hysterical. “Your son is starving to death! Can’t you at least stir some formula or change a damn diaper?” He never forgave me for that slap. He stormed out and didn’t come back for a week. When he did, he started looking for work, eventually starting another business that succeeded. But from that day on, he hated me. Every word he spoke to me was either a criticism or a thinly veiled insult, as if forcing a man with depression to provide for his family was the most unforgivable sin in the world. For years, I put up with it, all for Rick, for the idea of a complete family. But we were divorced now. And still, he felt entitled to berate me. I was about to unleash years of pent-up fury, to finally tell him where he could go. But before I could get a word out, another voice cut through the line—a soft, gentle one. “Ethan, I’m here,” it said. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this. Rick will be fine.” The sound of that voice sent a familiar shard of ice through my heart. It was Beth. Ethan’s therapist during his depression. His affair partner. The woman my son wished was his mother. I was the one who found her for him, scouring listings and reviews for the best psychologist. Each session cost a thousand dollars, money I scraped together from the very bottom of our savings. But did Ethan appreciate my sacrifice? No. He saved all his gratitude for Beth, the woman who had “extended a hand of friendship and pulled him from the depths of his despair.” After his business took off again, he showered her with gifts: limited-edition handbags, expensive jewelry. A single phone call from her, and he would drop everything and run. Even when I caught them together in a five-star hotel room, he had dressed himself with infuriating calm. “Amy, what’s the big deal?” he’d said, buttoning his shirt. “When I was at my lowest, you were pushing me to go out and work. If it wasn’t for Beth, I’d probably be dead. Now get out. Beth and I have dinner reservations.” And Rick… Rick was just the same. He was a naturally mischievous kid, so I was strict with him. When he did something wrong, no amount of crying or tantrums would stop me from disciplining him. But Ethan couldn’t stand it. “All you ever do is lecture him,” he’d grumble. “Come on, Rick, ignore your mother. Dad will take you to see Aunt Beth.” And off they’d go, father and son, leaving my half-finished lecture hanging in the air. They’d go to Beth’s, and the three of them would act like a perfect little family, eating McDonald’s and KFC and doing all the things I’d forbidden. Because of that, Rick decided I was the bad mom. Only Beth was worthy of the title. The memory of it all was suffocating. As Beth’s voice soothed Ethan, I heard Rick in the background. “Mommy Beth, you’re here! I missed you so much!” Then, the line went dead. I listened to the dial tone, and a bitter laugh escaped my lips. My fault, I thought. For daring to care. Just as that familiar, needle-like ache for Ethan and Rick began to prick at my heart again, a small, timid voice drifted from the dilapidated country house in front of me. “Hello? Who are you looking for? What are you doing outside our house?”

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I was reborn at my first birthday party. Endowed with the powers of a lucky charm, I ignored my parents’ hopeful plea. In my past life, I used my abilities to help my parents become the richest people in the country. My eldest brother became a business tycoon, my second a renowned surgeon, and my third a pop superstar. Only my adopted sister, Julia, received no benefit from my powers due to our lack of a blood connection. She failed her college entrance exams at eighteen, was kidnapped at twenty, and died in an accident at twenty-five. Before she died, she tearfully said, “It’s not Mia’s fault. I was always an outsider. It makes sense she wouldn’t help me.” My entire family believed I had let her suffer out of jealousy. They imprisoned me, conducted horrific experiments to channel my luck and resurrect Julia, and tortured me until I died. When I opened my eyes again, I was back at my first birthday party. My father was smiling down at me. “My darling daughter,” he cooed, “do you think Daddy should sign this ten-million-dollar project?” I blinked once, then smeared a handful of mud right across his face. 1 The entire room fell silent. I gripped another handful of wet soil from a nearby flowerpot and slapped it onto my father’s cheek. The hands holding me went rigid, his expression on the verge of crumbling. Guests exchanged uneasy glances. Only Julia, my adopted sister, had a flash of triumph in her eyes before she let out a piercing shriek and rushed forward, her face a mask of concern. “Daddy, are you okay? Oh, Mia is being such a handful!” My father wiped furiously at the mud, then shoved me into a nanny’s arms in disgust. “The mystic clearly said she had a lucky charm aura, that she was born lucky! Why is she acting like a little demon?” Julia bit her lip and whispered, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “She’s been with us for a year now, and it’s not like she’s brought us that much good fortune. Maybe it’s not real?” She added, “I was taking care of her the other day, and she bit me. She’s not some child prodigy, she’s more like…” My eldest brother snorted. “A demon child is more like it.” “Mia has done nothing but torment us since she was born,” he said coldly. “Because of her, Julia has been neglected and suffered so much.” “I think this whole lucky charm thing is a scam. She’s nothing but a debt collector sent to ruin us!” My mother studied me with a frown before finally sighing. “She’s just a one-year-old. What does she know?” “Still,” she mused, “the company did go public right after she was born. Maybe throwing the mud was her way of stopping you.” My father paced anxiously. “Fine. I won’t sign the project. We’ll see if she’s really got the magic touch or not.” With that, he hurried off to change, and my first birthday party came to an abrupt, messy end. The moment my parents were gone, Julia’s mask dropped. Her eyes turned venomous as she stared at me. “You really are a lucky charm, little sister. Daddy is such a neat freak, and he didn’t even punish you. I guess blood really is thicker than water.” My eldest brother immediately walked over, casting a disdainful glance at me. “Don’t be sad, Julia. We only see you as our sister.” “If that mystic hadn’t said Mia could bring us good luck, Mom and Dad would have never had her.” “If she ever tries to compete with you for their affection, we’ll always be on your side.” My other two brothers nodded in agreement, taking Julia’s hands to comfort her. In my past life, my parents had given up on having a daughter after three sons and adopted Julia. They had a deep bond. My three biological brothers saw me as an accident, an afterthought, and treated me with absolute indifference. Because my luck never extended to Julia, they were convinced I was deliberately harming her. I was so naive then. I thought that if I just showered them with good fortune, they would finally love me. Instead, I was tortured and dismembered. Watching them now, a happy, loving family unit, I opened my mouth and let out a piercing wail. Julia shot me a cold look and raised her hand, ready to pinch me. “So annoying!” But just then, my father ran back into the room, his face alight with excitement. He swept me into his arms, interrupting her. “The lead company for that project just skipped town with the money! The entire thing was a scam!” He held me tight. “We were saved! Mia, you really are my lucky star!” 2 My father roared with laughter, ordering the butler to have a solid gold security pendant made for me. “We can’t neglect my little lucky star! From now on, the best of everything is for Mia!” My brothers and Julia stared, their eyes wide with shock. My third brother cried out, “Dad, how can you be so biased towards Mia? Julia is our sister!” Julia’s eyes reddened on cue, and she lowered her head, a picture of silent, stoic suffering. My father immediately put me down and cleared his throat. “Now, now. I’ve treated Julia like my own daughter for years. How could I be biased?” He quickly added, “Didn’t Julia have her eye on that twenty-million-dollar necklace the other day? I’ll have it delivered to the house today.” Julia’s tears vanished. She ran over to him, beaming. “Oh, Daddy, you’re the best! I was so worried that after Mia was born, you wouldn’t care about me anymore.” He stroked her hair lovingly. “Silly girl. You’ll always be Mommy and Daddy’s little princess.” She turned and shot me a triumphant smirk. I didn’t understand why Julia was so hostile towards a one-year-old, but it was clear she was determined to crush me from the start. My father often asked for my “lucky” input on his decisions, but I didn’t always oblige. Whenever they tried to make me use my luck for Julia’s benefit, I would burst into tears. And for the following month, bad luck would plague the entire family. My parents’ business would suffer. My eldest brother would be sabotaged by a competitor. My second brother would swear he saw a ghost in the hospital morgue. My third brother would think he’d been discovered by a talent scout, only to be scammed out of all his money. After this happened a few times, they noticed the pattern but couldn’t figure out the cause. I was not yet two, barely able to string a sentence together, so I just pretended not to understand them. Julia’s expression grew uglier by the day. Now, anyone would connect the family’s misfortune directly to her. The breaking point came when another of my father’s business decisions failed catastrophically, nearly bankrupting the company. Julia collapsed into tears, covering her face. “It’s me! The bad luck only affects me! It’s because Mia doesn’t like me.” “I should just leave,” she sobbed. “I can’t drag Mom, Dad, and my brothers down with me.” They all rushed to her side, their faces etched with panic. “Julia, it’s not your fault! You’re our daughter! This will always be your home!” “That’s right! If anyone’s to blame, it’s Mia! She’s stealing our good luck, that’s why everything has been going wrong!” At my second brother’s words, my mother’s gaze turned to me, full of resentment. “I wish Julia were my biological daughter. She’s so sweet and obedient, not like this little monster who’s been causing trouble since she was two.” My father made a decision. He was calling the mystic back. “He said Mia would bring us good fortune! I want to ask him why she’s been doing nothing but cursing us!” When the mystic arrived, he observed me for a long time. I pointed a chubby finger at Julia and managed one, babyish word: “Dark… dark…” My eldest brother’s face darkened. “Julia is fair and beautiful. Mia is already spouting nonsense. No wonder she’s been cursing us.” The others looked displeased, their hearts aching at the sight of Julia’s wounded expression. But the mystic stroked his beard and spoke. “This has nothing to do with Miss Mia. The source of the recent misfortune… is Miss Julia.” 3 The word had barely left his mouth before they all shouted in unison, “Impossible!” My third brother’s voice was shaking with rage. “You’re a fraud! A liar! Julia has lived with us for over a decade. How could she possibly bring us bad luck?” He looked ready to punch the man, but my father held him back. My father’s eyes were narrow and suspicious. “Master,” he demanded, “you told me my daughter would bring good fortune, but you never said Julia would be cursed. Now my entire family is suffering because of Mia. You owe me an explanation.” My mother, her eyes red, pulled Julia into a protective embrace. “Master, please, you have to do something! You have to break this curse!” The mystic simply shook his head. “Mia’s luck can only affect her blood relatives, and she is only two years old. It is likely that your attempts to force her to channel her luck for Julia have caused a backlash. It has turned your good fortune into a curse, and now Miss Julia is shrouded in a dark, malevolent aura.” He gave them a long, meaningful look. “I have said all that I can. The rest is up to you.” With that, he turned and left. Julia let out a choked sob. “I’m just an adopted daughter. I should have never been greedy for the Shaw family’s wealth. Then Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t have been cursed.” She straightened her shoulders. “It’s better to sacrifice me, so that my parents and brothers can have their good fortune back.” Her speech was so noble that, of course, they refused. They swore they would never let her suffer alone. My eldest brother’s voice was firm. “It’s not your fault, Julia. It’s Mia. She’s been biased against you from the start. We will not give in to a toddler’s whims.” My third brother added wistfully, “If only Julia were the lucky charm.” They all nodded in agreement. I wanted to roll my eyes. Julia’s gaze towards me was now laced with fear, and in private, she became even more vicious, pinching me and withholding food. But I wasn’t a real child. Whenever she hurt me, I made sure the whole family paid the price. The Shaws’ attempts to get lucky now only worked one or two times out of ten. After every failure, they would rack their brains, trying to remember if they had accidentally mentioned Julia. And so it went until I was five. My parents’ company was still floundering. My three brothers were still failures. And Julia had hit rock bottom, failing her exams so badly she couldn’t even get into a community college. The night the results came out, she cried all night, the entire family gathered around to console her. When she saw me, she lunged, her sharp nails leaving red scratches on my face. “It’s all your fault! Why wouldn’t you give me your luck?” My third brother, startled, moved to stop her. “I can’t even go to college!” she shrieked. “Can’t I even take my anger out on the person who caused it? Don’t you even care about me anymore?” My parents said nothing, turning a blind eye to the scene. My eldest brother took Julia’s hand. “Don’t worry, Julia,” he whispered. “We’ll get back at her for you.” That night, my three brothers dragged me out of the house, blindfolded me, and dumped me in a dark, deserted alley. “Julia, we’re leaving her here to teach her a lesson. This is for you.” I cried out for them, but they never looked back. They left, laughing, on their way to take Julia to an amusement park. The moment the light from their car disappeared, my heart turned to ice. They wanted to punish me, but they forgot one thing. I was a lucky charm. As I stumbled out of the alley, I cashed in all the good luck I had been withholding from my family for years, all for a single wish. Moments later, a car pulled up beside me. “Whose child is this? Are you lost?” I looked up and recognized her instantly. It was Mrs. Sterling, one of the most powerful and philanthropic women in the city. Tears streamed down my face. “My brothers…” I sobbed, my voice trembling. “They’re throwing me away.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384360”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first day of preschool. My darling boy was clinging to a police officer, bawling his eyes out. “Help me! I don’t wanna go to school!” Sigh. I stepped forward to pry my son off the poor man, and then… I froze. Because this wasn’t just any cop. It was my damn ex. 1 I’ll admit, a man in uniform has a certain appeal. My son, Theo, was attached to him like a little koala, his arms and legs wrapped tight. His little nose and eyes were red and puffy from crying, his breath catching in hiccuping sobs as he buried his head in the officer’s neck, completely secure. The officer, however, looked anything but secure when he saw me. His face changed instantly. My own heart lurched. Four years since the breakup, and of all the places to run into him, it had to be here. All I could think was, what rotten luck. I’d sworn four years ago that if I ever saw him again, I’d be struck by lightning. Looks like my karmic retribution was just around the corner. But before divine justice could smite me, I had to get my son back. “Theo, honey, come here. You’re getting the nice officer’s uniform all dirty,” I tried, hoping a little white lie would do the trick. The little traitor didn’t even spare me a glance, having already defected to the enemy. Chace’s eyes, sharp and intense, were fixed on me. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. He was staring at me like he was aiming a sniper rifle right at my soul, and it was making my skin crawl. I just prayed my son would get the telepathic message and come to me. “No,” Theo mumbled, tightening his little arms. He looked at me with tear-filled, mournful eyes. “I…” Forgive my inner brute, but at this rate, I’d never get this kid into school. This… this little rebel! He was forcing my hand. “Listen up, kiddo. Police officers are here to catch naughty little boys. You want a shiny pair of silver bracelets? A nice, hard bed at the station? Little Joey from next door has been eyeing your Super Wings collection for a long time. The second you’re hauled away, I’m giving it all to him.” It wasn’t just Theo; Chace’s expression darkened even further. His handsome face was like a storm cloud rolling in. He always looked like that when he was angry. I used to be able to gauge the exact level of his fury by the shade of his scowl. Right now, we were at DEFCON 1, probably because I was slandering his entire profession. I know, I know, you’re not supposed to use police officers to scare children. But I was desperate. “Officer, do you really arrest little kids?” Theo asked, cupping Chace’s face with his chubby hands, his eyes brimming with pitiful tears. “No,” Chace answered firmly. Excuse me?? Alright, fine. So much for my authority. I glanced at my watch. If I didn’t get Theo into that school soon, I was going to be late for work, and there went my perfect attendance bonus for the month. “But,” Chace added, his tone softening, “officers don’t like boys who don’t behave. Are you a good boy?” My little fool nodded obediently, his voice milky. “I am. Theo is the bestest boy.” “Good. Then I’ll take you inside,” Chace said, his voice shifting. With a single fluid motion, he strode past me, carrying Theo into the preschool. I scurried behind them, marveling at how easily he’d handled it. A kid was just a kid. How could he possibly outsmart Chace? The memory of how thoroughly Chace used to run circles around me still brought a sting to my eyes. 2 After dropping off Theo, I’d have to hit every green light to make it to work on time. But it was rush hour. Getting a ride wasn’t going to be easy. “Where are you going?” Chace asked, his voice cold. “To work,” I said evasively. It was awkward enough running into an ex, let alone one with our history. “I’ll give you a ride,” he stated, his face a blank mask. “Using a public vehicle for personal business on company time…” I clicked my tongue, my face a picture of disapproval. Even on the verge of being late, a taxpayer had to defend her rights. Chace pressed a button on his key fob, and a black SUV parked nearby beeped. I jumped. He got in, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You seem to know a lot. I just finished the night shift. I’m on my way home to sleep, and this is my personal car.” “Oh.” Mortified, I quickly looked down at my phone. The rideshare app was useless; not a single car was available. “Scared to get in? Zara, you used to be so brave. You think I’m going to eat you?” Chace rested his arm on the open window, his expression openly challenging. I have many virtues, but resisting a dare is not one of them. “Scared of you? Please…” I opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. “102 Lakeside Drive. Thanks.” Chace hit the gas, and the SUV pulled out into traffic. It was like the traffic gods were smiling down on me. We didn’t hit a single red light. I clenched my fists in excitement. My perfect attendance bonus was safe. “Why are you shaking?” Chace glanced at me from the corner of his eye. His profile was chiseled, like something out of a sculpture gallery, flawless from every angle. “I’m not shaking,” I said stubbornly, quickly placing my hands primly on my knees. “Is Theo your son?” Chace asked. “Would he be calling me ‘Mom’ if he wasn’t?” I shot back. I was surprised. He was the one who left me. Why did he care now if Theo was my son? It was none of his business. “You’re married?” His voice was low, betraying no emotion, but it sent an uncomfortable chill down my spine. I suddenly pictured him in an interrogation room, questioning a suspect. He was questioning me the same way. “Yes.” That should have been the end of it. But I forgot that Chace wasn’t a normal person. The conversation only ended when he decided it was over. A guy with his personality would never find a girlfriend in today’s world. I must have been blinded by his looks back then, falling for his tricks before I knew what was happening. Later, when his interest faded, I had enough self-respect to leave quietly. “Where is he? Why didn’t he come with you to drop Theo off today?” Chace was relentless. Once he wanted to know something, he wouldn’t let it go. “That’s my private business,” I protested. “When was Theo born? What month, what year?” I… 3 If we weren’t in his car, I would have cursed him and his entire family tree. But I knew him. The more I tried to hide things about Theo, the more suspicious he’d become. Fine. I’d fall back on a classic cliché. That would shut him up and stop him from demanding to meet my “husband.” “Since you’re so concerned about your ex-girlfriend, and it’s not like it’s some dark secret… after we broke up, my family set me up on a blind date. My husband was very wealthy, a big deal in business. We were always apart because of his work, and then… he died in a car accident before Theo was even a year old… I’ve been raising Theo by myself all these years, doing everything for him, being both a mother and a father…” I covered my face, my head bowed in sorrow. You have to commit to the performance. It worked. Chace stopped asking questions. But the veins on the back of his hands stood out against the steering wheel. The atmosphere in the car instantly tensed, the temperature dropping by at least ten degrees. Since he didn’t respond, I couldn’t muster any real tears. I kept my face hidden and turned to look out the window. Through the gaps in my fingers, I watched the city blur past, desperately wishing, Are we there yet? I knew it. I would have rather lost the bonus than get in this car. “I’m sorry.” What? I thought I’d misheard. “What did you just say?” I asked. “I don’t repeat myself.” I shot him a dirty look. What was he apologizing for now? Just then, his phone rang. It sounded like a call for backup. He exchanged a few brief words and hung up. He pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned to face me. “Your office is just around the corner. You can run from here. I have to go, I’m needed on a call.” “Okay,” I said, getting out. I watched him speed away without a second glance back. The same person, the same situation. It was like we were back four years ago. During his second year as a cop, he was always on call. No matter where we were or what we were doing, one phone call and he was gone. I understood all of it. I never threw a fit or gave him a hard time. But he never knew how hard the lonely nights were, how much I worried every time I watched him leave. Well, that was all over now. I had Theo to keep me company. As for Chace, some other woman could worry about him now. I clocked into work with one minute to spare. With that kind of luck, it was bound to be a great day. Or so I thought. Just as I was about to clock out, my boss dropped an urgent task on my desk. Damn it. I had to rush. I had promised Theo I’d be the first one to pick him up today. After finishing my work, I sprinted out of the office faster than anyone. By the time I reached the preschool, I felt like I was half-dead. And I was still too late. Parents were already leaving with their children. Theo was probably standing by the gate all by himself again, waiting for me. I was still trying to figure out how to explain being late when I looked up and saw Chace. He was here again. And he was holding my son. 4 He’d changed out of his uniform and was wearing casual clothes. His arms, exposed below the short sleeves, were a sun-kissed bronze, all corded muscle. The simple t-shirt clung to his broad chest, looking even better than the uniform. He was holding Theo with one arm. At six-foot-one, with broad shoulders and long legs, he cut an impressive figure. Every young mother and pretty teacher that walked by did a double-take. Figures. The man was still a walking hazard. “Mommy!” Theo reached his little arms out for me. That sweet little voice melted my heart. “Mommy’s here,” I said, taking him from Chace and hugging him tight, planting a big kiss on his forehead. I hadn’t seen him all day, and my eyes started to sting. “Theo saw me when I got here and started crying for me, so I brought him out,” Chace explained. “Right. Thanks.” After I answered, it hit me. Are cops really this free? Why was he hanging around a preschool? “Wait, what are you doing here?” I asked, looking at him suspiciously. He wasn’t planning something, was he? Chace’s lips curved into a smile. He reached behind him and pulled out a little girl, hoisting her into his arms. “Picking up my kid.” I had been so focused on Theo that I hadn’t even noticed the little girl hiding behind his leg. I felt like a complete idiot. So much for thinking I was special. Four years was plenty of time for him to get married and have a child. We were broken up. He hadn’t done anything wrong. But a tidal wave of emotion washed over me—disappointment, hurt, a suffocating tightness in my chest. “We’re going now. Goodbye,” I said, my eyes downcast. I hugged Theo tighter and walked away quickly. Chace called my name from behind, but I ignored him. “Mommy, the officer is calling you,” Theo reminded me. “Don’t listen to him.” The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I had spent the last four years thinking about him, and now it was clear he’d probably forgotten all about me. If not for this chance encounter, we might have never seen each other again. “Good boys don’t lie. You heard him. And the officer said I’d get a present if I was good,” Theo argued, his loyalty clearly misplaced. His world now revolved around the police officer. “You want a pair of silver bracelets?” Theo burst into tears. I was completely caught off guard and had to spend the next few minutes hugging and soothing him. That night, Theo had a nightmare, mumbling about not wanting silver bracelets in his sleep. I was filled with regret. I had to stop scaring him like that. It was bad for both of us. The apartment was quiet, but I couldn’t sleep. I replayed the day’s events in my mind, thinking of Chace, of the little girl by his side, and my heart ached with a familiar sourness. 5 We got together because I was completely powerless against his good looks. Chace was at the police academy, and I was at the art school right across the street. It was like the two universities had planned it. Every day, droves of pretty art students would gaze across the street at the handsome future police officers, and the police cadets would shout their drills extra loud to attract the attention of the delicate young women. The fact that Chace and I hit it off stunned a lot of people, including me. I wasn’t anything special. I had a reasonably pretty face and a talent for drawing. For four years of college, Chace was my exclusive model. He seemed to enjoy it. He was a quiet person; when he wasn’t exercising, he was staring into space. He always corrected me, insisting he was “thinking,” not “spacing out.” I would just laugh and tell him his defensiveness was a dead giveaway. After graduation, he was assigned to a local precinct, and I found a job as a design assistant. As rookies in the professional world, we barely had any free time. Chace rented an apartment near my office and asked me to move in with him. It was only later that I realized he did it so I could sleep in a little longer in the mornings. I was terrible at waking up, often pulling all-nighters to finish projects. Those extra minutes of sleep were precious. Everything seemed to be moving in the right direction. We would be like most couples: save up some money, get married, have kids, and live a quiet life. But in his second year on the force, things changed. He was always working overtime, always taking calls. The rare date we had would inevitably be cut short by some emergency. I was committed to him, so none of that mattered. He was a cop; I understood the nature of his job. But some things you can’t fight. Love, like the tide, comes in and goes out. It was a harsh reality, but one I had to accept. Chace spoke to me less and less. We saw each other less and less. His coldness and avoidance felt like he was trying to push me into being the one to say it was over. I didn’t want to, but I wasn’t going to beg. After all those years together, I deserved better. It’s strange, but the day we broke up was the only time we were ever truly intimate. And I initiated it. I don’t know if that’s something to be proud of or sad about. I’d had a few drinks. I kicked open his bedroom door and pounced on him. He tried to resist, so I just grabbed his collar, buried my face in his chest, and cried. In the end, I got what I wanted. But the feeling between us was gone. If there was no feeling left, why cling to a one-sided love? I left quietly while he was away on a business trip. What happened next was like a cosmic joke. That one time… I got pregnant. Without a second thought, I had Theo and raised him by myself. As for Chace, it never even crossed my mind to tell him. In my sleep, I heard Theo whimpering about not wanting to go to preschool tomorrow. I turned and wrapped my arms around his small, soft body. When I touched my own face, I realized it was wet with tears. “I don’t want to go to preschool either. I’ll have to see him,” I whispered. I hoped Chace wouldn’t be the one dropping off his kid tomorrow. I sighed, found a comfortable position, and closed my eyes. 6 Well, damn. The next morning, I woke up sick. My usually indestructible body had finally given up. I was a mess, sniffling and weak. I was afraid of getting Theo sick, so I asked my friend Chloe to watch him for a few days. She was his godmother, a single woman with a hopeless weakness for adorable little boys like mine, but a deep-seated disdain for me. She was always telling me to find a good man and settle down. I always brushed her off. Good men weren’t exactly easy to find. Even though I was sick, I still had to work. How else was I going to support the two of us? Finally, my boss couldn’t take it anymore. I think the sight of me trying to give a presentation while simultaneously blowing my nose, wiping my eyes, and speaking in a hoarse croak was too much for him. He mercifully gave me two days off. Sleeping in on a workday was pure bliss. The sickness came on strangely, but it left just as quickly. After a few days of rest, I was mostly better. I called Chloe to arrange picking Theo up, only to find out she was at a birthday party! “Where is my son? What did you do with him?” Chloe was full of apologies. “Just tell me where he is! I’m going to get him!” Could a best friend be any more unreliable? She hemmed and hawed, but I finally cornered her until she confessed. “23 River Road, Apartment 5-3-202.” I froze. I would never forget that address. It was where Chace and I had lived four years ago. A dark premonition washed over me. This was not going to be simple. “Chloe, I swear I’m going to kill you!” I was at my wit’s end. “Now, Zara, don’t be like that. You’ve been raising Theo alone for all these years, for what? Chace is his father, and he hasn’t done a single thing. What’s wrong with him watching his own son for a few days? Why are you so stubborn? If you ask me, you never should have hidden it from him. Maybe you two would have never broken up.” Was I wrong? No. You can’t force someone to walk the same path as you. He was married with a child now. I couldn’t be the one to wreck his family. “It’s impossible for Chace and me. He’s married,” I sighed. Chloe started to say something else, but I hung up, grabbed my bag and coat, and headed out to get my son. I hailed a cab, but the traffic was a nightmare. I’d hit rush hour again. The scenery was mostly the same as it had been four years ago. Chace had rented this place because it was close to my office. After we broke up, I moved out and never came back. I now lived in a small loft apartment that I’d bought outright. It was a bit out of the way, and I spent almost an hour commuting each day. But I bought it because it was far away. Far enough to avoid him. To never see him again. And now, after running in circles, I was right back where I started. I took a shaky breath, stood at the door, and rang the bell. 7 The doorbell was the same one I’d programmed. When you pressed it outside, a recording of my voice would play inside: “Chace and Zara, you have a visitor!” What was once sweet was now excruciatingly awkward. Why hadn’t he changed it?! The door opened. Chace was in loose-fitting loungewear, with Theo perched on his shoulders. Their faces were smeared with face paint, and they were holding toy guns. They had clearly been playing soldiers. Theo’s eyes were shining with an excitement he couldn’t hide. I could see he liked Chace. Did he even want him to be his father? I quickly squashed the ridiculous thought. Chace was married. Theo and I couldn’t become a joke. “Mommy! The officer and I are playing guns! We’re special forces! Come in, Mommy!” Theo tugged on my arm, but I remained rooted to the spot outside the door. The excitement on Chace’s face faded. “Come in,” he said. “It’s not Chloe’s fault. I was the one who asked to have Theo over.” I scoffed. “Don’t you have to work?” “I took some vacation time. I haven’t had a vacation in four years,” he said, his eyes fixed on me. The words were loaded. He deliberately emphasized four years. We had been apart for exactly four years. “Well, thanks for the trouble. I’m here to take Theo home.” My gaze shifted past him to my son. “Theo, go get your backpack. We’re going home,” I said, bending down to urge him. Theo looked reluctant, glancing back and forth between me and Chace. He clearly wasn’t done playing. I grabbed his little arm, my face hardening. “Theo, be a good boy and come home with Mommy. It’s not nice to bother people.” “But Mommy, you said if we’re in trouble, we should find a police officer. He’s not people,” he said, then looked up at Chace and smiled. My patience was wearing thin. I scooped him up in my arms. “Let’s go!” Theo immediately started to cry, reaching for Chace. “I don’t wanna go! I wanna play with the officer…” he wailed, just like he had at the preschool gate. The sound echoed through the hallway, making my ears ring. Chace grabbed my arm, his face grim. “Don’t make him cry. Give him to me, I’ll calm him down.” A fire ignited in my chest. “I’m his mother. I don’t need you to teach me how to raise my child!” My shout only made Theo cry harder. “Let go!” Chace’s expression grew even darker. His grip on my arm tightened. With a struggling son in my arms and his demanding father by my side, the situation was spiraling out of control. I could feel sweat trickling down my back. A few neighbors walked by with their groceries. “Oh, dear,” one of them said. “A little lovers’ quarrel, upsetting the child. Just take her inside and make up, dear.” 8 Before I could explain that he wasn’t my husband and we were not a “little couple,” the world tilted. Chace had swept both me and my son up into his arms and carried us inside. His strength was impressive, but I felt like I was sitting on pins and needles. Everything in the apartment was exactly as it had been four years ago. From the big things, like the sofa and table we’d bought online together, to the small things, like the ceramic rabbits from the night market and the stuffed animal he’d won for me playing darts—everything was in its original place. It was like time had rewound. Chace stood before me, hands on his hips, and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. It was still cut short, stiff and a little severe. “We need to talk about this from the beginning,” he said, watching my expression carefully. “That day at the preschool, Theo saw me and ran right into my arms. Chloe was there too, but he wouldn’t go with her, so I brought him home for a few days… I’m on vacation, anyway.” He was explaining, but I found the whole thing ridiculous. I smirked. “What are you smiling at?” he asked, frowning. “Nothing.” I didn’t want to say it. How could he come up with such a lame excuse? Instead of spending his vacation with his wife and child, he was babysitting mine for free? Wasn’t his wife jealous? “Are you hiding something from me?” Chace blocked my path, his gaze darting between me and Theo. I froze. My worst fear was coming true. I was going to kill Chloe when I got my hands on her. “I think that’s my line,” I retorted, referring to the little girl, Amy. If he was married, he should act like it, and stop playing these games. Chace’s eyes dropped, like a student caught cheating. “I want to talk to you. Just the two of us. A real conversation,” he said, his voice almost pleading. “There’s no need. You two live your lives, and don’t bother me and my son. We’ll be fine,” I said, getting up to leave. Chace frowned, a look of confusion on his face. I snorted internally. Men. Always wanting what they can’t have. Chloe had once told me that once a woman sleeps with a man, he subconsciously considers her his. Chace was clearly suffering from a case of that delusion. Get a grip! I was my own person. He was his. And more importantly, he was married. I had no interest in being a homewrecker. I picked up Theo and left without a second thought. The sound of the door closing behind me felt like it was finally severing the last ties of those four years. Chace watched us go, looking dejected. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what he said. Back home, I asked Theo about his time there. He excitedly told me about all the games he played and the food he ate at the officer’s house, and that his godmother had visited him. The mention of Chloe reignited my anger. I called her. She was on a business trip in some far-off country. I yelled at her for a solid twenty minutes before she even mentioned she was abroad. I was so mad I started crying, which only made me madder when I realized I was ruining my expensive makeup. How many freelance gigs would it take to replace that? “Mommy, why are you crying?” Theo came over with his favorite Super Wings toy and wiped my tears with his chubby little hand. I sniffled and pulled him into a hug. If it weren’t for this little guy, would I be working myself to the bone like this? Sometimes I thought about finding a man and settling down. But who could guarantee that marriage would make life easier? It would just be a different set of problems. Besides, my first love had set the bar too high. After Chace, no one else seemed to measure up. It was my own mess to clean up. I just had to suck it up and deal with it.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384376”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For the new dating reality show, my agent, Dana, told me to play the part of the pretty airhead. So when I showed up hauling a chef’s case as tall as my hip, the live chat crucified me for being a diva. “Who brings a butcher’s block to a desert island?” But when a freak storm cut off our supplies, the A-list actor was so hungry he was chewing on tree bark. That’s when I set up my little charcoal stove and started simmering a fish soup. The award-winning actor, Bob Vance, squatted by my pot, practically begging for a second bowl, while the pop idol, Leo Nash, tried to snatch a fish right out of the broth. It wasn’t until a Michelin-starred chef crashed the livestream, dropping a fortune in virtual rockets, that everything changed. [That knife work, the kind needed for a perfect micro-brunoise… in the entire world, only a disciple of the great August Thorne could pull that off!] The chat exploded. [Thorne? As in, THE August Thorne? The grandfather of modern gastronomy?] The director, trembling, held up the heavy case I’d left behind. “Ms. Thorne,” he stammered, “The name ‘August Thorne’ is carved into the bottom of this case. Who is he to you?” I wiped my hands on my jeans. “My grandpa. He said the case was old and told me to just do whatever I wanted with it.” 1 The day the show’s promotional posters dropped on Instagram, I was staring down the behemoth in the corner of my tiny apartment. It was an ebony wood case that came up to my hip, bound with brass corners and heavy enough to be filled with lead. Dana’s voice memos blew up my phone like a string of firecrackers. “Scarlett! Are you out of your goddamn mind? I get you a spot on a dating show so you can look pretty, act a little dumb, and win over some fans for a comeback, and you’re planning to show up with a coffin? Are you moving in?!” My phone screen was still lit, showing the promo shot of me with a sweet, vacant smile—a perfect porcelain doll. The top comment, liked into oblivion, read: [Who is this girl? Some nepo baby? Get the bimbo off the show!] A long chain of “+1”s followed. I scrolled past it, feeling nothing. I was used to it. In this industry, being irrelevant is the original sin, especially for a former rising star like me who’d fizzled out and was now, years later, still a nobody. Dana was right. This was my last shot. A reality show about hot people falling in love on a deserted island. All I had to do was be beautiful, be stupid, and be good background scenery. After all, a pretty vase makes the best foil for Bob Vance’s icy charisma, Leo Nash’s sunshine-boy charm, and that sweet new ingénue Lily Winters’ delicate innocence, right? Easy enough. Less work for me. “Dana,” I said, kicking the heavy case with the toe of my boot. It answered with a dull thud. “It was my grandpa’s,” I lied smoothly. “His pride and joy. Told me I had to keep it with me always. For luck.” I let my voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll nail the ‘dumb but beautiful’ role. I’ll be the damsel in distress, the one holding everyone back. I won’t steal anyone’s spotlight.” Dana’s voice was a shriek. “Scarlett! It’s a desert island! A survival-themed show! You’re taking an antique chest to a desert island?! Do you want the internet to tear you to shreds?!” I hung up and dragged the case to the door. It was so heavy it screeched against the floorboards. On the lid, a single, ornate ‘T’ was carved into the wood, its edges worn smooth by time. My grandfather’s voice, old and stubborn, echoed in my memory. “Scarlett, a chef’s tools are their courage. You never leave them behind, no matter where you go.” I sighed. Fine. Grandpa’s courage, my burden. 2 Azure water, white sand, swaying palms—the island filming location was straight off a postcard. The moment the helicopter’s rotors slowed, a wave of hot, salty air slapped me in the face. The cameras were already rolling, the livestream broadcasting across every major platform. The chat instantly flooded the screen: [OMG BOB!!! I’M WEAK!] [LEO BABY, MOMMY’S HERE FOR YOU ~~~] [Lily is a literal angel on earth today!!!] I was the last one off the helicopter. When two crew members, grunting and straining, hauled my massive ebony case off the aircraft and dropped it onto the sand with a heavy thump, the air seemed to freeze for a second. The next second, the chat went nuclear. [Wait, what the hell did she just bring with her?] [HOLY SH*T?? Is that her suitcase? What’s in there, a whole cow?] [LMAO, bringing a trunk that big to a survival show? Is that where she keeps her giant ego?] [Certified Diva! We knew it!] [RIP to the crew members who had to carry that…] [Did this bimbo bring her brain? Is this a dating show or a moving company?] The camera cleverly caught the expression on the face of the ingénue, Lily Winters. Dressed in a flowing white sundress, her makeup was flawless and ethereal. She glanced at my case, then at her own chic, 24-inch hot pink suitcase. Her lips pursed for a fraction of a second before she plastered on a perfect, sweet smile and playfully stuck her tongue out at the camera. “Wow, Scarlett, you really came prepared! Unlike me, I just brought a few changes of clothes.” The chat immediately erupted with praise: [Lily is such a sweet angel.] [See, that’s how a normal person packs.] [I feel so bad for Lily, having to film with a diva.] Leo Nash, the pop idol famous for his sunny disposition, bounced over, his bleached-blond hair catching the light. He gave my case a curious pat. “Scarlett, what’s in the treasure chest? A pop-up tent? An inflatable raft? Don’t tell me you brought a mini-fridge.” His tone was light, playing it up for the cameras, but his eyes held a hint of condescending curiosity. Bob Vance stood a little further away, his sunglasses hiding most of his face, leaving only a glimpse of his sharp, sculpted jawline. He stood with his arms crossed, an effortless portrait of cool detachment, as if the chaos around him was nothing more than background noise. Did his gaze, hidden behind those dark lenses, flicker over to my case? I couldn’t tell. He was like a perfect marble statue, radiating an unapproachable aura. A bunch of phonies, and he’s the phoniest of them all, I thought to myself. Braving the storm of judgmental stares, I turned to the main camera and offered up a perfect, innocent, and sufficiently stupid smile. My voice was a soft, slow drawl. “Oh, this? It’s just… some things for cooking. The director said we had to make our own food, right?” I fluttered my eyelashes, trying to look as clueless as possible. The chat was instantly flooded with “LMAO” and “???”: [Cooking?? Is she for real?] [Cooking on a desert island? I’d believe a frying pan, but a chest this big? Did she pack the entire kitchen from a Michelin restaurant?] [There’s a limit to how much you can fake it for the camera! I’m gonna be sick!] [I predict this woman will single-handedly drag down the quality of the entire show…] [Just a casual viewer here, but I’m already feeling second-hand embarrassment for the other contestants…] Just off-camera, the director’s face twitched. He forced a smile and tried to smooth things over. “Haha… well, Scarlett is certainly… creative. Alright everyone, welcome to Heartbreak Island! For the next seven days, this beautiful island will be your home!” He paused, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Of course, you’ll have to work together to find your own food, water, and shelter! Now, please open your luggage. Other than clothing and basic toiletries, any unnecessary items will be confiscated by the production team!” Lily and Leo obediently opened their suitcases, revealing neatly folded clothes, sunscreen, and small bottles of skincare products. The chat immediately filled with compliments like [So organized!] and [She gets it!]. Then it was my turn. Every camera, every pair of eyes, zeroed in on my ebony case. I slowly crouched down, undid the brass latches, and lifted the heavy lid. Inside, packed tightly and gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen, was an arsenal of… knives. Knives of every conceivable shape and size. Long slicers, short paring knives, heavy cleavers, serrated blades… There were also strange, nameless metal tools, a few cast-iron pans of varying thickness, and a full set of wooden-handled spatulas and ladles. Tucked in a corner was a small, hand-cranked stone grinder and several oil-paper packets filled with mysterious powders. The sunlight hit the blades, reflecting a blinding glare. Silence. A dead, absolute silence. Even the ever-present live chat went blank for several seconds, as if the sight of my murderous collection had crashed the servers. A few seconds later, the screen was completely submerged in a tidal wave of comments: [WHAT THE F*CK?!!!] [KNIVES? A WHOLE CHEST OF THEM???] [This girl isn’t here for a date, she’s here to dismember someone!] [DEAR GOD! Someone call the police! There’s a psycho on set!] [Bringing a case of knives to a survival show, what kind of performance art is this?!] [DIVA! She’s the queen of all divas! Kick her off the show!] [The other contestants need to run! Get away from the crazy person!] The director’s smile was frozen solid on his face, his lips twitching uncontrollably. He pointed a trembling finger at the case, his voice cracking. “Scar… Scarlett! Th-these… you can’t have these! It’s too dangerous! This is… this is insane!” He was nearly incoherent. I put on my most innocent expression and pointed to the oil-paper packets in the corner, my voice a meek whisper. “Director, those are just spices. Some ground peppercorns, star anise, and this is a special powder I made from dried bark for flavor. That’s not against the rules, is it?” My voice grew quieter and quieter, perfectly playing the part of a clueless idiot. “AGAINST THE RULES! ALL OF IT! CONFISCATE IT! IT ALL HAS TO GO!” the director roared, waving his crew forward. They scrambled to slam the lid shut and carted my armory away as if it were a ticking bomb. The chat cheered: [FINALLY!] [Good job, director!] I watched my case disappear with a hint of regret, then shrugged and sighed. Alright, Grandpa. It’s not that I didn’t want to bring my courage, but the enemy’s firepower was just too strong. I subtly patted the inner pocket of my jacket, feeling the outline of the small, ebony-handled knife, carefully wrapped in thick leather. It was no longer than my palm. The blade was razor-thin, and as I traced its shape through the fabric, I felt a whisper of its cold, sharp edge. Heh. Good thing I had a backup. We were on a desert island, after all. You can’t do everything by hand. 3 The show’s version of “island survival,” of course, wasn’t designed to actually starve the contestants. The initial supply pack contained protein bars, crackers, a few bottles of water, and a basic fishing kit. The shelter consisted of several pre-pitched, sturdy-looking tents. The real challenge was for the contestants to source and cook their own food, creating entertaining, primitive-living content for the cameras. The first two days were a chaotic mess. Leo volunteered to go fishing. After striking a series of cool poses on the rocks, he returned with a handful of tiny fish, barely enough for a single bite. Lily, in all her delicate grace, attempted to start a fire. She ended up choking on smoke, tears streaming down her face, creating a viral meme of her looking like a cute, soot-covered kitten. Bob, the A-list actor, was the most composed. Using the simple tools provided, he sharpened a stick into a spear and tried to catch fish in the shallows. His movements were clean and efficient, but his success rate was just as dismal as everyone else’s. For the most part, we subsisted on the initial supply of crackers, and everyone’s faces started to take on a pale, hungry look. And me? I perfectly followed Dana’s instructions: the clumsy, useless beauty. They asked me to gather firewood? Sure. I returned with a bundle of damp, rotting branches that successfully extinguished the tiny flame Lily had worked so hard to create. The billowing smoke sent everyone into a fit of coughing and crying. The chat went wild: [Hahaha, what a useless bimbo.] [Just as I thought. Nothing but a pretty face.] [Can someone please just tell her to sit down and not touch anything?] They asked me to help clean the few tiny fish Leo had caught? I held one of the fish, fumbling awkwardly. I barely managed to scrape off a few scales before I nearly sliced my own finger off. The chat was merciless: [Is she trying to descale the fish or perform surgery on herself?] [Production needs to get her some extra insurance, stat!] [Did she learn her knife skills from a bear?] Lily timed her entrance perfectly, holding out a cracker, her voice dripping with gentle concern. “Scarlett, honey, just stop, you’re going to hurt yourself. Here, have a cracker. It’s not much, but it’s better than losing a finger, right?” Her eyes were filled with pity, but I caught the fleeting glint of superiority in them. I took the cracker and gave the camera a grateful, slightly wounded, simpleton smile. “Thanks, Lily. You’re so sweet.” Inside, I was rolling my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. If my grandfather saw me butchering a fish like this, he’d probably rise from his grave just to call me a disgrace. Occasionally, Bob would look my way. Across the flickering firelight, with his sunglasses now off, his deep-set eyes were as unreadable as the night sea. But when his gaze swept over my sand-covered fingers clutching the cracker, it seemed to linger for a split second. Was it curiosity? Or was he just annoyed by the sight? I couldn’t tell. An A-lister’s thoughts were probably as complex and layered as my grandpa’s signature bone broth. The internet’s animosity towards me continued to build: [Daily question: Has Scarlett been kicked off the show yet?] [I can’t even watch her eat. She’s such a burden!] [Did the producers bring her on just to make everyone else look good by comparison?] [Is it just me, or does her stupidity seem… intentional? Like she’s acting…] [Get real. You think she’s smart enough to act this dumb?] Yep. The pretty airhead persona was holding strong. Dana would be thrilled. 4 Everything changed on the evening of the third day. The island weather turned on a dime. The sky went from clear to a bruised purple in minutes. A violent wind ripped through the camp, followed by a torrent of rain that hammered down on us. “Typhoon! It’s a typhoon! Get back to the tents! Get the equipment inside!” The director’s panicked shouts were barely audible over the storm. We scrambled back to our tents just in time to hear a series of loud cracks and the desperate cries of the crew outside. The mooring lines for the small supply boat tethered to the makeshift dock had snapped under the force of the waves. The boat, along with the backup generator and the next batch of supplies, vanished into the churning, black ocean. Inside the tent, there was a dead silence, broken only by the howling wind and raging storm outside. The faint glow of the emergency light illuminated several pale, frightened faces. Lily hugged her knees and began to sob quietly. “What are we going to do? The boat is gone… the food is gone… Are we going to starve to death?” Leo ran a hand through his soaking wet blond hair, trying to maintain his sunny persona, but his voice trembled. “D-don’t be scared, Lily! The crackers… we still have some, right? We just have to hold on until the storm passes!” He rummaged through the supply pack, and his face fell even further. After two days, only a few crackers were left—barely enough to last one more day. Bob leaned against a tent pole, his eyes closed. Rainwater trickled down the sharp line of his jaw. He didn’t say a word, but the tight set of his lips and the shallow rise and fall of his chest betrayed his inner turmoil. The production crew was in chaos. Their walkie-talkies crackled with static and broken calls for help. It was clear their communications were down. A palpable sense of despair seeped through the screen, reaching every viewer watching the livestream. The chat was in a frenzy: [HOLY CRAP! This is real?!] [The boat is gone?! The supplies are gone?! This just got serious!] [Oh my god, this is terrifying! What are the contestants going to do?] [Production needs to do something! Safety first!] [Praying they all stay safe!] [Where’s that diva Scarlett? I bet she’s not acting up now. Probably scared silent.] I huddled in a corner of the tent, wrapped in a thin blanket provided by the show. My wet hair was plastered to my face, and I looked even more shaken than Lily. No one noticed that, under the blanket, my fingers were gently tracing the ebony handle of the small knife in my inner pocket. Its cool, solid feel was strangely calming. My grandfather’s voice echoed in my head again, his tone calm and knowing. “What are you panicking for? The heavens won’t starve a stray sparrow. You live off the land, you live off the sea. As long as you have a blade in your hand and a plan in your head, a true craftsman will never go hungry.” Somehow, the storm outside didn’t seem so terrifying anymore. 5 The typhoon raged for a full night and the following day before finally moving on. The rain stopped and the wind died down, but the island was a wasteland. Broken branches, uprooted bushes, and scattered coconuts littered the beach, along with a mess of debris washed ashore by the waves. Our tents were still standing, but they were soaked through, cold, and smelled of mildew. The most critical problem was the complete lack of food. The last of the crackers had been divided up during the panic of the previous night. Leo, sporting a pair of dark circles under his eyes, paced around the campsite like a starved golden retriever. He rummaged through the fallen bushes, his eyes glowing as he stared at some strange-looking wild berries and mushrooms. “This red one looks edible, right?” he mumbled to himself. “It’s so… vibrant.” Just as he reached for it, a hand shot out and yanked him back. It was Bob. The actor’s face was pale, but his eyes were sharp and steady. “Don’t touch it unless you want to die,” he said, his voice hoarse. He pointed to the brightly colored berries. “First rule of survival: if you don’t recognize it, you don’t eat it.” Lily was curled up on a relatively dry rock. Her face was sallow, her lips cracked and peeling. She didn’t even have the energy to cry anymore, just weakly whispering, “Hungry… so hungry…” The director and his crew were in a similar state of despair. Communication was still spotty, and a rescue boat wouldn’t arrive until the next day at the earliest. The livestream faithfully captured every moment of their misery. The chat was filled with worry: [They haven’t eaten in over 24 hours… this is hard to watch.] [Bob’s right! Don’t eat wild berries!] [Leo, don’t do it! Wait for rescue!] [Lily looks so weak, my heart breaks for her…] [Where’s that diva Scarlett? Still playing dead?] I slowly rose from my corner. The blanket slid off, revealing a face that was just as tired as everyone else’s, but calm. Ignoring the others, I walked to the edge of the camp, toward a pile of wrecked, rain-soaked bushes. The camera followed me. The viewers watched as I knelt and started picking through the muddy, worthless-looking leaves and branches. I pulled off a few specific leaves. Chat: [What is she doing? Making mud pies?] I dug around a rotten root and pulled off a few pieces of bark. Chat: [???? Is she so hungry she’s going to eat bark?] I pushed aside a fallen bush and carefully dug up a few dirt-caked tubers that looked like small, lumpy potatoes. Chat: [WTF! What are those things! You can eat that???] I carried my meager haul back to a dry patch of ground in the center of the camp. In the middle of the soggy ashes of our old fire, I reached into my own suitcase—the one everyone had mocked as a symbol of my vanity. From inside, I pulled out a small, folded piece of sheet metal. With a few quick snaps, a simple charcoal stove, no taller than two bricks, stood steady on the damp ground. The chat stuttered for a half-second before erupting in a tidal wave of question marks: [???] [A STOVE? She had a stove in her suitcase this whole time?] [I AM LITERALLY DEAD! Is her suitcase a Mary Poppins bag?!] [Wait! Those leaves and bits of bark she just gathered… you don’t think…] Before the chat could process it, I continued, my movements fluid and practiced. Like a magician, I produced a thin iron pan from a hidden compartment in my luggage. Chat: [A PAN???] I opened the oil-paper packets, revealing my secret stash: the umami bark powder, coarse sea salt, wild peppercorns, and a small, solidified block of rendered seabird fat. Finally, my hand went to the inner pocket of my jacket. The leather-wrapped, ebony-handled knife slid free. The blade was no longer than my palm, thin as a dragonfly’s wing. It caught the sun and flashed with a cold, sharp light. The chat completely lost its mind: [A KNIFE!!! SHE STILL HAS A KNIFE!!!] [WTFWTFWTF! She hid a weapon! Isn’t that illegal?!] [Production, do something!!!] [Wait… what is she going to do with it?] The camera zoomed in, focusing tightly on my hands. I walked to the water’s edge, where the tide was receding from the murky, post-typhoon shore. I waded into a shallow tide pool and, with movements almost too fast for the camera to follow, snatched two dull, grey-scaled fish that were thrashing in the shallow water. Each was about the length of my hand. I also grabbed a few small, feisty crabs. Back at the stove, I pinned one of the fish to a flat rock. My left thumb held it firmly behind the gills. With my right hand, I brought the thin blade to its belly and, with a delicate flick of the wrist, made a single, swift cut. Zip. A hairline incision appeared on the fish’s underside. My wrist moved in a blur, the knife a flash of silver. There was no hacking, no bloody mess—just clean, efficient motion. In seconds, it was over. The fish lay still. The scales were gone, the rock beneath it clean except for a few drops of water. The gills and guts had been removed in one clean piece and discarded. What remained were two perfect, snow-white fillets of fish, trembling slightly in the sunlight, completely deboned and free of any blood. The entire process was silent, precise, and carried an air of cold, detached grace that was a world away from the clumsy idiot who’d nearly chopped her own finger off. A dead silence fell over the camp, broken only by the rustle of the wind through the trees. Lily had stopped crying, her mouth hanging open in a perfect ‘O’. Leo’s eyes were wide enough to fall out of his head. Even Bob, who had been resting with his eyes closed, suddenly opened them. His dark pupils contracted sharply, his gaze locking onto my hand, the knife, and the two flawless fillets. From the direction of the production crew, there was a collective gasp and the clatter of a walkie-talkie hitting the ground. After a moment of stunned silence, the live chat exploded again: [!!!!!!!!!!!] [WHO AM I, WHERE AM I, WHAT DID I JUST SEE???] [That knife work?? Is this f*cking magic!] [That’s better than any Michelin chef I’ve ever seen, holy sh*t!] [What just happened? Did I blink and miss it?] [Did… did the fish just fillet itself?] [SOMEONE PINCH ME! I think I’m hallucinating from hunger!] [Is this the same bimbo who couldn’t even hold a fish properly?] [The whiplash… my brain is broken…] [It’s scripted! It has to be! The producers set this up!] [Set what up, you idiot? You couldn’t create that with CGI!] I ignored the shocked stares and the mental image of the exploding chat. In my world, there was only the food in front of me and the small, struggling flame in my stove. I heated the pan, slicked it with the seabird fat, and an intoxicating, savory aroma filled the air. I sprinkled in the greyish bark powder. With a sizzle, a complex fragrance—a mix of earthy wood and subtle spice—cut through the camp’s damp, musty smell. Lily unconsciously sniffed the air. Leo’s stomach let out a loud, pathetic gurgle. The fish fillets went into the pan. The thin slices of fish hit the hot oil and instantly curled at the edges, turning a beautiful, opaque white. With a flick of my wrist, the fillets danced in the air. I tossed in a few crushed wild peppercorns, and their sharp, tingling scent exploded from the pan. Finally, I crumbled in a small piece of the last cracker to act as a thickener and poured in half a bottle of mineral water. My movements were seamless, imbued with a strange, natural rhythm, as if I weren’t cooking on a makeshift stove but conducting a symphony I knew by heart. Steam billowed from the pan, carrying with it a rich, impossibly delicious aroma that settled over the entire camp. It was a fusion of the fish’s sweetness, the bark’s unique fragrance, the peppercorns’ tingle, the richness of the fat, and the subtle, toasted flavor from the cracker. “Gulp…” The sound of someone swallowing hard came from the direction of the production crew. Leo’s eyes were glued to the small pan of bubbling, milky-white soup, his Adam’s apple bobbing uncontrollably. His pop-idol image, his sunny persona—all of it crumbled in the face of pure, primal hunger. He took a few involuntary steps forward, inhaling deeply as if the scent alone could sustain him. Lily watched, her eyes wide, unconsciously licking her cracked lips. And Bob Vance, the stoic mountain of a man, finally moved. He was suddenly at my side, his intense gaze fixed on the pan. The broth was simmering, its creamy white liquid coating the tender, curled pieces of fish. I picked up a clean half-coconut shell to use as a makeshift bowl, filled it with the steaming soup and a few pieces of fish, and handed it to the person closest to me: Bob. He was clearly taken aback. He probably expected me to serve the crying Lily, or the starving Leo, or even the director. A flicker of surprise crossed his dark eyes, but it was gone in an instant. He didn’t refuse, nor did he say thank you. He simply reached out with those long, elegant hands—the same hands praised as works of art in countless cinematic close-ups—and took the simple coconut bowl from me. Our fingers brushed, his cool to the touch. He looked down at the creamy soup in his hands, the steam blurring the sharp lines of his face. He stood there for a moment, then lowered his head, blew gently on the surface, and took a large sip directly from the edge of the bowl. The camera caught the movement of his throat as he swallowed. And then, time seemed to stop. Bob froze, his head still bowed over the bowl. After a few long seconds, he slowly, very slowly, raised his head. He had forgotten to manage his expression. Unconsciously, his tongue darted out to lick a stray drop of soup from the corner of his lips. It was an instinctive, almost boyish gesture. Then, the god-like A-lister leaned in, bringing that face, insured for millions and worshipped by fans worldwide, close to mine—the face of the girl the entire internet had labeled a useless diva. His voice was still low and deep, but now it held a new, barely concealed urgency. He looked at me, his gaze terrifyingly focused. “This soup…” He paused, as if searching for the right words, but in the end, all the complexity boiled down to a single, direct question. “Can I have another?”

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In my last life, we went skiing in the Swiss Alps for my sister-in-law’s birthday. But when the avalanche hit, my husband, Anthony, reached past me without a second’s hesitation and grasped his sister-in-law’s hand. I was left alone on the mountain, to die a hopeless death in the swirling blizzard. It was only then that I finally understood. To him, Claire wasn’t just his brother’s wife. She was the one who held his heart. So, this time, during a formal family dinner, I calmly asked for a divorce. The smile on his face froze, then twisted into a cold sneer. “You’d better not regret this.” He was so certain I was just throwing a tantrum. With a flourish of his pen, he signed the papers, looking at me as if he had me completely cornered. But this time, I was truly done with him. 1 “I will never regret it.” My words were sharp and final. The atmosphere at the dinner table plunged to freezing. Anthony’s hand, holding his fork, was trembling, his eyes locked on me. Through it all, my expression remained a perfect mask of calm. Finally, he slammed his silverware down with a clatter, snatched the divorce agreement, and scrawled his signature before hurling it, along with the pen, directly at me. The sharp corner of the paper sliced a thin line across my left cheek. The pen, a fountain pen, burst upon impact, and a dark bloom of ink spread across my white dress. No one had expected a family dinner to explode like this. Anthony spat out two parting shots: “I’ll see you at City Hall tomorrow. If you don’t show, I’ll have you dragged there.” “Mia, I’m dying to see just how tough you really are.” With that, he stormed out. Claire instinctively moved to follow him, but Anthony’s mother slammed her hand on the table. “Sit down!” she barked. “Eleanor, Anthony’s furious. He needs someone right now—” “Even if he needs comfort, it won’t come from you!” The matriarch’s tone was glacial, her eyes filled with a loathing for Claire she no longer bothered to hide. It was true that Claire had grown up in the Vance household; her mother had been their housekeeper for nearly thirty years. Out of respect for her long service, Eleanor Vance had funded Claire’s education and ensured she never lacked for anything the two Vance sons had. But Claire had crossed a line. At eighteen, she drugged the eldest son, Chris, and climbed into his bed. To protect her reputation, Chris had no choice but to marry her. But because of it, he voluntarily renounced his position as the heir to the Vance fortune and joined the military. He was gone for five years, returning only when both his legs were ruined. The golden boy of New York society was dragged into the mud, his future shattered. If Claire had remained loyal, Eleanor might have eventually forgiven her. But she didn’t. She set her sights on Anthony, and for that, Eleanor had come to despise her. She’d never said it aloud, but tonight, the facade was finally cracking. “Claire, you may be able to fool Anthony with that little act of yours, but don’t think for a second that I can’t see right through you.” “Even if Mia and Anthony divorce, you will never have a place by his side.” Claire’s fingers clenched into tight fists, her face draining of color. She bit her lip, her eyes shooting daggers of pure hatred at me. I simply met her gaze, offered a small, dismissive smile, and carefully folded the signed divorce agreement. Then, I picked up my fork and knife. And continued eating my dinner. The twisted, toxic game she and Anthony had been playing? I was no longer a participant. After a moment, Claire took a deep breath, her voice softening into a placating tone. “Eleanor, my feelings for Anthony are purely that of a sister-in-law for her brother. Nothing more.” “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be heading up to my room.” Eleanor let out a cold, humorless laugh and turned away, refusing to grant her another word. Claire excused herself from the table. When the dinner finally concluded, I was about to leave with the agreement when Eleanor called out to me. “Mia.” I paused but didn’t turn around. “I can see you’re serious about this. As Anthony’s mother, I should probably try to talk you out of it. They say you shouldn’t let the sun go down on an argument, but—” “This time, I won’t.” A flicker of surprise went through me. That was unexpected. I turned to face her, meeting her sharp, appraising gaze. The Vance family was one of New York’s most powerful dynasties. After her husband’s death, relatives had circled like vultures, but Eleanor had single-handedly secured her position. She was a woman of decisive action, always putting the family’s interests first. I had been certain she would oppose the divorce. Yet, here she was, not just allowing it, but seemingly supporting it. “What are your plans, after you leave Anthony?” I considered it. When I was first reborn, all I wanted was to go home—back to San Francisco, to leave New York forever. But then I thought, why should I be the one to leave? I aced my SATs to get into Columbia at eighteen. I spent a decade building my empire in this city. Why should I throw away everything I had fought for, all for a man? Finally, I answered, “I’m cutting all business ties with him.” From this day forward, our paths would never cross again. 2 Anthony and I were never a match of equals. To be precise, I married down. After I graduated high school, my father began introducing me to the world of business, taking me to all sorts of galas and events. I met Anthony at an auction in San Francisco. He was there with his mother. Throughout the entire event, his face was a stoic mask, cold and distant, as if nothing in the world could capture his interest. That is, until my father outbid his mother for a collector’s grade military combat knife, forcing her to pay a staggering thirty million. For the first time, a storm of emotion flickered in Anthony’s eyes. It was a complex mix of envy and resentment as he stared silently at his own mother. At first, I thought the knife held some special meaning for her. Later, at the reception, I found Anthony alone in the gardens. He was just standing there, lost in thought. I watched as he ripped a peony from the soil, root and all, and began tearing it apart, petal by petal, as if asking the flower, or maybe himself: “Why can’t she love me a little more? Why does she only have eyes for my brother?” “She was so proud when Chris got into his first-choice college. When it was my turn, it was like she’d been doused with cold water.” “I got into the best school, the best program. Everyone praises me, but why can’t she see it?” His silhouette was etched with a profound loneliness. He even began to curse his own existence, asking the heavens why, if they had already created his perfect older brother, they had bothered making him at all. And if he had to exist, why couldn’t he be treated with the same fairness? He was crying, silently. In that moment, though I couldn’t fully comprehend his pain, I didn’t approach him. I just stood there, a quiet presence in the shadows, keeping him company. My father had hoped I’d stay in California, go to Stanford. But some strange impulse pulled me to New York, to Columbia. My father was surprised, but he didn’t try to stop me. He told me, “You only get so many days on this earth. If you want something, you go after it. You fight for it, you take it.” So I did. I introduced myself to Anthony. I deliberately stepped into his world. We met at eighteen. We were married at twenty-two. We were together for a decade. For ten years, whatever Anthony wanted, if I could give it, I gave. If I couldn’t, but he still wanted it, I fought to get it for him. I knew his childhood was a void, devoid of sweetness. He once told me that in the past, relatives, even his own parents, would bring gifts specifically for Chris. He was always an afterthought, the one who got something “by the way.” Except for Claire. His so-called childhood friend, Claire. The candy she gave him was just for him. Even if it was expired, it became the only glimmer of light in his bleak childhood. That was why, time and time again, he would abandon me for her. I used to tell myself, “Claire is just a symbol of his childhood comfort. The way he treats her has nothing to do with love.” But I overestimated my own strength. When I was burning up with a fever, Claire happened to twist her ankle. Anthony chose her. When I needed a date for a gala, so did she, because Chris couldn’t go. Anthony chose her again. Birthdays, anniversaries… he’d make a promise every time, and he’d break it every time. There were times I couldn’t take it anymore. “Are you my husband, or are you Claire’s?” I’d demand. And every time, his response was a dagger of disappointment. “Chris is injured. He doesn’t want to see anyone. His wife is already going through so much. Can’t you just be a little more understanding?” In those moments, the words would die in my throat, my heart constricting with a pain so sharp it stole my breath. Anthony’s friends would tell me to be more generous. “If he had feelings for Claire,” they’d say, “he never would have let her marry his brother in the first place.” And Claire was always there, playing the part of the innocent peacemaker. “There’s nothing between Anthony and me. We’ve never crossed any lines. You shouldn’t overthink things. I will always be your sister-in-law.” But is an emotional affair not still an affair? This marriage became a crucible of pain and torment. I thought about divorce countless times. But I could never bring myself to do it. I couldn’t sever the bond. I couldn’t let go of Anthony, the boy whose loneliness had captured my heart at first sight. A decade of love had woven itself into the very fiber of my being. Until my last life, on Claire’s birthday. Until the avalanche hit, and he reached past me to grab her hand, leaving me to die on that mountain. He didn’t hear my desperate cries for help. He didn’t hear me scream, “I can’t see the path!” He didn’t hear my sobs. And in that final, freezing moment, I found a strange sense of release. You only get so many days on this earth. There was no point in clinging to this any longer. I’ve been given a second chance. And I will not walk the same path again. 3 Eleanor urged me to think carefully. Even with a divorce, business was business, and personal ties were personal ties. After six years of marriage, our financial interests were deeply entangled; nearly every one of our major projects was a joint venture. Untangling them now would be catastrophic. Besides, at this moment, the only company with the capacity to absorb my corporation’s partnerships was Anthony’s. I just smiled. They all seemed to have forgotten one crucial fact: Anthony was never my only option. I chose him simply because I loved him. After leaving the Vance estate, I received a text from an unknown number with a San Francisco area code. “Heard you’re divorcing Anthony?” My eyebrow arched. I stared at the message for a long moment before deleting it, blocking the number, and calling my father. I asked him for the name of the best lawyer in San Francisco. Leo. The next day, I had just arrived at City Hall when Anthony’s car, a black sedan, pulled up behind me. Claire was in the passenger seat. She rolled down the window, a faint, knowing smile on her lips. “Mia, don’t get the wrong idea.” “I was running a little fever last night. Anthony just took me to the hospital, that’s why…” I didn’t bother dignifying her with a response, walking straight past the front of their car. Her expression instantly soured. Anthony’s brow furrowed in disapproval. “Mia, didn’t you hear your sister-in-law talking to you?” “When are you going to drop that spoiled rich girl attitude?” A sharp laugh escaped my lips. I turned, my smile dripping with sarcasm. “You know, Anthony, I’m genuinely curious. Your brother’s legs are ruined, but he’s not dead. Are you sure he doesn’t mind you being so eager to take care of his wife?” “Or is this some kind of threesome thing you all are into?” Anthony’s face flushed with rage, his hands balling into fists. “Mia, what the hell are you talking about!?” “I have no feelings for Claire! I’ve only ever seen her as my sister-in-law! When is this going to end?” “You’re going to divorce me because I peeled a shrimp for her?” “If you’re this crazy, maybe I should check you into a—” CRACK! The crisp sound echoed in the quiet morning air. I had stepped right up to him and slapped him, hard, across the face. His words died in his throat. He stared at me, his expression a mixture of disbelief, confusion, and something that looked almost like hurt. Claire scrambled out of the car, rushing to his side to inspect his face, where the red imprint of my hand was already starting to bloom. Her eyes welled with tears as she stood between us. “Mia, how could you hit him?” “What did he do wrong? If you have a problem, take it out on me… but how could you…” Her voice broke into a sob, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. I scoffed. Strangely, Anthony ignored Claire completely. His eyes, full of a complex storm of emotions, remained fixed on me. Inside the clerk’s office, just as I was about to sign the final application, Anthony suddenly grabbed my hand. The tips of his fingers trembled, almost imperceptibly. “Mia, are you sure you want to keep this up?” “You know I won’t back down. And I will never, ever beg you to come back.” “When the thirty-day cooling-off period is over, I won’t be coming back to cancel this.” He spoke each word with deliberate weight, as if reminding me—and himself. Once these papers were signed, there was no turning back for either of us. He was betting. Betting that I couldn’t live without him. Betting that this was just a tantrum. Betting that deep down, I still loved him. But this time— I smiled, and then, with slow, deliberate care, I signed my name to the divorce application. Thinking back, if I hadn’t come to New York, if I hadn’t been the one to walk into his life, we probably never would have happened at all. Now, all I was doing was returning things to their natural state. A few moments later, I held the receipt for the thirty-day cooling-off period in my hand. Anthony’s gaze was so intense it felt like it could burn a hole through me. His voice was laced with ice. “Mia, you’re the one who can’t leave me. Don’t come crying to me when you want to cancel this.” With that, he took Claire’s hand and walked away. I stood my ground, silently watching his back as it receded into the distance. No, I thought. That day will never come.

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I was once the proudest daughter of a titan of history; I became the disgrace who stained his name. After seven years in the black market, I finally sent our national treasure home, but my own body was left for dead in a foreign land. My soul returned, just in time to hear him roar to the world: “That degenerate daughter’s death is the greatest contribution she could have ever made to our culture!” Dad, the honor you built your entire life upon? Your daughter guarded it for you with her life. 1 On my twenty-fifth birthday, my father told me over the phone that he wished I would die. It was because I had fallen. Fallen from a journalist who wouldn’t bend the truth an inch, to someone who ran with the jackals and thieves of the black market antiquities trade. This was my seventh year in the shadows. Seven years to finally work my way into the core of the smuggling syndicate. My old mentor from J-school had disowned me, calling me a disgrace blinded by greed. My former colleagues scoffed at the very mention of my name, considering me a stain on the profession. I remained unmoved, a solitary figure walking through filth. I hadn’t had a single night of peaceful sleep in seven years. Three days ago, it ended. After sending the final location of a priceless national artifact, I was discovered. My body was dumped at some forgotten ruin in a foreign country. My soul, it seems, hitched a ride back with the recovered artifact, returning at last to my father’s side. I hadn’t seen him in years. Frost had claimed the hair at his temples. The back I remembered as straight as a pine was stooped now, and behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes held a weariness that never left. He was a titan in the field of history, yet he looked as though he were being crushed by an invisible mountain. He was at a symposium. In the audience, his academic rival, Dr. Alistair Finch, saw him and rose to his feet, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes plastered on his face. “Samuel, my dear friend. There’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.” My father, his expression grim and focused, flinched almost imperceptibly. Finch’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried through the auditorium with practiced ease. “I hear your daughter is making quite a name for herself in the antiquities black market. A real natural, they say. I was just wondering… is that what you’d call ‘a family tradition’?” He drew out the final words, each syllable dripping with unconcealed mockery. The color drained from my father’s face. He gripped the edge of the lectern, his knuckles showing white. He took a deep, steadying breath, and when he spoke, his voice was as cold and hard as frozen earth. “I, Samuel Croft, have built my entire life on two things: scholarship and integrity.” He paused, his eyes sweeping the room. “I have no daughter.” As if that wasn’t enough, he straightened his slightly stooped spine, his voice suddenly raw with a final, desperate hatred. “That degenerate who shamed my name should have died out there seven years ago!” he roared. “Her death would be the greatest contribution she could ever make to my family—and to the world of culture!” A pain, sharper than the cold river water that had filled my lungs, tore through my spectral form. The few times I had tried to come home over the years, I was met with the same venom. “You’re a parasite on the academic world. How dare you show your face here?” “Get out! You don’t belong here!” “Dad, I came all this way. Please, just let me in for a glass of water.” “I’ll leave right after, I promise. I won’t stay.” I would grab his arm, trying to find a flicker of the father I knew, begging for just a few more moments in his presence. But his face would darken, and one time, he snatched the rare 18th-century manuscript rubbing I’d found for him and hurled it into the fireplace. The flames devoured the fragile paper, and with it, the last light in my eyes. “The Croft family does not accept stolen goods!” Guests at his party would stare and whisper. “Poor Samuel. A lifetime of renown, only to raise a daughter like that.” “I know. I heard she deals in all sorts of dirty, back-alley trades. No questions asked.” My face would burn with shame. I would look at my furious father, say nothing, and turn to leave. I’d spend the night on the cold stone steps outside, covered in soot and ridicule. I was hurt, but I never blamed him. My father’s life was his work. He valued integrity and a clean name more than life itself. Growing up, the one thing he always told me was, To be a great scholar, you must first be a great person. You must answer to history, and you must answer to your conscience. To live up to that, I devoured books. I made him proud, graduating from one of the top J-schools in the country, determined to become a journalist who exposed the truth. The sound of snickering in the auditorium pulled me from my thoughts. I looked at the smug faces of my father’s colleagues. They were enjoying this. Everyone in their circle knew the story: Samuel Croft’s brilliant daughter, kicked out of journalism for a falsified report, her promising career destroyed. The man who was once so proud of me had become their favorite punchline. Especially for Finch, who had spent his youth in my father’s academic shadow and had resented him ever since. His words were designed to kill. Hearing my father’s declaration, Finch feigned surprise. “Oh, Samuel, you shouldn’t say that,” he said, his eyes glinting with triumphant scorn. “No matter how she turned out, she’s still your blood. Your daughter. You can’t escape that. It’s in your bones.” My father’s chest heaved. He clenched his jaw, using every ounce of his strength to remain standing. “I have no such daughter. The things she’s done are an insult to our ancestors!” he seethed. “God himself will see that animal punished one day!” He couldn’t stay a moment longer. He turned and practically fled from the stage, his retreat looking almost like a panicked escape. A wave of stifled laughter filled the hall. I floated beside him, my form nearly transparent with grief. In his prime, he commanded respect wherever he went. Now, in his twilight years, he had to endure this humiliation. Because of me. I watched as his tightly pressed lips began to tremble, as the rims of his eyes slowly turned red. It felt like a thousand steel needles were piercing my soul. I knew he couldn’t hear me, but I stood there beside him and whispered the words I had held back for seven long years. “Dad, I’m sorry.” Back home, he collapsed into the mahogany chair in his study, gasping for air. A sheen of cold sweat covered his forehead. The defiant stand he’d taken at the symposium had drained him completely. After a moment, his hand trembling, he reached for the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a locked rosewood box. The keyhole was slightly rusted, a sign it hadn’t been opened in a long time, yet the wood around it was worn smooth from years of being touched. He carefully unlocked it. I froze. It was my first published academic paper, from when I was sixteen. An analysis of oracle bone inscriptions from the Shang Dynasty. Over a decade had passed. The once-crisp pages of the journal were yellowed and brittle. But my father put on his reading glasses, sat up straight, and turned to the title page. There, in his own elegant script, was a dedication written with his Parker fountain pen. The strong, sure strokes were a reflection of the man he used to be. For my daughter, Claire—May your pen be your sword, and may you spend your life guarding the light of history. His voice, barely a whisper, was choked with a sob he could no longer contain. A tide of sorrow crashed over me, my entire being consumed by it, leaving me breathless. The memory was so vivid. A fall afternoon, the sun slanting through the library windows, casting golden dust motes in the air. I had sprinted all the way home, the freshly printed journal clutched in my hand like a holy text. “Dad! It’s published! Dad, they published my paper!” I shouted it all the way up the stairs of the faculty housing, startling the whole building. My father was in his prime then, full of life. He rushed out of his study to meet me, his face alight with a joy he couldn’t hide. He pulled on a pair of white gloves before taking the journal from me, his hands reverent. He looked at it, then looked at it again, the light in his eyes brighter than the autumn sun. “My brilliant girl,” he’d said, his voice thick with emotion. “You are your father’s pride. I am so proud of you.” He had gripped my shoulders, the first time I’d ever seen him so openly emotional. I remember he canceled all his meetings that day. He showed the journal to everyone he met, thumping his chest with pride. “My daughter, Claire. Sixteen years old. Wrote this analysis of oracle bones all by herself.” Every colleague who passed by gave a thumbs-up, their praise genuine. “A lioness from a lion’s den!” “Samuel, she’s surpassed you already. The sky’s the limit for this one.” No one could have imagined that just a few years later, I’d be excommunicated from the world of journalism for one “falsified” report. The day I came home with my luggage, his eyes were bloodshot. It was the first time I had ever seen my father cry. He was holding a wooden ruler. He struck me with it once, then couldn’t bring himself to do it again. Instead, he whipped it down hard across his own palm. “I didn’t teach you right,” he’d choked out. “There is something wrong with the heart of this family!” That night, we sat back-to-back in his study in silence until dawn. From that day on, my father held his head low in the academic world. The straight spine began to curve. He locked himself in his study, no longer attending the salons and conferences he once loved. He was terrified of anyone mentioning me, of hearing their pity or their thinly veiled scorn for how I’d “lost my way.” Seven years passed like that. And I had walked a path in complete opposition to his dreams, mingling with criminals in the dark underbelly of the world. At first, he yelled, he hit me, he quoted every classic text he could think of to try and make me repent. But when he saw I was “unrepentant,” he fell into despair. He changed the locks. He cut off all contact. Even when I waited all night on his doorstep, all I received was a look of pure hatred. We were no longer father and daughter. We were strangers, colder than ice. So, to see that he had kept this paper, treasured it all these years… I couldn’t believe my eyes. A bitter sorrow, one my father had buried for seven years, wrapped itself around me. I could see him, in the dead of countless lonely nights, holding this paper and weeping in silence. My fall from grace had shattered his pride; the image of his secret tears was like a bullet to my soul. He stroked the line of his dedication again and again, until his own tears blurred the lenses of his glasses and he could no longer see the words. He took off the glasses, squeezing his eyes shut in pain as he leaned back. After a long time, he opened them again. From a hidden compartment in the box, he pulled out a newspaper clipping. It was an op-ed he had written a few years ago, denouncing the chaos of the black market and publicly calling me out by name—a greedy, soulless disgrace to my ancestors. He placed the clipping next to my award-winning paper. One was the beginning of his pride. The other was the end of it. He stared at the two artifacts, his clouded eyes filled with an unspeakable, wrenching conflict. I knew then: the depth of his hatred for the woman I had become was born from the unwavering love he held for the girl I once was. Time ticked by. He sat there, motionless, from dusk until deep into the night. It was the rumbling of his own stomach that finally broke the spell. He rose unsteadily and went to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for a few withered vegetables. I stared. Those were the ones I had secretly bought for him three days ago. Maybe it was a sixth sense, but three days prior, I’d been overcome with an intense, inexplicable urge to go home. I bought a trunk full of his favorite foods and, while he was out giving a lecture, I stocked his fridge. When he came home and saw me, his face twisted into the familiar mask of disgust. “Take your things and get out!” he had roared. “The Croft name stands for integrity and learning! I don’t want these things in my house! They’re dirty!” His words were harsh, but I was used to it. “If you think they’re dirty, just wash them a few times,” I’d replied quietly. “They’ll come clean.” I carried the groceries into the kitchen and cooked him a meal of all his favorite dishes. Then I forced a smile. “Dad, we’ve never really had a drink together. Have one with me tonight?” For some reason, that day, he didn’t throw me out immediately. He sat down at the table, his face a thundercloud. Father and daughter, closer than anyone, yet separated by a wall of ice. I poured the wine myself, glass after glass, until my head started to spin. Then I looked at him. “Dad, it’s been seven years. I know I’ve been a disgrace to you.” My voice was thick. “But whether you believe me or not… I have never done a single thing… against my conscience. I… I really had my reasons.” His hand, holding his wine glass, froze. Before the rim could touch his lips, he slammed it down on the floor. It shattered. “Reasons? I may be old, Claire, but I’m not blind!” he spat. “What reason could make you abandon your journalistic ethics to write false reports? What reason could make you stay away from home for seven years, running with scum in the black market? What reason could make you a dealer in stolen history, a degenerate who has forgotten everything she was taught?” Shame made my blood run cold. I couldn’t utter a single word of defense. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t fallen, that I was undercover. But the oath of my mission was a lock on my lips. His hand, withered and thin, slammed down on the table. A glint of moisture, a final flicker of hope, shone in his eyes. “Tell me! If you have a reason, can’t you even tell your own father?” My silence was my confession. He took it as guilt. With a roar of fury, he flipped the table. Food and sauces splattered all over me. He glared, his eyes burning with betrayal, his voice cracking with every word. “I ask you, what did I teach you when you were a child?” he cried, his voice breaking. “‘To build a heart for the world, to secure a destiny for the people, to carry on the lost teachings of the past, and to create peace for all generations!’ Have you forgotten it all?” He pounded his own chest, the thuds echoing in the silent room. “And what have you done? Can you truly say you have no regrets? That your conscience is clear?” Then, he slapped me. Hard. A ringing filled my ears, and seven years of buried grief erupted. I shot to my feet, screaming, losing control for the first time. “I, Claire Croft, have no regrets about anything I’ve done! My conscience is clear!” My father stared at me, his body trembling, his eyes filled with utter disappointment. He staggered back. I moved to steady him, but he shoved me away. “Dad…” He just shook his head, looking at me as if I were a monster. “Don’t call me that. You are not my daughter,” he said. “My daughter died seven years ago.” He looked right through me, and with every ounce of strength he had left, he forced the final words through his teeth. “You killed her.” Then he pushed me out the door and slammed it shut. My vision blurred. I ran, fleeing into the darkness below. My hand, cold and shaking, dialed the number I knew by heart. I didn’t wait for him to speak. “Chief, please,” I sobbed into the phone. “I don’t want to be undercover anymore. I just want to be a real journalist again. After this mission is over, please, can you give me my life back?” A heavy sigh on the other end. A long pause. “Claire, you know you’re the only one who’s gotten inside the syndicate’s core…” “Just one more year. We’ll wrap this up in one more year…” “One year, then another year, then another!” I shrieked, my voice filled with despair. “I was twenty-two, Chief. I’m twenty-nine now. It’s been seven years. I’m so tired.” I hung up before he could reply, collapsed under a tree, and wept. … The memory faded. Watching my father pull those shriveled tomatoes from the fridge, about to cook a sad, lonely bowl of noodles, my heart ached. A sudden, sharp knock echoed from the front door. He glanced at the door, then at the pot on the stove, and quickly dumped the tomatoes into the trash. He took a few deep breaths, straightened his clothes, and walked over to open it. “You degenerate! I told you, you are not a Croft anymore!” he yelled as the door swung open. “Don’t you ever come back here again!” He stopped. Standing on his doorstep were several uniformed police officers and a solemn-faced, middle-aged man. My father blinked in confusion. The man in the lead—my Chief—snapped to attention. His eyes were red. His voice was heavy. “Dr. Croft,” he said. “We’re… we’re here to bring Claire home.” My father’s brow furrowed at the sight of the police. “What has she done now?” he demanded, trying to peer past them into the hallway, searching for me. “I’ve already disowned her. The Croft family has no place for such a stain on its name. You don’t need to bring her here. This isn’t her home.” His face was flushed with anger, and he tried to slam the door. The Chief gently blocked it with his hand. He shook his head. He tried to speak, but his eyes welled up first. He looked at my father, his voice trembling uncontrollably. “Dr. Croft, we’re… we were Claire’s colleagues.”

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