Category: English

I’ve always had a terrible sense of direction. It took Jackie six years to teach me how to navigate the world. Every summer, he’d drag me through the winding streets of Boston, making me memorize every brick and cobblestone of Beacon Hill and the North End. When I got lost, he’d laugh, affectionately rapping his knuckles against my forehead. “If you can’t even find your way home, what am I going to do with you later in life?” Eventually, I memorized every turn. My sense of direction became flawless. Then came junior year of high school. A transfer student, Candice, joined our class. She was a quiet scholarship kid who was constantly getting lost, which made her an easy target for the meaner kids at school. It was Jackie who stepped in, standing between her and the whispers. After that, he started driving her home every single day, going miles out of his way. That detour lasted all the way until graduation. And I was left walking alone. Today is our joint birthday—mine and Jackie’s. By tradition, our families always celebrate together. Standing outside the restaurant, the rain pouring down, he took a call. When he hung up, his face was tight with anxiety. “Candice got turned around in the city,” he said, not looking at me. “She’s lost. I have to go get her.” And for the hundredth time, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me standing alone in the rain. I took a slow breath, pulled out my phone, and logged into the college enrollment portal. I changed my decision. Jackie spent years teaching me how to find my way. But looking back over these last two years, of all the roads we traveled, not a single one led back to him. If that’s the case, I’m done walking. … He hung up, his face full of raw worry for Candice. I squeezed the gift box in my coat pocket, the cardboard bowing under my grip. The words I’d spent all week preparing withered in my throat. I only managed a quiet, “Go ahead.” When I walked into the restaurant, the rain was still drumming against the glass. Jackie’s mother, Mrs. Landry, waved me over with a warm smile. “There’s my girl! Come sit. Where’s Jackie?” “He had to go pick up a classmate,” I said softly. “Who?” “Candice. Candice Wells.” A shadow of disapproval crossed Mrs. Landry’s face. She patted the back of my hand consolingly. “That boy… he doesn’t know what’s important.” I forced a smile and let it drop. A while later, the door swung open. Jackie was soaked through, water dripping from his jacket. But Candice, standing beside him, was completely dry. A dull, cold knot tightened in my chest. Jackie always hated the feeling of wet clothes sticking to his skin. He was the type to complain for hours about a damp collar. But right now, there wasn’t a trace of annoyance on his face. He smiled, introducing her. “This is Candice. She’s a close friend of mine and Chelsea’s. I thought she should join us for our birthday dinner.” The private dining room went dead silent. Thankfully, the waiter came in to take our orders, breaking the tension. Midway through the meal, Jackie reached across the table and placed a prime piece of ribeye onto Candice’s plate. Mrs. Landry cleared her throat pointedly. “Jackie, since when do you stop serving Chelsea first?” He offered a quick, easy grin. “Mom, come on. Of course I’m going to take care of Chelsea. I’m just being a good host.” A tiny spark of hope flickered in my chest. But a moment later, he cracked open a lobster tail and dropped it onto my plate. I stared at it, then gently pushed the plate back. “What’s wrong?” he asked, genuinely confused. “I’m allergic to shellfish, Jackie,” I said, my voice flat. “I have been my whole life.” He froze, his expression blanking. “Right. God, I’m sorry. I forgot.” Sensing the sudden chill, Candice tried to smooth things over. “You guys are so lucky. Sharing a birthday, having your families celebrate together like this. It’s beautiful.” “We’ve done it since we were kids,” Jackie said, his voice warming up again. He ladled some butternut squash soup into a bowl for me. “Here, Chelsea. Don’t be mad. Try this.” After dinner, he drove us home. Candice sat in the passenger seat; I sat in the back. As we drove past the Prudential Center, Jackie let out a soft laugh. “Remember this place?” I looked out the window, answering automatically, “Not really.” But he didn’t even hear me. I looked at the front seats. Candice was playfully swatting his shoulder. “Why do you keep bringing that up? We said we wouldn’t talk about it!” My breath caught. He hadn’t been asking me. He was talking to her. It felt like a physical blow, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. I sat there, wondering what I was doing in the backseat of this car. It was humiliating. “Seriously, Candice, you have the worst sense of direction. How do you get lost in a mall with only three exits?” “It’s not my fault! That place is a maze!” Jackie’s laugh was loud, easy. “Okay, okay, I won’t tease. But really, what are you going to do in the future with a sense of direction like that?” Candice’s voice dropped to a soft, teasing murmur. “Well… I have you, don’t I?” They kept talking, trading inside jokes and references I didn’t understand. The back of my throat burned. To hide how completely out of place I was, I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the cold glass, pretending to sleep. Once we dropped Candice off, the car plunged into silence. “Chelsea,” Jackie said quietly, “how long are you going to pretend to be asleep?” “I’m not pretending.” He smirked, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. “Come on. I know you too well to fall for that.” When he pulled up to my driveway, he turned around. “Did you say something to my mom? She was giving me looks all through dinner.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Good.” He paused, reaching over to touch my arm. “Chelsea, don’t be jealous. You know we’re getting engaged after college. That’s a given. Everyone knows it.” “Candice just gets so easily turned around, and I worry about her. That’s all.” “Tomorrow, let’s hit the grocery store. I’ll cook you something special. Deal?” I nodded slowly. “Sure.” He smiled, satisfied, and ruffled my hair. “That’s my girl.” I looked away, staring out the window. I had seen it. The matching woven leather bracelet on his wrist—the exact same one Candice was wearing. The next morning, his car was already idling outside my house. When he saw me, his smile was bright. “Ready, Chelsea?” At the grocery store, he pushed the cart, stopping in the produce aisle to pick up a carton of sour plums. “Try these. They’re great for you.” I stared at the carton. I’ve hated sour food since I was a child. But they were Candice’s favorite. Without a word, I picked up a small container of sliced mangoes instead—something I actually liked—and walked toward the register. He frowned. “You want that? The smell is a bit much, isn’t it?” My voice was even. “I’ve always loved mangoes, Jackie.” He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Then, he pulled out his phone and swiped to his notes app. It was a note he’d kept since we were kids—a digital log of everything I liked and disliked, from my favorite coffee roast to my allergies. Except, when I glanced at the screen, I saw the last edit date. Two years ago. Since Candice had entered the picture, the note had sat abandoned, a relic of a past he’d forgotten to keep up with. His face paled slightly. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “I’m sorry. I’ll update it later.” “Don’t worry about it.” I dropped the mangoes into the cart. “Let’s go.” After we checked out, he carried the bags to the car. “I’m making roasted lamb chops tonight. You said you wanted them last time, right?” “Last time” was a year ago. But I just smiled. “Sounds great. Just don’t overseason them like last time.” “I know, I know. I’ve got it down,” he said, taking my hand as we walked toward the exit. Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He glanced at me, hesitating before answering. “Hey. What’s wrong?” The voice on the other end was frantic, high-pitched. I couldn’t make out the words, but Jackie’s brow furrowed instantly. “Where are you? What’s around you?” He looked at me, his voice dropping. “Candice’s lost again.” Maybe I wanted to test him. Maybe I wanted to see if there was any part of him left that chose me. For the first time in my life, I didn’t step back. “Call an Uber for her, Jackie,” I said quietly. He shook his head, his hand already slipping from mine. “I can’t. It’s not safe. What if the driver takes the wrong route? She won’t even realize she’s in the wrong place.” I stared at him, feeling the familiar, cold ache settle deep into my chest. It was exactly what I expected. “I’ll drop her home first and come straight back to you. I promise.” And there it was. The moment he finished teaching me how to navigate the world, his very next move was to leave me behind in it. I walked home alone. My throat felt tight, dry. I unscrewed a bottle of water and took a sip, but it tasted salty. I couldn’t tell if it was the water or my tears. I waited from noon until dinner, and then past midnight. He never showed up. I was about to go to bed when I opened Instagram. Candice had posted a photo. It was a shot from behind: Jackie, holding an umbrella, tilting it completely over her shoulder to keep her dry while his own back was soaked. The caption read: “Finally, I know what it feels like to feel safe.” In the comments, classmates had already chimed in: “Oh my god, is that Jackie? Aren’t he and Chelsea practically engaged?” “Out with the old, in with the new, I guess. Looks like Candice won this one!” Candice had replied with a shy monkey emoji: “Don’t say things like that.” I stared at the screen for a long time. Then my phone buzzed. A text from Jackie: “Just got her settled. Sorry for the late reply.” “Those comments on her post are just people joking around. Don’t take them seriously.” “I’ll pick you up for driving school tomorrow morning. Sleep well.” I typed out two letters: “Ok.” He said he was late replying. But the truth was, he was two years late. And some things can’t be fixed. I opened my laptop and stared at the digital acceptance letter from Boston College. Going to BC together had been our pact since we were kids. But since Candice arrived, even our dreams had been crowded out. Without hesitating, I logged into the portal, clicked to decline my spot, and officially accepted the offer from the University of Chicago. If there was no room for me in his life, I would step out of it entirely. The next morning, his car was waiting at the curb. Candice was already in the passenger seat, beaming. “Morning, Chelsea!” Jackie had promised our families he’d help me prep for my driving test. But of course, Candice was here too. By now, I was used to our duo being turned into a trio. I opened the back door and climbed in. Jackie frowned, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “Chelsea, why don’t you sit up front? You haven’t sat next to me in forever.” I shook my head. “It’s fine. More legroom back here.” He started the engine, offering a quick explanation. “Candice wanted to start practicing for her license too, so I figured I’d sign her up at the same school.” “I’m working on getting my motorcycle permit, so I can hang out while you guys practice.” “That’s nice,” I said. Though we were in the same graduating class, Jackie was a year older, having taken his test the previous winter. Hearing me agree so easily, he seemed to relax. “You really need to focus, Chelsea. Don’t be as stubborn as you were when we were kids. You were a nightmare to teach.” Candice chuckled. “Was Chelsea really that bad?” “Terrible,” Jackie said, his voice lifting with fond memory. “I had to show her the same turn eight times before it stuck. In the end, I had to walk her through the neighborhood every day for three months just to give her a basic sense of direction.” He was smiling, lost in the warmth of the memory. Candice watched his expression, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before she fell silent. When we arrived at the training lot, the summer sun was brutal. As we got out of the car, Candice gasped, shielding her arms. “Oh, it’s so hot. My skin breaks out in hives when I’m in the sun too long.” Jackie’s brow furrowed. He immediately went to the glove box, rummaged around, and pulled out a pair of UV protective arm sleeves. “Here,” he said, handing them to her. “Put these on.” That glove box was where he kept things specifically for me. I used to burn easily, and he had bought those exact sleeves for me last summer, promising he’d never let me get sunburned. Now, he handed them over to someone else without a second thought. Candice slipped them on, her fingers lightly brushing against his sleeve as she smiled up at him. “Thanks, Jackie.” “Of course. Don’t worry about it.” I watched them, waiting for the familiar pang of jealousy, but nothing came. Maybe I was numb, or maybe I had simply stopped caring. After thirty minutes of driving practice, Jackie brought over two iced lattes from the nearby cafe. “Take a break, girls. Have a drink.” I looked at the cups. Candice’s was lukewarm, no ice. Mine was sweating with condensation, packed with ice cubes. I didn’t say anything. He had memorized Candice’s cycle and knew she shouldn’t have cold drinks during her period. But today was the start of mine, too. “What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing my silence. I wanted to tell him I couldn’t drink cold liquids today. But then I saw him reach out to gently wipe a speck of dust from the corner of Candice’s mouth. The words dissolved. “Nothing,” I said quietly. Our instructor, a middle-aged man leaning against the fence, chuckled. “You’re a sweet kid. Real attentive to your girlfriend’s needs, getting her the room-temperature one.” Candice blushed, lowering her eyes. Jackie froze, glancing at me before quickly correcting the man. “Oh, no, sir. Candice isn’t my girlfriend.” The instructor pointed between them, then back at me. “Come on, son. The way you look at her versus the way you look at your sister over there? It’s night and day. Anyone can see Miss Candice is the one.” The air turned heavy, thick with awkwardness. Even a stranger could see it. To Jackie, she was the girl he loved; I was just the sister he was obligated to care for. Candice, wanting to break the tension, quickly changed the subject. “Jackie, did you submit your final college decision yet?” “Yeah. Boston College, like we planned.” Candice’s eyes lit up. “My scores are good enough! I can go there too.” “We can all stay together.” Jackie reached out, affectionately rubbing the top of her head. “Look how excited you are.” He turned to me. “What about you, Chelsea? Did you lock it in?” “I took care of it,” I said. He frowned. “Make sure you do. The portal closes in two days. Don’t leave it to the last minute.” “I know.” He studied my face for a moment, but didn’t press further. On graduation night, our class gathered for an after-party on the football field. Someone in the crowd started chanting: “Jackie! When are you finally going to ask Chelsea out? You two have been acting like a married couple since middle school!” “Yeah, come on, Landry! We’re waiting!” The cheering grew louder, drawing the attention of students from other classes. “Say something, Jackie!” As the eyes of our entire graduating class fell on us, I felt my heart rate spike. With nowhere to hide, Jackie offered a stiff smile and opened his mouth to speak. Beside him, Candice lowered her head. She tugged at his sleeve, her shoulders trembling slightly. “Jackie… I think I want to go home.” Jackie looked at her, his smile vanishing instantly. He turned back to the crowd, his voice cold. “Alright, guys. Stop it.” Hearing those words, a sudden lightness washed over me. There was no bitterness, no crushing disappointment. Just a clean, quiet release. The crowd went quiet, people trading confused glances. I turned and walked away from the field. “Chelsea!” he called, jogging to catch up. I stopped but didn’t turn around. “Why are you leaving? Everyone’s watching,” he said, his breath hitching. “I wanted to leave. Is that a crime?” He went quiet for a second. “She was crying, Chelsea. How was I supposed to answer them?” “She’s fragile. What did you want me to say to her? You have to be understanding.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Understanding?” He grabbed my wrist. “Yes. Our relationship is between the two of us. Do we really need to put on a show for everyone else?” “You’re right,” I said softly, pulling my hand away. So he did understand that relationships were supposed to be between two people. He just chose to ignore it. “In a few days, we’re going to Lake Tahoe to unwind,” he continued, trying to soften his tone. “I booked three tickets. Candice’s coming too. She’s never seen the lake.” When we were kids, we promised each other we’d spend the summer after graduation in Lake Tahoe. Just the two of us, renting a cabin, doing nothing but walking along the shore. He had promised that even if I got lost, he would always find me. Now, he was talking about three tickets. “Chelsea?” “Yeah.” “What do you think?” “We’ll see,” I said, and walked away. The next afternoon was the practical portion of our driving school. Candice and I were paired up for a long-distance drive to a test site in the suburbs. Once we cleared the city limits, the roads became a tangled web of highway exits and unmarked turnoffs. I was completely lost. But Candice drove with absolute confidence, navigating the twists and turns without even opening her GPS. I watched her, a small doubt creeping in. Wasn’t she supposed to have no sense of direction? But I kept the question to myself. We took a sharp turn down a secluded, tree-lined service road. Suddenly, the engine sputtered and died. My phone showed zero bars of service. With the sun setting fast, panic began to rise in my chest. But Candice calmly tapped the screen of her smart band. “What’s that?” I asked. “Jackie got it for my birthday,” she said, showing me her wrist. “It has a built-in GPS tracker. He was worried I’d get lost.” I stared at the woven leather band on her wrist—the perfect match to the one Jackie wore. My heart missed a beat. So that was it. A small light on her band flickered, indicating that the signal had been sent and help was on the way. In that moment, the last remaining spark inside me went cold and dark. An hour later, Jackie arrived with a highway patrol car. He sprinted toward us, his face pale with terror. He threw his arms around me, checking my arms and face. “Chelsea, are you okay? Are you hurt?” “I’m fine,” I said. Once he was sure I was intact, he turned to Candice, his voice dropping to a low, soothing murmur as he talked to her. I leaned against the hood of the broken-down car, looking out at the dark trees. I thought I would feel a rush of emotion seeing him run to me first. But the truth was bitter. If it hadn’t been for the tracker he bought her, we would still be sitting in the dark. Jackie, I thought, I am so tired of being an extra in your movie. For once, he didn’t drive Candice home. He arranged for her to ride back with the patrol officer, insisting that he needed to drive me home himself because I must have been shaken up. When we got back to my house, I went straight to my room to change. Jackie sat on the sofa in the living room, waiting. My laptop was open on the coffee table. When I walked back out, he was staring at the screen, his face completely pale. He looked up at me, his voice trembling. “Chelsea… why does your portal say you accepted the offer from UChicago?”

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I was trapped in a survival horror game with the heir to New York’s most ruthless empire—the same man who had humiliated me in the real world. Only here, the script was flipped. He was forced to play an NPC hopelessly, tragically obsessed with me. Dean Payne. In reality, he was aloof, arrogant, untouchable. Right now, he was on one knee, trembling so violently it looked like he might shatter. “Please,” he rasped, his voice rough with need. “Just give me…” The System flashing in my peripheral vision demanded that I say yes. But it didn’t give me a script. I leaned in, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, and let out a soft, mocking laugh. “You look absolutely pathetic like this,” I whispered. “It’s sickening.” 01 I won’t lie. Having Dean Payne looking up at me from his knees felt incredibly good. I wanted to savor it for just a second longer. But the translucent red text of the System hovered in the air between us, blinking with escalating urgency. [Say yes.] [Say yes say yes say yes…] I waved a hand through the holographic text, dismissing it. All around us, the eyes of the crowd tracked my movement. Some of them were actual Players; others, like me, were just NPCs. We were all dressed in identical elite prep school blazers, standing in a suffocating circle, staring blankly. This was a high school battle-royale instance. [Love or Death] The lore was simple: A vampire boy falls at first sight for a human girl, pursuing her with terrifying intensity. Because of the barrier between their species, she rejects him, over and over. Finally, crushing under the weight of his obsession, she fakes a confession of love, only to flee and hide among the student body. The boy goes utterly feral. The vampire clan uses her betrayal as an excuse to hunt humans. By day, the campus is a facade of peaceful, tension-filled interactions. By night, the masks drop, and the slaughter begins. The Players were assigned factions. Their only goal was survival. As for Dean and me? Our job was to act out the prologue. We were essentially the unskippable live-action cutscene. Inside the cavernous gymnasium, thousands of white roses had been arranged into a massive, suffocating heart. Dean knelt in the center of it, his head tilted back. The corners of his eyes were flushed with a feverish, sickly red. As his lips parted, the sharp points of his fangs caught the overhead lights. He looked entirely unraveled. Agonized by unrequited love. It was a staggering contrast to the man he was in the waking world. Dean was seven years older than me. The crown prince of the Payne family, a man who looked at the rest of the world as if it were gum stuck to his Oxford shoes. Normally, a scholarship kid like me wouldn’t even breathe the same air as him. But his younger sister, Brooke, happened to be my desk-mate and my only real friend. Right after our final exams, Brooke invited me to the family’s sprawling Hamptons estate to celebrate her birthday. The crushing weight of high school was finally off my shoulders. I let my guard down. I drank way too much champagne, got entirely lost in the labyrinth of their mansion, and stumbled through the wrong oak door. I crashed right into Dean, who had just stepped out of the shower. My face was instantly smothered in damp silk and the heavy, expensive scent of sandalwood body wash. Rubbing my bruised nose, I slurred a dizzy apology, backing away. But Dean didn’t see an accident. He saw a gold-digger playing a cheap trick. He looked down his perfectly sculpted nose at me, his eyes freezing over. “If you’re going to try and climb into my bed, you could at least use a strategy that isn’t so painfully cliché. Is this what they teach you in public school?” Brooke had run in right then, breathless, stepping between us. “Dean, stop! June isn’t like that,” she defended me. “She’s brilliant, she works three jobs, she tutors me for free. She’s my best friend. You don’t get to talk to her like that.” Dean had simply scoffed, a short, ugly sound. “Brilliant indeed. She figured out exactly how to use you to get to me.” The anger had hit me so fast it completely incinerated the alcohol in my blood. I stood tall, looking him dead in the eye, and made a vow right there on his imported rug. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Payne. I could be utterly alone for the rest of my life, I could be blinded, I could throw myself off the balcony of this ridiculous house, and I still wouldn’t look twice at a man like you.” That very night, we both went to sleep and woke up trapped in this godforsaken Game. Back in the gym, Dean was still waiting for my answer. His muscles corded and jerked as he fought his programming. The same mouth that had dripped with aristocratic disdain in reality was now reduced to a broken loop of begging. “Love me. Please. Just love me.” “If I can’t have your love, I’ll wither away and die.” Listen to him. He was practically reciting bad poetry. The System prompt was flashing violently now, demanding I say yes to trigger the bloodbath. But I noticed there was no countdown timer. I reached out, hooking a finger under Dean’s rigid jaw, and forced him to look at me. I leaned in slow. “You really want me to say yes, don’t you?” I murmured. “But every word out of your mouth makes my skin crawl.” “And looking at you like this? It’s repulsive. I wish I had my phone so I could record this and show the board of directors. The great, untouchable Dean Payne, reduced to this.” I smiled, letting the words drip like acid. “You look like a dog, begging for scraps.” All the color violently drained from his face. The heavy knot of resentment in my chest finally loosened. Satisfied, I straightened my spine, ready to deliver my line and advance the plot. But before I could open my mouth, the System prompt expanded, bleeding across my entire field of vision in jagged crimson letters. [Warning: Out of Character behavior detected. NPC [June] task failed. Initiating Punishment Sequence.] [Brace yourself. 10, 9, 8, 7…] I froze. “Wait, what the hell—” “It’s too late.” I didn’t even see him stand up. Suddenly, Dean was just there, towering over me. I took a panicked step back, but he matched it, stalking forward. His eyes were glowing a dim, terrifying crimson. The fangs I had mocked were now fully elongated, resting against his lower lip. “If you refuse to love me,” he whispered, his voice dark and entirely devoid of the game’s programming, “then you can die with my love instead.” And then, he lunged. 02 Night fell instantly. The prep school warped into a hunting ground. I shoved my hands hard against his chest, breaking his grip, and turned, running as fast as my legs could carry me. Screams erupted behind me. Players and NPCs were already scattering as the slaughter began. I blended into the panicked herd, taking sharp lefts and chaotic rights until I found myself in an abandoned music room in the old wing of the campus. I threw myself behind a rotting grand piano, pressing my back against the chipped wood. My heartbeat was a physical assault against my eardrums, throbbing with a sickening rhythm. My chest heaved. I pulled my knees to my chin and clamped both hands over my mouth, terrified to even draw breath. I stayed completely frozen until the sounds of tearing flesh and screaming faded into the distance. Only then did I let out a shaky exhale. My nerves were completely fried. I needed a plan. Hiss… A sharp sting bloomed on my calf. I looked down in the gloom. I had caught my leg on something during the sprint. A thin scratch, about the length of my hand, was weeping blood. The crimson drops slid down my ankle, gathering at the bone before falling, heavy and dark, onto the floorboards. Instantly, a voice drifted down from the ceiling, light as a ghost. “Found you.” The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I screamed, scrambling backward on my hands and knees, desperate to run. Too late. My lower back slammed into the piano keys, unleashing a heavy, atonal groan into the silent room. Dean’s hand clamped around my ankle. His grip was absolute iron, squeezing so hard I felt the bones grind together. He leaned down, his mouth open, ravenous. A violent shudder ripped through me. I kicked out with my free leg. “Dean! Snap out of it!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “Look at me! Remember who I am! If you don’t want to wake up and hate yourself, let me go right now—agh!” “Don’t—don’t bite—” It was useless. The man was gone. He was nothing but predatory instinct now. The pain hit like a lightning bolt, making me convulse. My body temperature plummeted, my strength evaporating into the cold air. The darkness pulled me under. When I opened my eyes again, the heavy velvet ceiling of the Hamptons guest room stared back at me. Was it a nightmare? I sat up, pushing the heavy duvet aside. I needed to wash my face. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and put my weight on my feet. My right leg buckled immediately, sending me to my knees. I gasped, looking down. My right calf was covered in a sprawling, angry red rash. And right around my ankle, perfectly shaped like a hand, was a ring of dark bruises. I reached out, tapping the skin tentatively. I blinked in shock. “It doesn’t hurt?” “So… last night was real. But if I died, why did I wake up here?” And what about Dean? What the hell was happening to him? I had promised Brooke I would stay the night for her birthday weekend. I couldn’t just bolt without causing a scene. I moved mechanically, showering, dressing, and heading downstairs. I walked into the sun-drenched breakfast room and froze. Dean was sitting at the head of the long oak table, dressed in soft, grey loungewear, sipping a black espresso. Thank god he wasn’t wearing a white shirt. I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and met his eyes. “…” “…” Absolute silence. We both snapped our heads away at the exact same second. Perfect. That confirmed it. It wasn’t a dream, and he remembered everything just as clearly as I did. Well, this was a special kind of hell. I walked to the absolute farthest end of the twelve-seat table and sat down. A moment later, Brooke wandered in, yawning and stretching. “Morning, Dean,” she mumbled, before seeing me. “June! You’re up.” She padded over, dropping into the chair next to me and leaning her head on my shoulder. “Do you have a headache? How did you sleep?” My eyes flicked to the head of the table. I caught Dean looking our way, his jaw tight. I swallowed the heavy, complicated truth sitting on my tongue. Instead, I casually reached down and rubbed my right leg. Exactly as planned, Brooke noticed. “Oh my god, why is it so red?” she gasped, dropping to a crouch to examine my calf. Her fingers brushed the skin lightly. “Does it hurt? What happened?” “It’s fine, really,” I said, pulling her back up into her chair. I raised my voice just enough to ensure it carried to the other end of the room. “I think I was just bitten by some obnoxious, blood-sucking pest.” Dean let out a harsh scoff. He pushed his chair back, the wood scraping loudly against the tile, and stood up. He walked out without touching his food. Ah, the luxury of the rich. Unlike us working-class mortals, who couldn’t afford to waste a meal. I took a massive bite of a warm dumpling, washed it down with sweet soy milk, and closed my eyes in pure, carb-induced bliss. “Maria.” Dean’s voice cut through the room. He had turned back in the doorway. “Bring a plate of dumplings and coffee up to my study.” Me: … Suddenly, the dumpling tasted like cardboard. Dean turned on his heel, his footsteps noticeably lighter as he took the stairs. He would never admit it out loud, but just a few moments ago in that dining room, he had almost lost the war with his own body. He curled his hands into fists as he walked, but the phantom sensation of soft, bruised skin beneath his fingers refused to fade. The memories of the night before slammed into his brain. The dissonant, jarring crash of the piano keys. The broken, quiet sound of her crying. And that scent. That maddening, intoxicating scent. When June had walked past him toward the end of the table, it had taken every ounce of his legendary self-control not to vault over the mahogany wood and tear into her throat. Dean closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he let out a ragged breath. “…This is going to kill me.” 03 I politely declined Brooke’s desperate pleas for me to stay the rest of the weekend, rented a Citi Bike, and pedaled back to my reality. I say “home,” but it was a cramped, fourth-floor walk-up in Queens. I grew up in the foster system. The minute I aged out, I packed a duffel bag and never looked back. I survived high school on state grants, tips, and sheer spite. Now, I needed to build a war chest for my college tuition. My days were a blur of delivery bags, commercial dishwashers, and balancing trays of drinks. By the time I staggered through my front door, I was dead on my feet. I collapsed onto my mattress and was gone. I closed my eyes. I opened them. And I was back in the Game. After a few of these cycles, I had finally cracked the algorithm. Rule one: The transition only happened when I fell asleep at night. Rule two: An instance lasted for five in-game days. After that, we got a two-day “weekend” in reality before the next round began. Honestly, it just felt like picking up another shift, only this one offered a weekend off. Plus, Dean and I were basically glorified cutscene actors. Once we delivered our prologue lines, our shifts were over. We spent the rest of the time as background scenery, completely ignored by the Players. This time, the setting was a sprawling, Gilded Age estate. Inside a cavernous ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers, aristocrats in heavy velvet and silk milled around long tables groaning with roasted meats and overflowing wine. And me? I was standing against the wall in a stiff, itchy maid’s uniform. God, I’m so tired. I couldn’t even escape the service industry in my nightmares. The theme of this instance was a locked-room murder mystery. A wealthy Duke was hosting a private gala, but by morning, he would be found dead in his study. The estate gates were sealed. The Players—guests at the party—couldn’t leave. They had to find the killer while surviving whatever lurked in the manor’s shadows. Dean, naturally, was playing the Duke. He stood near the fireplace in a flawlessly tailored three-piece suit. A gold-rimmed monocle caught the firelight, and the pigeon-blood rubies on his cufflinks were darker than the burgundy wine swirling in his glass. He caught my eye from across the room and gave a faint, lazy nod of acknowledgment. At that exact moment, the System pinged. My cue. I picked up a silver tray. On it rested a porcelain plate holding a delicate, gold-leaf-dusted mousse cake. It smelled incredible. My stomach gave a violent, embarrassing rumble. I had been running between jobs all day in the real world and hadn’t eaten a thing. Now that I was standing still, the hunger was a physical ache. I walked over. Dean dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin and spoke, his tone unhurried and dripping with condescension. “Allow me to remind you, you are currently a maid.” “You don’t want to get punished for breaking character again, do you?” I: “…” I took a slow, deep breath. “Please.” Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Unacceptable. Where is the title? My status here is quite obvious.” He’s really getting into this, the pretentious bastard. I kept my face entirely blank. “This was prepared specifically for you. Please taste it.” Dean looked at me with faux pity. “So slow. Tell me, are you only capable of memorizing textbooks?” He leaned in slightly. “Repeat after me.” “Please enjoy, Master.” I shot him a look that could have shattered glass. This was petty, targeted revenge, wasn’t it? Dean met my glare with absolute calm. “Don’t forget the expression. You need to smile. Say it. Now.” I ground my molars together until my jaw ached. My lips twitched into a horrifying, rigid smile. “Please enjoy… M-Maste—” Before I could force the word out, the System prompt violently flashed red. [Dining phase concluded. NPC [Dean] failed to complete mandatory action. Task failed.] [Initiating Punishment Sequence. Rolling random penalty… Penalty selected.] [NPC [Dean]: Lethal Poison Experience activated.] A split second later, all the rigid aristocracy vanished from Dean’s posture. His knees buckled, and he pitched sideways. I caught him by the shoulders, plastering on my brightest, most venomous retail smile. “Do you require assistance…?” “Master?”

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After Willie’s affair came to light, I spent months screaming, crying, and exhausting every ounce of my soul before I finally found the strength to walk away. But as I was packing up my life, I found a letter tucked away in the back of a drawer. It was a love letter, written in his familiar, sharp cursive. “Nancy, I’ve been planning this proposal for three whole years. I wanted to keep it a secret until the very last second to give you the ultimate surprise. But I know my girl loves to look beautiful, so please, wear your favorite dress tonight. Run to me with a heart full of joy.” My fingers trembled violently as I held the paper. Memories of our old sweetness rushed back, blurring my vision. Even knowing he had let someone else into his heart, even knowing the betrayal was an absolute, cold hard fact, I still couldn’t let go of the phantom of what we used to be. I wanted to give myself one last piece of closure. But the moment I stepped into the venue, the ambient noise of the lounge suddenly drifted away. Time, in an impossible, dizzying shift, had wound back three years. It was the exact night he proposed. “Nancy! There you are!” Willie’s best friend patted his shoulder, laughing. “Willie’s been a nervous wreck all afternoon. He hasn’t even touched a drop of water!” Our friends cheered and whistled. Standing in the center of the room was a younger Willie. His eyes burned with a raw, intense devotion as he walked toward me, holding a massive bundle of deep red roses. Just as I stood there frozen, a waitress rushed past. In her haste, she collided with him, spilling a glass of red wine all over Willie’s pristine custom suit. The girl’s face went dead pale. She stammered out apologies, looking incredibly small, fragile, and utterly innocent. She looked exactly the same as she did three years later, kneeling on my living room floor, sobbing and begging for my forgiveness after I caught them. Mallory. This time, I didn’t step forward to comfort the terrified girl. I simply turned around and walked out. … I had barely taken three steps when Willie’s hand clamped around my wrist. “Nancy, where are you going?” I looked down at his fingers squeezing my skin, a wave of old bitterness rising in my throat. In my past life, I had been so terrified of ruining his big moment. I was worried he’d look foolish in front of his friends, so I immediately stepped in to defuse the situation. I comforted Mallory, arranged for Willie to borrow a spare jacket, and smiled through the mess, telling him it didn’t matter. But now, I wrenched my wrist out of his grip. “Handle your own business first.” The sudden coldness in my voice left Willie paralyzed. Before he could speak, Mallory reached out and timidly touched his sleeve. “Sir, I am so, so sorry. Please, let me help you clean it.” She pulled out some cheap napkins, frantically dabbing at his chest. Willie looked annoyed, but he didn’t push her away. “It’s fine. Don’t touch me.” “Sir, please! It was entirely my fault. At least give me a chance to make it right,” Mallory begged, her eyes brimming with tears, completely ignoring his rejection. One of Willie’s friends, losing patience, stepped in and pulled her back. “Alright, that’s enough. Do you have any idea how much this suit costs? It was custom-made specifically for his proposal tonight. You can’t afford to replace this.” Mallory stumbled back, her tears finally spilling over. “I can pay for it in installments. However long it takes. Please, just don’t report me to my manager.” Hearing her choked-up plea, Willie sighed and glanced back. “It’s just a suit. Let it go. Don’t make things hard for her.” Back then, I had admired his kindness. I thought he was just a generous, gentle soul who didn’t want to ruin a working girl’s life. Only later did I realize Willie wasn’t generous to everyone. He had simply carved out a special, soft place for Mallory from the very beginning. I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. They were destined to entangle themselves anyway; this time, I wouldn’t stand in their way. I turned to leave again, but Willie chased after me, grabbing my hand once more. “Nancy, please. I haven’t even said what I wanted to say tonight.” I shook him off, harder this time. “Don’t bother. I don’t want to hear it.” Willie’s brow furrowed. To him, this was just me throwing a tantrum. “Are you really going to make a scene just because a clumsy waitress ruined the atmosphere? Is it that big of a deal?” Looking at his impatient expression, I wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. I decided to give him exactly what he wanted. “Yes. It is because of her.” Instead of getting angry, Willie let out a soft chuckle, his tone turning casual. “So you’re jealous? That’s what this is. We can just do it again another night. If it’s a proposal you want, I’ll propose to you as many times as you need to feel secure.” Just then, Mallory came running out of the lounge, breathless. “Sir, you’re incredibly kind not to hold a grudge, but my conscience won’t let me sleep. Could I… could I get your number? I want to transfer the money to you slowly.” Willie looked at me, shifting the responsibility with a lazy smile. “Ask Nancy. She makes the decisions.” In my past life, I was the one who blocked her. I told her she didn’t need to pay, and I absolute refused to let her have his contact info. But they still ended up exchanging numbers anyway—during some “accidental” run-in I didn’t know about, facilitated by Willie’s endless loop of “just helping her out.” They went from strangers to friends, and finally to a messy, lingering affair. This time, looking at Mallory’s carefully crafted display of vulnerability, I didn’t feel angry. I felt amused. “You really want to pay? No matter how expensive?” I asked. Mallory’s eyes lit up with sudden hope, and she nodded quickly. “Yes! Absolutely!” I smiled, pulling out my phone. “Great. In that case, add me.” I opened my contact card and held it out. The eager look on Mallory’s face froze instantly. She reflexively looked at Willie, her eyes wide with a silent plea for help. Willie was stunned too. He never expected me to bypass the jealousy routine and actually demand payment. “Nancy, I gave you the choice so you could reject her as my girlfriend,” Willie murmured, his brow tightening with dissatisfaction. “I already said she doesn’t need to pay. It’s just a jacket. When did you become so petty?” Listening to his baseless accusations, I let out a sharp laugh. “She’s the one insisting on paying, Willie. How is that my fault?” Seeing the tension rise, Mallory immediately stepped into her role as the martyr. “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. Please, don’t fight because of me.” Her trembling voice made me look like the cruel oppressor. I already knew exactly what Willie was going to say next. Sure enough, his expression softened as he looked at her, then turned a cool gaze back to me. “Since you’re so desperate to pay, just add my number.” He unlocked his phone and opened his screen, but his eyes stayed glued to my face. I knew what he was doing. Willie was testing me. He was entirely convinced I was just acting out of jealousy, fully expecting me to snap, grab his phone, and forbid them from ever speaking. But I didn’t move. I actually took a step back to give them space. “Go ahead. Don’t let her sincere apology go to waste.” A flicker of genuine panic finally crossed his eyes. “Nancy, what are you doing?” “Exactly what it looks like.” I raised my hand, hailing a yellow cab that was cruising down the street. I pulled open the door and stepped inside without a single backward glance. As the car pulled away, I saw Willie’s cocky testing face crumble into sheer panic. He ran a few steps after the cab, but he was already too late. The bumpy ride home drained the last of my energy. The moment I closed my eyes in bed, I was pulled back into a nightmare—the day before Willie’s birthday. I had pulled all-nighters for a week straight just to finish my corporate projects early, taking the red-eye flight back to surprise him. But when I unlocked our apartment door, the place was a disaster of discarded clothes, and he was holding Mallory tightly in his arms. Mallory had scrambled to pull her shirt together, her eyes instantly filling with tears. “I’m sorry, Nancy. I made a terrible mistake. Please, just forgive me this once.” She kept bowing, her knees bending as if she were about to kneel right there on the hardwood floor. Willie, consumed by protective instinct, shielded her behind his back. “Mallory, you don’t have to bow to her. Don’t degrade yourself.” Then he turned to me, his eyes filled with nothing but cold exhaustion. “Since you saw us, let’s just call it over. We’re done.” In that single second, every ounce of my dignity was ground into the dirt. I screamed, demanding to know why, asking him what our three years meant, what all those promises were for. But Willie didn’t offer a single word of explanation. He just watched my breakdown with freezing, detached eyes. Blind with rage, I lunged forward and slapped Mallory across the face. The next second, Willie’s hand flew out, striking me so hard my head spun. “Nancy! Have you lost your mind? I’m the one who did this. What right do you have to lay a hand on Mallory!” The physical pain and the crushing despair of that memory were so vivid that I began to shiver in my sleep. Suddenly, something warm touched my forehead, and a gentle hand brushed the tears from the corners of my eyes. I gasped, waking up instantly. Willie was sitting on the edge of my mattress, his face painted with deep worry. “What are you doing here?” I snapped, my voice laced with defensive panic. We were still three years in the past. He shouldn’t be in my apartment. Sensing my hostility, Willie looked slightly embarrassed. “The last time you went out of town, you gave me a spare key so I could feed your cat. Don’t you remember?” He softened his voice, stepping closer. “You weren’t picking up your phone. No one could get ahold of you. I was terrified something happened, so I came to check.” I looked at the key glinting in his hand. The last shred of hesitation in my heart dissolved. This was exactly how I had lost my boundaries in the past. I let him have my keys, let him run my life, let him drift in and out of my personal space until it felt completely normal. And in the end, when he brought another woman into my sanctuary, he had the audacity to tell me I was the one being ungraceful. “Give me the key,” I said, extending my hand. Willie blinked. “What?” “Give me my key back. And don’t come back here.” Willie’s face went pale. He seemed to finally realize this wasn’t just a lover’s spat. “Nancy, I’m sorry. I know the proposal was important to you. I was careless and dismissive earlier, and that’s entirely on me.” He scrambled to pull out his phone, opening his contacts to prove himself. “Look, I didn’t add her. I swear. See for yourself.” Right then, his phone vibrated. An unsaved, ten-digit number flashed across the screen. I didn’t need a name to know who it was. It was Mallory. It was always like this. Willie would swear up and down that they had no contact, only to make exception after exception for her behind my back. I didn’t say a word. I just watched him quietly as he answered the call. “Willie…” Mallory’s voice sobbed through the speaker, loud enough to echo in the quiet room. “Some guys at the lounge… they think I wanted your number for… for sex work. They won’t listen to me. They’re trying to force me into a car. I don’t know what to do. Please…” Willie’s entire body tensed. He looked at me, torn, desperate to leave but terrified of how I would react. I actually felt a small smile touch my lips. “Go on. What are you waiting for?” His shoulders visibly relaxed, a look of profound relief washing over him. “Nancy, you are so incredibly understanding. This is why you’re the perfect girlfriend.” “I’m not,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “Willie, I never accepted your proposal.” His face froze mid-breath. I kept my hand out. “Leave the key, and get out.” Willie hesitated, his eyes darting between me and the crying coming from his phone. But Mallory’s frantic sobs won out. With a tense silence, he dropped the key into my palm and bolted out the door. I sat by the window until the sky turned gray, suddenly remembering that today was the day of our firm’s massive investor presentation. In my past life, because I was so wrapped up in the joy of his proposal, I had backed out of being the lead presenter. I turned down the promotion to our Chicago branch, choosing to stay behind and halt my career for love. Now, with my feelings dead and gone, all I wanted was to get as far away from him as possible. I dressed quickly, but as I was checking my bag, I realized my printed pitch deck and financial models were still at Willie’s apartment. I had left them there the night before for him to review. I called his phone repeatedly, but it went straight to voicemail. Out of options, I drove straight to his corporate office. He was sitting at his desk, rubbing his temples, dark circles under his eyes. He clearly hadn’t slept a wink. When he saw me walk in, his exhaustion seemed to vanish, replaced by a hopeful smile. “Nancy, you actually came to find me at work? Aren’t you worried about office gossip anymore?” Before, I was always so self-conscious about what our colleagues would say. Even after we started dating, I insisted on keeping it quiet, going out of my way to avoid him in the hallways. But it wasn’t until after I resigned that I discovered Mallory, who frequently waited for him at the lobby, had long been accepted by everyone as the future Mrs. Jennings. “Have you decided on the lead presenter for the pitch?” I asked, ignoring his question. “We haven’t changed the schedule,” Willie said, leaning forward. “We talked about this…” “We don’t need to change it,” I cut him off, my voice ice. “I’m presenting. My physical files are still at your place. Have your assistant fetch them immediately.” Willie stared at my cold demeanor, realizing I wasn’t going to play along. He picked up his desk phone and dialed his housekeeper. But as the clock ticked closer to the meeting, the door didn’t open to his housekeeper. It opened to Mallory, looking incredibly flustered and small. My chest tightened. “What are you doing here?” Mallory bowed her head, clutching a folder to her chest. “I… I was let go from the lounge last night. Mr. Jennings was kind enough to hire me as a temporary house cleaner to help with my living expenses.” She hurriedly held out the folder. The documents, which should have been neatly bound and pristine, were crumpled, torn, and smeared with dark mud. “I was riding my bike to get here quickly, and I fell,” Mallory whispered, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to ruin your files. I swear.” Looking at the ruined pitch deck, my anger boiled over. “Are you completely incompetent? You knew these were critical corporate documents, and you couldn’t even put them in a plastic sleeve?” Mallory’s eyes instantly turned red. She grabbed the hem of my blazer, sobbing. “Nancy, please don’t get me fired. This is the only job I have left. If I lose this, I won’t even have a place to sleep.” “What are you talking about? You work for Willie. What does your employment have to do with me?” Just as the words left my mouth, the door swung open. Willie walked in, his face darkening the second he saw the scene. He immediately stepped between us, shoving Mallory behind him. “It’s just a folder. Can’t you see she’s hurt?” He glared at me, his voice sharp. “I’m the one who told her to bring it. If you want to yell at someone, yell at me.” He glanced at the ruined papers on his desk. “If you didn’t prepare backup copies, Nancy, we can just cancel the presentation. I’ll take full responsibility for the lost deal.” Without waiting for my response, he guided Mallory out of the room, heading toward his car to take her to the clinic. Before she left, Mallory kept looking back at me, whispering apologies over her shoulder, looking like a battered saint. The colleagues passing by in the hallway took in the entire scene, their whispers starting before the elevator doors even closed. Diane, my senior director, came rushing over to drag me into the conference room. Fortunately, I had a habit of keeping digital backups on a secure drive. After a frantic fifteen minutes of printing and prep, I walked into the ballroom with Diane. The pitch was a massive success. But by the time I walked out, the rumors had already mutated. People were whispering that I was desperately clawing my way up, using Willie to secure my projects, and that my sudden bid for the Chicago promotion was just a desperate power move. The gossip grew so loud that Diane called me into her office before the end of the day. “Nancy,” she said gently, pouring me a cup of tea. “Be honest with me. What is going on between you and Willie?” I took a slow breath. “We were… involved. But it’s completely over now.” Diane sighed, shaking her head. “I brought you into this firm, and I believe in your talent. But the noise around this project is getting out of hand. The board is sensitive to these things. I think it might be best if you lay low for a bit.” She gave my hand a sympathetic squeeze. “The Chicago opportunity is great, but there will be other promotions. Let’s let this storm pass first.” I walked back to my cubicle, a profound sense of exhaustion settling deep in my bones. No matter how hard I tried to extricate myself, I was still being dragged down by the gravity of Willie’s mess. Before the clock hit five, Willie returned to the office. He marched straight to my desk, grabbed my wrist in front of everyone, and dragged me out to his car. He drove like a maniac, ignoring my silence, until we pulled up to a high-end country club. “I heard you’re trying to run away to Chicago,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion as he dragged me through the private entrance. “What did I do that was so terrible? Why are you trying to leave me?” He pushed open the heavy oak doors of the grand hall. Inside was another proposal setup—twice as grand as the night before, filled with white roses and fairy lights. “Do you honestly think I spent all night worrying about Mallory?” Willie breathed, pointing at the elaborate display. “I was fixing this. Can you finally believe me now? There is nothing between her and me.” Looking at the beautiful, hollow display, the dam in my chest finally broke. Tears slipped down my cheeks. Willie stepped forward, his eyes softening as he reached out to pull me into his arms, but I shoved him back with everything I had. In our brief struggle, the old love letter slipped out of my pocket, fluttering onto the polished floor. Willie bent down to pick it up. The moment his eyes registered the handwriting, his entire body went rigid. He slowly reached into his own breast pocket, pulling out an identical, sealed envelope. His voice was laced with pure, unadulterated confusion. “I haven’t even given you this letter yet. Nancy… where did you get this?”

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When I came home, my father was slamming the door on his way out, fresh off another violent rage. I ran to my mother, sobbing, throwing my arms around her bloodied shoulders, only to be met with a stinging slap across my face. “I endure all of this because of you! If you had just gotten straight A’s, your father wouldn’t have blamed me for spoiling you!” After that day, their screaming matches only grew more frequent, more violent. I didn’t dare stop studying. Not even for a second. Whenever sleep threatened to take me, I drove the sharp metal tip of my drafting compass deep into my thigh. When my focus wavered, I slapped myself hard across the face. I didn’t make friends. I didn’t sign up for extracurriculars. I even condensed my three meals into one rushed sitting, just to squeeze out more hours to study. It wasn’t until the day my Harvard acceptance letter arrived that I finally felt a wave of relief. I went upstairs to find my mother, but as I approached her bedroom, I heard laughter spilling through the crack of the door. “Well, those years of acting weren’t for nothing.” “The specialist was right. Guilt really is the best motivator.” My mother laughed, leaning into my father’s chest, her expression warm and affectionate. “The venue for tomorrow’s celebration banquet is already booked, and some local reporters are coming. We’ll tell her the truth tomorrow.” “When she realizes how much painstaking effort we put in just to get her into Harvard, she’s going to be so moved.” I stood in the hallway, my blood turning to ice. The years of blood, the screaming, the terror—it was all just a carefully choreographed play. A sudden, agonizing cramp seized my stomach, and a thick, metallic taste surged up my throat. To survive the brutal hours of studying, I had spent years abusing painkillers and caffeine pills on an empty stomach. My digestive system was already hollowed out, ravaged by ulcers. Mom, I finally became the perfect daughter you wanted. But I think I’m dying. … My stomach felt like it was being hollowed out with a dull knife, but I couldn’t move. My mind flashed back to the night before my high school entrance exams. They had put on a terrifying show. When I burst into the room, blood was streaming down my mother’s temple, painting half her face a horrific crimson. Screaming, I begged her to let me call an ambulance. But even then, she refused. She wept, saying medical care was too expensive, that every penny had to be saved for my tutoring and prep books so I could secure my future. Driven by agonizing guilt, I spent the entire summer secretly working twelve-hour shifts as a food delivery rider, desperate to buy her an expensive scar-fading cream. I worked through the nights, wearing through three pairs of sneakers. And now, they were laughing about how it had all been a performance? My fingers curled into tight fists. I wanted to fling the door open. I wanted to stand before them, look them dead in the eye, and force them to repeat those exact words to my face. I took a single step forward, but before I could touch the brass doorknob, my mother’s phone rang. Through the wood, I heard the muffled, shaking voice of a young girl weeping on the other end: “Mrs. Campbell… I choked during my Juilliard audition… I ruined everything…” “Is my life over?” My mother sat up instantly. Her voice softened into a gentle, soothing tone—a pitch of warmth she had never once used with me. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry. A single audition doesn’t define your worth.” “Listen to me, Zoe. Grades don’t measure the value of a life, and college isn’t the finish line.” “You must never let one setback make you doubt yourself, okay?” Outside the door, the fiery anger in my chest was instantly doused by a bucket of ice water. My mother was a respected dance instructor. She had dozens of students who adored her. She could offer such gentle grace to a student who failed, yet she had never shown a fraction of that tenderness to her own daughter. I remembered my junior year midterms. I had placed second in the entire grade. When I brought the report card home, my mother slammed it onto the coffee table. She didn’t scream; she just stared at me with an expression of profound, crushing disappointment. That look terrified me more than any physical blow ever could. “Mom,” I had whispered, tears welling in my eyes. “I’ll do better next time. I promise…” “Next time?” “Do you have any idea how much misery I endure for you?” “If it weren’t for you, your father and I would have divorced years ago!” Her voice had risen, sharp and scraping, like nails dragging down a chalkboard. “If you can’t even secure the top spot, how can you look me in the eye?” “Don’t you understand? If you mess up your exams like this, your entire life is over!” Standing in the dim hallway, a hollow numbness washed over me. So my mother did know how to be kind. She just chose not to be kind to me. My hand rested on the doorknob. The biting cold of the brass seeped through my skin, traveling straight to my heart. Suddenly, the urge to confront them vanished. What would it even accomplish? Even if I stormed in and laid bare their lies, what would change? She would only knit her brows, looking at me with that familiar contempt. “What is wrong with your attitude? Who do you think we did all of this for?” “If we hadn’t pushed you, do you honestly think you would have ever gotten into Harvard?” They would never see their own cruelty. You cannot awaken those who are determined to keep their eyes closed. After a long, silent moment, I pushed the door open just a crack. When I spoke, my voice was barely a whisper. “Mom… my stomach really hurts. Can you… take me to the hospital?” As I spoke, my eyes instinctively drifted to the faint pink mark on her temple. For three years, I had never questioned why that scar never seemed to fade or change. I had only hated myself for not working more delivery shifts, for not earning enough to buy her the premium treatments. It had never occurred to me that the scar was nothing more than stage makeup. A warm, metallic wave rose in my throat. I forced myself to swallow it down. A deep, aching regret bloomed in my chest. I hadn’t truly lived a single day for myself. I wanted to get well. I wanted to eat a hot meal in a college dining hall, to sit in a library and read a book that had absolutely nothing to do with an exam. Or even just to lie on the grass and breathe clean air without the weight of the world crushing my chest. But my mother merely frowned, her tone dismissive and sharp. “You probably slept with the AC too high last night.” “I’ve told you a thousand times to cover up during the summer, but you never listen.” “I’ll make you some ginger tea in a minute. Make sure you’re ready for the celebration banquet tomorrow.” I stood frozen, utterly numb. But she wasn’t finished. “Getting into college is just the beginning, Hannah. This is the exact moment students lose their drive.” She dropped a heavy stack of textbooks onto my desk. “These are introductory college syllabi and prep materials. Start reviewing them tonight so you don’t lose your edge.” I stared at her, disbelief mingling with the agonizing fire burning in my gut. “Mom… please. I’m really sick.” Before I could finish, her irritation flared. “Here we go again. Every time I ask you to study, you magically get sick.” “Who are you trying to guilt-trip with that face?” “Do you think you’re special just because you got into Harvard? Think you can coast now?” “Let me tell you something, your life has barely started.” With a dismissive wave, she swept past me and headed to the living room. Seconds later, the sharp crash of shattering glass echoed from the hallway. Then came the familiar, theatrical shouting. “Are you out of your mind?!” “Me? I’m losing my mind because you don’t know how to raise our daughter!” “Stop blaming me for everything!” Peering through the crack of my bedroom door, I watched my mother fall to the floor. A fresh streak of bright red blood began to trickle down her temple. I pulled myself up, swaying on my feet, and walked slowly to the doorway. I just stood there, watching them. My parents both turned their heads to look at me. They were waiting. Waiting for me to break down. Waiting for the familiar tidal wave of guilt to swallow me whole. Waiting for me to drop to my knees, beg for their forgiveness, and promise to study until my fingers bled just to keep their marriage alive. But this time, I simply closed the door. Gently. Quietly. Just before the latch clicked, I caught the briefest flicker of confusion in their eyes. I sat down at my desk and pulled open the top drawer. Sitting inside was the drafting compass that had kept me awake through a thousand sleepless nights. I gripped the metal tool and drove the sharp point deep into my thigh. Once. Twice. Three times. Warm blood bloomed through the fabric of my jeans, and the familiar, sharp agony flared up my leg. It worked. The physical pain in my leg began to dull the agonizing burning in my stomach. With trembling fingers, I picked up my pen and opened the college prep book. As the blood dripped slowly down my leg, staining the carpet, I looked down at it and smiled. Tomorrow, Mom. Tomorrow, Dad. The curtain is finally going to fall on your masterpiece. And the perfect daughter you created will remain frozen in this exact moment forever. The next morning, before the sun had even cleared the horizon, my mother pushed my door open. She held a beautiful, flowing white dress in her hands, her voice carrying a rare, cheerful warmth. “Get up and try this on. I bought it specially for today.” I stared at the pristine white fabric, took it from her, and slipped it on. But when I stood before the mirror, my heart sank. The slit of the dress shifted, exposing a patch of skin on my calf. It was a map of my secret torment—crisscrossed with old, silver scars. And right in the middle were the fresh, angry punctures from last night, covered in dark red scabs. I hesitated, then called out to her through the partially open door. “Mom… is there any way I could wear something else?” The warmth instantly drained from her face. “Wear something else? Do you have any idea how much this dress cost?” “I haven’t bought myself a decent outfit in years, all so you could stand on that stage looking beautiful. And you want to toss it aside?” A dull ache throbbed in my chest. I lowered my head, keeping my voice soft. “Mom, you don’t have to sacrifice so much for me. I would have been fine wearing my school blazer.” After all, I was already slipping away. I wasn’t worth the expense of her sacrifices anymore. But her expression hardened, her eyes flashing with hurt and anger. “Are you really going to start acting ungrateful now, Hannah?” “After everything I’ve suffered to get you here, this is how you repay me?” I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and closed my eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom.” “I’ll wear it.” Once she left, I closed the door and pulled a sewing kit from my desk. I threaded a needle with strong white cotton. Then, taking a deep breath, I pushed the needle straight through the skin of my calf. The thread pulled tight, dragging against my flesh, leaving angry red welts. But pain had been my closest companion for years. I didn’t even flinch. I systematically stitched the inner lining of the white dress directly to the skin of my leg. Secure. Anchored. The fabric wouldn’t slip. No one would see the ugly truth beneath the pristine white hem. The celebration my parents had planned had to be perfect. It was the final gift I could give them. Ten minutes later, I walked out of my room in the white dress to find a guest in our living room. My mother was smiling warmly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind a young girl’s ear. I froze, recognizing her. It was Zoe, one of the star pupils from my mother’s dance class. On the coffee table in front of them sat a stunning bouquet of white lilies and a beautifully wrapped gift box. Zoe looked up and offered me a bright, genuine smile. “Mrs. Campbell, I wanted to congratulate Hannah in person. Getting into Harvard… it’s absolutely incredible.” My mother’s gaze drifted toward me, the warmth fading slightly from her expression. “Oh, she’s just a bookworm. And lately, she’s been getting a bit of an attitude.” My mother waved her hand dismissively, guiding Zoe back down onto the sofa. “But let’s not talk about her.” “How are you holding up, sweetie? Feeling any better about the auditions?” “Did you look over those alternative programs I researched for you?” Watching them sit close, sharing quiet whispers and gentle laughter, a sharp, localized ache spread through my chest. To anyone watching, they looked like the perfect mother and daughter. Sensing my silence, Zoe gave me a polite smile and stood up, walking over to me. “Seriously, Hannah, congratulations on Harvard. I’m so incredibly happy for you.” I stared into her clear, bright eyes. Suddenly, a memory from a lifetime ago surfaced. I was in the fifth grade, and a new girl had transferred to my class. She was bubbly and kind, always dragging me to sit with her at lunch. For her birthday, she had slipped a coupon for a movie night into my textbook. “Let’s go together this weekend,” she had written. It was the first time I had ever been invited anywhere. I was dizzy with excitement for an entire week. But when my mother found the invitation, she had thrown it into the trash, trembling with rage. “I tear my life apart every single day to give you a future!” “And you have the nerve to waste time hanging out with friends? How can you do this to me?” After that, I declined every invitation. I shut out everyone. My world shrunk until there was nothing left but my desk, endless practice tests, and a lamp that stayed lit until dawn. Looking at Zoe’s bright, unburdened smile, a wave of profound sorrow washed over me. I wish I could have had a friend like her. Someone to remember me. Someone to bring flowers on important days. Someone to be happy for my success. But I had spent my entire life completely, utterly alone. “Zoe is always so thoughtful,” my mother’s voice cut through my thoughts. She patted Zoe’s hand affectionately, but when her eyes flicked to me, her forehead creased. “Where are your classmates, Hannah? Why didn’t anyone come to celebrate with you?” “Do you really not have a single friend?” “How do you expect to survive in college if you don’t even know how to socialize?” Her words were like poisoned needles stabbing into my chest. I wanted to laugh. She was the one who had systematically cut every tie I ever tried to make. And now, she stood on her moral high ground, demanding to know why I was so isolated. Sensing the sudden tension, Zoe quickly tried to smooth things over. “Oh, Mrs. Campbell, Hannah worked so hard. She just didn’t have time for distractions.” She gently pressed the bouquet into my hands. “Congratulations, Hannah. Truly.” I took the lilies and whispered, “Thank you.” Shortly after, my parents led me out to the car to head to the venue. The banquet hall was already packed when we arrived. In addition to our relatives, the room was filled with local journalists and anxious parents hoping to learn the secret to raising an Ivy League scholar. My mother stood at the center of the stage, her smile radiant under the spotlight. As soon as the master of ceremonies finished introducing her, she took the microphone. “So many parents have asked me how we did it. How did we raise a Harvard student?” “Today, I want to share our secret with all of you.” The room fell into an eager, expectant silence. My mother offered a knowing smile. “Actually, the secret is quite simple.” “Guilt is the absolute best motivator.” Standing beside her on stage, a deep, bone-chilling cold crept through my limbs. But my mother was energized now, her voice rising with pride. “When a child feels like they owe everything to their parents, they don’t need to be pushed. They will run themselves ragged just to make up for it!” Smiling, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small, transparent plastic bag filled with fake blood. “All those years of violence, the blood—it was all a performance.” “Even the scar on my temple was just professional stage makeup.” Beside her, my father beamed with pride, nodding in agreement. “We sacrificed our peace of mind for our daughter,” he chimed in. “But now that she’s Ivy League-bound, every single act was worth it!” A stunned silence gripped the hall for a fraction of a second, followed immediately by an explosion of thunderous applause. Several parents rose to their feet, clapping enthusiastically, while others eagerly scribbled notes in their journals. The smile on my mother’s face grew wider, basking in the adoration of the crowd. But inside me, a thousand rusted blades were tearing through my stomach. The thick, coppery taste of blood surged into my mouth. I clamped my teeth together, fighting the urge to vomit. Not here. Not now. This is their crowning achievement. I can’t ruin it. But my body betrayed me. A dark thread of crimson began to trickle down the corner of my mouth, stark against my pale skin. Someone in the front row gasped. “Oh my god! Look at her mouth! Is that blood?” My mother’s smile faltered. She stepped closer to me, her voice dropping to a harsh, venomous whisper. “Hannah, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Stop this nonsense right now.” Turning back to the crowd, she forced her face into a warm, reassuring smile. “I’m so sorry, everyone. She just found out about our little secret, and she’s throwing a bit of a tantrum.” She pointed playfully at the fake blood packet on the podium. “She must have gotten her hands on some of the stage makeup to play a prank.” But a concerned parent in the audience stood up. “Mrs. Campbell, she looks incredibly pale. Maybe you should take her to the clinic?” My mother glanced at me, her irritation growing, and waved her off. “No, she’s fine. She’s just being stubborn.” “When she’s older, she’ll understand that everything we did was out of love.” She raised the microphone again, her tone ringing with absolute conviction. “I shared our method today because I want to help other families succeed.” “I truly believe that guilt-driven parenting is the future of education.” “And my daughter is the living proof of that success.” “One day, when she graduates from Harvard and stands at the peak of her career, she will look back and thank me for every tear she shed!” A bitter, silent laugh caught in my chest, drowned in the copper tang of my own blood. But Mom… I’m never going to graduate. The world spun violently, turning into a blur of bright lights and roaring noise. My knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the stage. The room erupted into chaos. Screams clashed with frantic whispers. And for the first time, the triumphant smile on my mother’s face vanished entirely.

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Year two of our secret marriage, and I somehow ended up infiltrating a private Telegram group dedicated to stalking my husband. The chat was currently scrolling at breakneck speed: [$1,000 bounty for Wesley Kallan’s private flight itinerary tomorrow! Who has a plug?] I lurked in the digital shadows for a good half hour, watching the frantic messages pile up. It was a hive of obsessive, borderline-feral fans whose sole purpose in life was tracking, photographing, and cornering the man I was married to. Leaning back against the velvet cushions of my empty living room, I toggled over to my iMessage and held down the microphone button. [Mr. A-List, which flight are you taking to New York tomorrow morning again?] His reply came a minute later. [Delta 9527. Why? Finally willing to come to LAX and see your actual husband off?] I copied the flight number and dropped it into the Telegram chat. Sixty seconds later, a thousand dollars hit my Venmo. 1 [Bounty paid. Don’t ghost us on the gate and seating area, you coward.] The notification that popped up on my screen dripped with entitlement. The sender’s handle was StardustWes. She was the admin of this two-hundred-member stalker syndicate. I stared at her profile picture—a girl in a bright red jacket—my thumb hovering over the glass. [Guess our ‘insider’ is a one-trick pony. The nerve to charge for scraps.] When I didn’t reply immediately, the admin’s texts turned venomous. The rest of the group swarmed like sharks smelling blood. [Seriously. Take our money and run, hope you get hit by a bus.] [Watch this be a burner account run by Wesley’s pathetic, secret hag of a wife.] [Ugh, don’t make me puke. That old, washed-up bitch taking up space probably doesn’t even get to see Wes’s face. She’s just a placeholder.] [I heard she’s some ugly corporate suit who trapped him into marriage with Hollywood studio money. Wes is just enduring it for his career.] [Honestly, I pray she gets in a car crash so the spot opens up.] I watched the words scroll past, a sharp, twisting ache taking root in my stomach. Two years of marriage. Outside these walls, Wesley Kallan was a blindingly bright superstar, a cinematic darling. Inside, I was a ghost. A woman who didn’t even deserve a name. For the sake of his flawless trajectory, we had never taken a single public photo together. And now, his deranged fans were casually wishing for my death in a group chat, and I couldn’t even defend myself. If I fired back, my carefully constructed persona as an airport insider would shatter. I took a slow, rattling breath, pressing down the tremor in my fingertips, and typed. [Keep your hair on. Verifying the layout now.] Switching apps, I opened Wesley’s pinned contact. A black square for a profile picture. Two years. He flew to every corner of the earth while I guarded a sprawling, echoing mansion in the Hollywood Hills. He genuinely believed that sending a daily “landed” text and depositing an exorbitant allowance into my account constituted a marriage. But I was starting to forget the physical temperature of his skin. I copied the rest of the flight data and flipped back to Telegram. [DL9527. First Class, Seat 2A.] A new Venmo notification pinged. [Good girl.] The admin sent another thousand. I clicked ‘Accept’ with a blank face. The digital chime of the deposit sounded impossibly loud in the hollow silence of the house. [Who’s going to LAX tomorrow? Remember to get tight shots of his face.] The admin began delegating. [Me! Me! I’m gonna try to rip off that cursed protection amulet that old witch gave him.] [Yes! Shred it. Wes should only wear the jewelry we buy him.] I stared at that sentence until the words blurred, a cold numbness seeping into my chest. That amulet was a hand-carved grounding stone I had driven ten hours into the Arizona desert to get for him from a Navajo artisan, praying for his safety after a stunt went wrong on set. Wesley had worn it flush against his collarbone ever since. Now, these girls were crowdsourcing a plan to destroy it. My phone vibrated in my palm. A text from Wesley. [Wheels up at 6:30 AM. If you can actually wake up that early, I’ll have the driver swing by the house to get you.] I stared at the glowing blue bubble for a long time. Then, very slowly, I typed: [Too tired. Can’t make it. Be safe.] After it delivered, I placed the phone face down on the sofa and closed my eyes. In the suffocating dark, I could already picture the absolute chaos of the airport ambush waiting for him tomorrow. I lost track of time, drifting in a numb haze, until the sudden chime of the front gate intercom shattered the silence. I snapped my eyes open, looking at the digital clock on the mantle. 5:00 AM. I walked over to the security monitor. “Who is it?” The screen was pitch black. No visual. But the voice that filtered through the speaker made my blood freeze in my veins. “It’s me.” 2 The voice was rough, laced with a heavy, gravelly exhaustion. “Open the gate, Camille.” I stood paralyzed for two agonizing seconds before slamming my palm onto the release button. The heavy iron locks clicked open. He walked in bringing the chill of the California dawn with him. He was hidden beneath a black baseball cap and a face mask, a grease-stained brown paper bag dangling from his fingers. “Aren’t you supposed to be flying to New York this morning? Why are you back here?” He pulled off the mask and tossed the cap onto the marble entryway console. “Changed my flight.” He walked the distance between us and held the paper bag out to me. “Those almond croissants from that tiny French place in Venice Beach. Still warm.” I didn’t take it. My eyes were fixed on the heavy, bruised shadows beneath his eyes. “Are you out of your mind? You drove all the way back up the hills at five in the morning just to drop off a pastry?” A faint, tired smile touched his lips. He reached out, his hand brushing through my hair. “It was on the way.” Venice Beach to the Hollywood Hills, while he was supposed to be at LAX. In no universe was that on the way. I stepped back, dodging his touch, and took the bag. My fingers accidentally grazed the back of his hand. It was ice cold. “Eat them before they get cold,” he murmured, turning on his heel and heading toward the master bath. I stood rooted to the spot, watching the broad line of his shoulders disappear behind the frosted glass door. The water turned on. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened Telegram. The chat was an absolute war zone. [What the hell is going on?! The VIP terminal is completely empty!] [Where is the insider?! Get out here and explain! How dare you sell us fake intel!] The admin, StardustWes, dropped a barrage of furious emojis. [Refund us right now, or I swear to God I’ll hire someone to track your IP and dox you to the whole internet!] [You messed with the wrong crowd, bitch. You’re dead.] I scrolled through the manic tags and death threats, a dark, cynical smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. Wesley changed his flight without telling a single soul—not even me. His stalkers caught nothing but air, and naturally, my head was on the chopping block. I didn’t refund the money. I didn’t type a single word. The shower shut off. Wesley walked out in sweatpants and a faded vintage tee, vigorously drying his dripping hair with a towel. He stopped, his gaze falling on the untouched paper bag sitting on the kitchen island. “Why aren’t you eating?” “Lost my appetite,” I said, my voice deadpan. He paused, lowering the towel, and walked slowly toward me. He studied my face, his brow furrowing. “Are you in a bad mood?” I tilted my head up, meeting his gaze head-on. “Wesley, we’ve been married for almost two years. Do you honestly think we still look like husband and wife?” His jaw tightened. He tossed the damp towel onto a barstool. “I’ve been slammed with production lately, Camille. Once we wrap this shoot, I promise, I’ll take you to Iceland. We’ll go see the Northern Lights.” Another empty check. Another hollow promise. Every single time I tried to breach the wall between us, he used a vacation as a band-aid to push the conversation down the road. I pushed off the counter. “Don’t bother. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.” I turned toward the hallway. A hand locked around my wrist, stopping me dead. His voice dropped an octave, heavy with a sudden, suffocating pressure. “What is actually going on with you?” I ripped my arm out of his grip. “Nothing. I just feel like you’re a million miles away. You’re so far away that I don’t even know what city you’re going to wake up in tomorrow.” A flicker of something—guilt? frustration?—passed through his eyes. “I thought you understood the nature of my work.” I stared at him, enunciating every single word. “I do understand. Which is exactly why I never ask. Because when I do, all I get is a perfectly curated PR lie.” I turned, walked into the guest bedroom, and locked the door behind me. I was violently jolted awake by the machine-gun vibration of my phone against the nightstand. I squinted at the screen. Telegram. The notifications read 999+. [Found him! The insider wasn’t lying about the flight, Wesley just changed his schedule last minute!] [A paparazzi account just posted pictures of him landing at O’Hare in Chicago last night!] The admin’s tone did a complete 180. [Omg Insider babes, I’m so sorry we doubted you! Do you have Wes’s itinerary for Chicago?!] [Paying $5,000 right now for the name of his hotel in Chicago!] I stared at the bounty. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. Landing in Chicago last night? He had walked through my front door at five o’clock this morning. It was physically impossible. I minimized Telegram and opened Twitter. #WesleyChicago was trending at number eight. I clicked the hashtag. The blurry paparazzi shots showed a man in a black baseball cap and a face mask. The height, the build, the posture—it was a flawless imitation. But I knew my husband’s shoulders. I knew the way he walked. It wasn’t him. Wesley Kallan was deploying body doubles as decoys to shake his stalkers. And the real Wesley? He was currently asleep in the master bedroom, thirty feet away from me. A cold, bitter laugh escaped my throat. I switched back to the stalker chat. [$5,000 is insulting. Make it $10,000.] The admin replied instantly. [Deal. Send the location!] I leaned back against the headboard, listening to the muffled sounds of footsteps in the hallway. He was up. I opened Wesley’s text thread. [Mr. A-List, which hotel are you resting your head at in Chicago right now?] 3 I stared at the screen, my pulse thrumming a slow, heavy beat against my ribs. Through the drywall, the footsteps paused. A heavy, breathless minute ticked by before the typing bubble appeared. [The one the studio booked. Why the sudden interrogation? Checking up on me?] His tone was perfectly engineered—that familiar, indulgent tease he used to deflect. I didn’t take the bait. My thumbs flew across the glass. [Which hotel did the studio book, Wesley?] This time, the reply was immediate. [The Park Hyatt. Why are you asking? Thinking of flying out to surprise me on set?] I stared at the words Park Hyatt. A venomous spike of pure resentment shot through me. He lied with such breathtaking ease. He was in the next room, breathing the same air as me, and he could still fabricate a location two thousand miles away without missing a beat. To protect his untouchable brand, he kept his armor on, even against the woman he married. I didn’t call him out. Instead, I copied the words Park Hyatt Chicago and dropped them straight into the Telegram chat. [$10,000. Pleasure doing business.]

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The summer we graduated, Weston decided he was going to be a star. He signed up for a major televised music competition in LA, ready to throw himself into the spotlight. He didn’t ask me to go with him. Instead, he had his roommate tell me to pack my bags. I turned down a prestigious doctoral fellowship and a lucrative corporate offer, following him to California like a shadow. I was there for the grind—from the empty dive bars to the sold-out arenas. I watched him become the country’s most coveted artist. And me? I was just the secret wife he never acknowledged. Harassed by his fans. Mocked by his childhood muse. Until the day I died, he never once stood up for me. I spent years drowning in regret, wondering why on earth I had sacrificed my own career for a man who kept me in the dark. Then, the universe hit rewind. I woke up on the morning of my thesis defense. His roommate knocked on my door with a smug grin: “Weston’s heading to LA tomorrow. You better get a move on and start packing.” I looked at him, completely numb, and said, “I’m not going to LA.” 01 The silence in the room was deafening. My classmates looked back and forth between Weston and me, waiting for me to cave, to take it back. But I just turned to the girl next to me and started chatting about the weather. Weston never asked for anything directly. He used Tyler to do his dirty work, expecting me to anticipate his needs. If I ever felt slighted or expressed hurt, he’d smirk and say, “Didn’t you volunteer for this?” It left me utterly speechless. Like right now. He wanted me in LA to manage his life, but he made Tyler deliver the command. Tyler glared at me. “Cora, if you’re not going to LA, where else could you possibly go?” “I’m thinking of going abroad,” I said, my voice steady. Weston scoffed, a cold chuckle escaping his lips. “Abroad? Since when?” His usual cool, detached facade was slipping. He looked genuinely rattled. “Since now,” I replied. His face hardened. Tyler chimed in with a sneer, “Oh, please. The help’s kid is putting on airs now? Don’t come crying to us when you realize what a massive mistake you’re making.” “The help’s kid.” That was their favorite label for me. My dad was the Drakes’ personal driver; my mother was their housekeeper. My family’s livelihood depended on their charity. To them, I was born to be second-class. But I didn’t let the insult sting. “Give the opportunity to someone who actually wants it,” I said smoothly. “Excuse me.” I grabbed my bag and walked out. Behind me, I heard the whispers. “What crawled up her sleeve today?” “Don’t sweat it, Weston. She’ll come crawling back. She always does.” Weston’s voice floated after me, lazy and arrogant. “Who’s sweating? I don’t care if she goes or not.” He was convinced I was just playing hard to get. I didn’t slow down. My heart hammered against my ribs as I bolted back to the dorm. Sitting at my desk, I opened my laptop. There, sitting in my inbox, was the official offer letter from the Silicon Valley firm. The tears came hot and fast. It was real. I was back. I was twenty-two, and the future was mine to rewrite. 02 In my past life, I followed him to LA. He won the competition, signed with a major label, and became an overnight sensation. I turned down every job offer, every academic path, to become his glorified assistant. Then, we got married. There was no ceremony, no diamond ring, no public announcement. He forbade me from telling anyone. “Just wait,” he’d whisper in the dark. “Once my career stabilizes, I’ll give you the wedding of your dreams.” His fans hated how close I was to him. They called me a social climber, a leech trying to hitch a ride on a star. Even my friends warned me: “He can have any beautiful woman in Hollywood. What makes you think you can keep him?” I swallowed the humiliation. Even my own parents didn’t know we were married. When I turned thirty, we were still a secret. My parents were frantic. My mother wept, begging me to let Weston go and move on with my life. Seeing her heartbroken, I finally begged Weston to at least let us break the news to our families. He sighed, claiming his mother would never accept it. “We have to wait a few more years for the right moment,” he said. “Unless… you want to go tell her yourself?” He knew I wouldn’t. Mrs. Drake was my ultimate terror. I had been a left-behind child in the countryside. Every summer, my parents would bring me to the city to live with them for two months. We lived in the damp basement of the Drakes’ massive estate. My mother constantly whispered in my ear: “Be useful. Keep quiet. Don’t make a sound, or they’ll kick us out.” I grew up terrified of being thrown away. Especially by Mrs. Drake. She’d sit on her plush velvet sofa, looking down her nose at me, criticizing how skinny, dark, and clumsy I was. If she found out I had married her precious son, she would have torn me to shreds. I had no leverage. No spine. I waited year after year, watching Weston collect awards and build a financial empire. I died without ever getting my wedding, or my name next to his. 03 I pulled out my phone and immediately canceled my train ticket to LA. I opened Instagram. Weston had just posted a video of himself playing a violin track. The caption read: “As it always was.” It was a message meant for Scarlett Ward. Five years into our marriage, Scarlett returned from Europe. That was when I realized she existed—the ghost that had always occupied the corners of his mind. When they were together, they laughed and talked endlessly. For the first time, I realized Weston wasn’t cold; he just wasn’t warm to me. Soon, they became partners. From hit singles to music videos, world tours to indie films, they were inseparable. He was the brilliant actor-singer; she was the prodigy violinist. The media called them a match made in heaven. Even his fans embraced her, calling her the “real” Mrs. Drake. And he never corrected them. I had always felt like an imposter next to him. Being married to him felt like a lottery ticket I hadn’t earned. It happened during his third year in the industry, back when he was still struggling. He got a slot to perform at a major gala, but someone spiked his drink backstage. Desperate not to lose his shot, he begged me to help him through it. In that dark backstage room, terrified of losing everything, he clung to me. That night, we crossed a line. The next day, he took me to the courthouse to get registered. I knew it wasn’t out of love. I felt guilty, like I had taken advantage of his vulnerability. So when Scarlett reappeared, my insecurity flared like a wildfire. I threw tantrums, I picketed his studio. He merely shrugged it off. “It’s just PR, Cora. You’re being paranoid.” Once, after they spent the entire night locked in his study, I lost my mind and confronted her in public. Weston was furious. “Cora, do you have nothing better to do with your life? Scarlett lives for her art. Your baseless accusations are bordering on slander!” Scarlett had only smiled, a soft, patronizing thing. “It’s fine, Weston. I don’t hold grudges against housewives.” Her pity was sharper than any knife. It left me raw, humiliated, and utterly silent. 04 I had even secretly taken vocal lessons, foolishly believing it would give us something to talk about. But Scarlett caught me practicing once. She mimicked my awkward pitch and clumsy posture to Weston, giggling behind her hand. “I’m sorry, Weston. Her pronunciation was just so bizarre. I couldn’t help myself.” Weston rubbed his temples, looking thoroughly exhausted. “It’s embarrassing. Like a monkey trying to paint.” I stood frozen outside the door, tears of pure shame burning my eyes. I ran back to my room and tore the sheet music to pieces. Later, Scarlett brought up my “music phase” at dinner parties, prompting polite, mocking chuckles from his industry friends. I had to force a smile and say, “It was too hard. I gave up on it a long time ago.” Within a year of her return, they started playing up their romantic chemistry for the cameras. I used to be Weston’s manager and assistant. I handled everything—booking gigs, managing contracts, dealing with publicists. His rise hadn’t been easy. The Drakes were comfortable in our mid-sized hometown, but their money was nothing compared to the millions required to bankroll a star. I endured the grittiest parts of the hustle with him. But Scarlett insisted he needed a “professional team.” One by one, my responsibilities were handed over to slick agency executives. Until I was locked out entirely. I watched them walk red carpets together, dropping hints about their shared history. I grew bitter, jealous, and unrecognizable to myself. Scarlett would tease Weston about me: “Look at the mess she made. She’s only a liability.” Then she’d turn her pitying gaze to me. “Weston works so hard, Cora. If you can’t help him, at least don’t drag him down. A woman needs her own identity. Clinging to a man never works.” She was a terrible person, but she wasn’t wrong. Back then, I remember wishing with every fiber of my being that if I could do it all over, I would never let Weston Drake into my life. Thank God someone was listening. Now, the tech giant’s offer is still waiting in my inbox. I actually have a choice. 05 I slept terribly that night. Scarlett’s sneering face kept flashing behind my eyelids. “Your marriage was a mistake from the start, Cora. Do yourself a favor and leave with some dignity.” She had spoken with such authority, as if I were the mistress and she the aggrieved wife. I had stared at her, dumbfounded. “Oh, does that hurt? Or are you just bitter? Having sex with him in a filthy backstage bathroom… I don’t know if I should call you desperate or cheap. No wonder he refuses to tell the world you’re his wife.” I hadn’t realized Weston viewed that night with such disgust. Even worse, he had shared our private, intimate moments with Scarlett. It felt like being stripped naked and paraded in front of my worst enemy. My chest felt tight, my face hot, my throat closing up. She had leaned her chin on her hand, smiling like a cat. “Don’t you think that whole ‘spiked drink’ incident was a little too convenient? Weston and I both think the timing was absolutely perfect. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” The accusation hit me like a physical blow. He suspected me? How dare he? By then, my depression had already spiraled out of control. I couldn’t remember what she said next. My mind had dissolved into white noise. I remember driving home in a daze, my hands shaking on the wheel. Then, the blinding headlights, the screech of tires against the guardrail, the crushing impact. When my soul detached from my body, I saw my parents. They were sobbing, their faces gray with grief. They had spent their entire lives, breaking their backs, just to raise me. And I had given them nothing but a corpse. The regret was a physical weight. I regretted my weakness, my surrendered career, my obsession with a boy who never loved me. Because my spirit was bound by resentment, I couldn’t cross over. I watched Weston and Scarlett’s lavish wedding. I watched him tell reporters about their “eternal love story,” how they were childhood sweethearts separated by distance but never in heart. They admitted they were essentially dating on the studio’s dime. Scarlett even boasted that the years after her return had been the sweetest of her life. Even in death, the betrayal cut to the bone. 06 I woke up sobbing several times during the night. When dawn finally broke, I gave up on sleep. I got up and washed my face. The dark circles under my eyes were heavy, so I took extra time to apply concealer and makeup. My roommate, Taylor, watched me from her bed, letting out a sharp laugh. “I thought you weren’t going to LA, Cora? Getting up at dawn to put on a full face of makeup? You’re such a hypocrite.” I knew it. None of them had believed me yesterday. I didn’t bother explaining. I packed my bags and got into a cab. Maeve sent me a furious voice note. “Cora! Where is your spine? If I had been in the dorm, I would have locked you in! Are you seriously going to LA?” Maeve had always detested Weston. She thought he was a pretentious, self-righteous snob. She forwarded me a few screenshots. It was a photo Taylor had taken of me packing, posted in their joint group chat—the one that included Weston’s roommates, but excluded me. “Relax guys, she was just bluffing. She’s already on her way.” The replies were brutal. “Lmao, I actually thought she had a spine for a second. The help’s kid trying to act like she’s going abroad.” “And now she’s slinking back to LA.” “Whatever. Weston, don’t be too hard on her. You need someone to do your laundry anyway. Having her around saves you a lot of trouble.” “Make her wait at the station for a few hours. Teach her a lesson.” Maeve was breathing heavily in the audio. “Cora, I want to rip your head open and see what’s inside! Cancel the ticket! They’re literally laughing at you, and you’re just running to them?” I smiled and texted her a screenshot of my actual ticket. “Calm down, babe. I’m on a train to Chicago.” “I have a visa interview.” 07 My job offer was based in Silicon Valley, which meant I needed a visa. The nearest consulate was in Chicago. I slept soundly on the train ride. When I woke up, my phone was practically vibrating off the seat. 99+ missed calls. 99+ unread messages. At first, they were demanding to know where I was. Then, the tone shifted to anger, accusing me of being irresponsible and leaving Weston stranded. I laughed, typing out cold, biting replies to every single person who had insulted me, and then blocked them one by one. I had planned to keep up appearances until graduation, but they had made that impossible. Weston didn’t get his personal assistant. He had to board the flight to LA alone. He didn’t call. He just sent a single text: “?” Typical Weston. Our chat history was a sea of green bubbles on my side—long, frantic paragraphs of me checking in on him—and short, icy fragments from him. This time, I left him on read. I knew what lay ahead for him. In LA, he would meet his mentor. He would sign with a powerhouse agency, release his debut single, and rocket to fame. Later, his looks and brooding intensity would land him leading roles in film, making him an Oscar-winning superstar before thirty. His path was paved with gold. But I wouldn’t be the pavement anymore. 08 The visa interview went smoothly. I took the train back to my hometown that same evening. The moment I saw my parents standing on the platform, the dam broke. I threw my arms around my mother and sobbed. She patted my back, utterly bewildered. My parents were simple, quiet people. They didn’t know how to navigate big emotions, let alone express them. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Why are you crying?” “Nothing,” I choked out. “I just… I missed you guys so much.” “But we just saw you at Easter,” my mother said, touching my forehead to check for a fever. She had no idea that in my mind, it had been a lifetime since I last held her. In my previous life, after I died, my parents aged ten years overnight. When my mother was packing up my belongings, she found our secret marriage certificate. By then, Weston had already gone public with Scarlett, flaunting their romance on every late-night show. My parents, fueled by a rare, desperate courage, took that certificate to the Drake estate to demand answers. But Mrs. Drake only spat on them. She tore the paper to shreds and screamed, “Your daughter was a shameless leech who drugged my son and forged a fake certificate! Thank God she died before she could ruin him completely!” “Shut up! Our Cora would never do that!” My parents, who had spent their entire lives bowing their heads and telling me to stay humble, fought like wild animals that day. When the security guards dragged my mother away, they broke her wrist, but she refused to let go of the torn pieces of my marriage certificate. She didn’t know the marriage was registered in public records. She just wanted to protect her daughter’s dignity. My father was left bleeding from his temple. Now, looking at their dark, thick hair and their unwrinkled faces, a wave of profound relief washed over me. They were still whole. 09 Three days after I got home, Weston showed up. In my past life, the singing competition lasted for over a month. We hadn’t even made it back for graduation. There was absolutely no reason for him to be in our hometown right now. He walked down the gravel driveway, his tall frame cutting through the afternoon light. But as he drew closer, I noticed something was off. His posture, the heavy, desperate look in his eyes… This wasn’t a twenty-two-year-old boy. This was… “Cora,” he whispered. My brain went completely numb. “What are you doing here?” “You blocked me,” he said, his voice raw. “I had to come find you.” He tried to smile, but his eyes were dark and haunted. That look. I knew it instantly. Before Scarlett had returned in our past life, Weston and I had actually found a rhythm. He started helping me with dinner. He bought tickets to Tahiti because I mentioned I’d never seen the ocean. He’d leave designer handbags on my vanity, and wrap his arms around my waist from behind, whispering my name. We were almost happy. Until Scarlett came back and shattered the illusion. I stared at him, cold and silent. “I’ve been having these… dreams,” Weston said, taking a step closer. “Every night for the past week. Terrible, vivid dreams.” “And when I wake up, my chest hurts so bad I can’t breathe.” “Cora… I regret it.”

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The seventh time Nydia missed my birthday, she promised she’d make it up to me. So, I waited. I sat at the peak of Echo Ridge for over three hours as the sky opened up, pouring down a freezing, relentless rain. She never showed. Instead, her young assistant posted a photo of the two of them on social media, captioned from a hotel room. “Thanks to Boss Nydia for the limited-edition watch.” “Someone who loves you never makes you wait; I always get what I want right away~” In the photo, they were tangled together on a plush, red velvet bed, their fingers tightly intertwined, their shirts off. The diamond wedding band Nydia usually wore was nowhere to be seen. In its place were dark purple hickeys and “I love you” scribbled across her collarbone in permanent marker. I stood there in the dark, swallowing the bitter taste of bile rising in my throat. I blocked the number, deleted the contact, and made a silent vow to scrub Nydia—and everything she brought with her—out of my life for good. 1 Less than five minutes after I blocked him, my phone buzzed. It was Nydia. “Did you delete Chase?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Add him back right now.” I didn’t say anything, listening to her breathe on the other end. “He’s new to the corporate world, Duke. He didn’t know any better. He thinks he did something to upset you and he’s been crying in the room for an hour. Add him back, explain yourself, apologize, and I’ll let this slide.” He took what was mine, and she wanted me to apologize. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “In your dreams.” The line went quiet for a beat. When Nydia spoke again, her tone had shifted from anger to a weary, practiced exasperation. “Are you really throwing a tantrum over Chase again? How many times do I have to tell you? We grew up together. He’s like family to me. Now that he’s working at my company, of course I’m going to look out for him. Besides, look at the weather. It’s pouring, and his health has always been fragile. I couldn’t just leave him stranded in the storm.” The more she rationalized, the hollower her voice sounded. She seemed to have completely forgotten that I was the one with chronic health issues—the very reason I had stepped back from my own career to hand the reins of the business over to her. Tired of the noise, I cut her off. “I’m still at Echo Ridge.” I had waited three hours. I’d been sitting in the freezing rain for the last sixty minutes. There was no shelter up here, and the winding mountain paths were too slick to navigate in the dark during a storm. For a split second, a crack of panic leaked into her voice. “Stay there. Don’t move. I’m coming to get you.” I waited another hour. By the time the rain finally stopped, Nydia still hadn’t arrived. The trail down was slick with mud. Within a few steps, my boots were ruined, my jeans splattered with cold sludge. I sneezed, shivering violently, feeling my heart sink straight into the dirt. It felt cold, heavy, and utterly numb. When I finally got back to my apartment, I took a scorching hot shower to stop the shaking. As I was drying off, my phone buzzed. It was a video call from an unknown number. I answered. Chase’s face filled the screen. “Hey, Duke,” he cooed, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “Are you mad at Nydia because she bought me this watch? I can ask her to buy you one too, if you want. You don’t have to be so petty over a little birthday gift, do you?” The malice in his eyes was unmistakable. The watch was a limited-edition piece—only a handful existed in the world. He knew I’d been eyeing it for months, hoping it would be my birthday present. Yet he had taken it, parading it in front of me like a trophy. My head throbbed. I didn’t have the energy to fight. I popped a couple of sinus pills and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. I don’t know how long I was out before the blankets were violently ripped off me. “Why didn’t you wait for me? Do you have any idea how long I spent looking for you?” Nydia stood over the bed, looking exhausted and annoyed. “I’m starving. Get up and make some dinner. And brew some ginger tea while you’re at it—Chase got caught in the rain, and I need to drop some off for him.” The sudden shock made my headache flare. I looked up at her, my voice laced with pure disgust. “Did Chase not feed you enough tonight?” Nydia stiffened, her eyes flashing with rage. “Duke! Are you seriously starting this again? I explained everything to you. Meeting Chase tonight was a complete coincidence. Do you have to make a federal case out of every little thing? And to think I actually brought you a surprise.” She threw a small velvet box at me. It caught me right on the corner of my eye. The sharp edge sliced the skin, and a sharp, stinging pain made my eyes water instantly. She blinked, startled by her own violence, and stepped closer to inspect the cut. But as she bent over me, a heavy wave of cologne hit my nose. It was Chase’s signature scent—cloyingly sweet and expensive. Disgusted, I shoved her away. My gaze fell to the floor where the velvet box had landed. The watch had slipped out. On its pristine sapphire glass was a dried, sticky smear of fluid. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they had been doing while wearing it. A wave of nausea hit me. I kicked the watch back toward her feet. “Save your pathetic gestures, Nydia,” I said, my voice cold and flat. “I don’t want a watch another man has worn. And I certainly don’t want a woman another man has used.” 2 “Stop talking nonsense. I’m taking you to the ER.” Nydia looked at the bead of blood swelling at the corner of my eye, a flicker of genuine worry crossing her face. Ignoring my weak protests, she hauled me out of bed. She was so determined to play the part of the doting, concerned wife that she didn’t even let me grab a jacket. Shaking and feverish, I climbed into the passenger seat. The air conditioning was blasting, so I reached into the back seat for the wool throw blanket. When I pulled it, my finger caught in a massive, ragged tear. As the fabric unraveled, a pair of worn men’s boxer briefs tumbled onto my lap. Nydia caught my expression in the rearview mirror. She cleared her throat, brushing it off. “It’s probably just Chase playing a prank. He’s always had a childish sense of humor. Don’t look at me like that.” She sighed, stepping on the gas. “Honestly, Duke, I work myself to the bone every single day to provide for this lifestyle, and you’re giving me attitude over a ruined blanket? You don’t have half the grace or understanding that Chase does.” The wool blanket was the last thing my grandmother had made for me before she passed. She had spent weeks hand-stitching it as a wedding gift for us, knowing she wouldn’t live to see our first anniversary. I quietly folded it and tucked it into my bag. I didn’t say a word. Then, the car console lit up. It was Courtney, one of Nydia’s close friends. “Hey, Nydia! We’re all waiting for you to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of you and Chase’s first hand-hold. Where are you?” She forgot my birthday, but she remembered the exact date she first held Chase’s hand. In the background, I heard Chase’s voice filter through the speaker, dripping with condescension. “Why do you think? She’s probably dealing with her trophy husband. Honestly, marrying a guy like that must be a living nightmare.” Nydia shot a guilty look in my direction, muttering a quick “behave yourself” into the phone, before spinning the steering wheel to head toward the GPS coordinates Courtney had sent. Panic flared in my chest. “I don’t want to go. Take me home.” Every time I was forced to hang out with Chase and her friends, it ended in humiliation. The first time, Chase and his buddies took turns pressure-drinking me until I ended up in the emergency room with acute gastritis. The second time, Chase—fully aware of my severe peanut allergy—deliberately slipped peanut butter into my dessert, then took photos of my swollen, hives-covered face and posted them to the company’s Slack channel. I had been the butt of their jokes too many times. I wasn’t going to play their toy tonight. But Nydia had already wiped those memories clean. To her, I was just being difficult. “Duke, don’t be so selfish. Am I supposed to alienate all my friends just to appease your insecurity?” “Then go by yourself. Let me out.” My head was pounding, the fever cooking my brain. I didn’t even have the energy to argue. But her stubborn streak kicked in. “No. Insulting my friends is insulting me. You’re coming.” She softened her voice slightly, attempting a patronizing stroke of my hair. “Just come say hello, and we’ll leave. Don’t ruin my night.” By the time we arrived at the lounge, it was past two in the morning. The moment we walked through the VIP booth doors, a bucket of ice water was splashed directly onto my face. As I stood there, shivering, my wet shirt clinging to my chest, Chase laughed. “Welcome to the party! Do you like the initiation?” Seeing my pale, trembling frame, a couple of people tried to smooth things over, pulling Nydia into the booth. There were four seats around the low table. Nydia, Chase, Courtney, and Kyle sat down. I was left standing. Chase’s grin widened. “Oh, looks like we’re out of seats… Maybe you should just head home, Duke. It’s not like you’d understand what we’re talking about anyway.” Kyle, Nydia’s cousin, chimed in. “Yeah, bro-in-law, don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on Nydia for you.” Years ago, when Kyle was starting her business, she begged me for a hundred-thousand-dollar loan. She called me her favorite brother-in-law and promised she’d always have my back. Yet later, she was the one who whispered to Nydia, “How did you end up with Duke anyway? Chase is ten times the man he is.” And Courtney. She was always sweet to my face when she needed a favor, but behind my back, she and Chase mocked me as a tasteless lottery-winner, gladly helping Nydia cover up her trysts. They were a pack of hyenas. I stared at the empty space between them, letting out a long, quiet sigh. “You don’t need to worry about the seating arrangement,” I said. “We’re getting a divorce. That should free up plenty of space.” 3 Nydia froze, her face slack with disbelief. In all our years together, I had never embarrassed her in front of her inner circle. No matter how late she stayed out drinking, one call and I would drive across the city to bring her home, asking for nothing in return. But I was done sacrificing my dignity at her altar. The booth fell dead silent. Courtney and Kyle began stammering, trying to diffuse the tension, while Chase rolled his eyes. “Divorce? Again? Is this what, the fifth time you’ve threatened that?” Chase sneered. “Nydia, your kept man really has a flare for drama, doesn’t he?” Embarrassed and angry, Nydia stood up, her voice dropping an octave. “Duke, have I spoiled you so much that you think you can talk to me like this? Have you forgotten how you literally begged me on your knees not to leave you?” Without another word, I turned and walked out into the cool night air. When Chase first returned from abroad, I had fought with Nydia constantly over their inappropriately close “friendship.” Every time, her answer was the same: “If you don’t like it, get a divorce.” Back then, I was still desperately in love with her. I would apologize, take the blame, and beg for her forgiveness. I had knelt on our hardwood floor, weeping in the dead of night, while she used my devotion as a doormat. Not this time. I went back to our house, packed my bags, and moved into the small downtown studio apartment I had bought before we got married. I had purchased it with my own savings. Nydia had thrown a fit when she found out. “Only an idiot buys a tiny studio in the city. It’s embarrassing. You should have put that money toward a sports car for me so I look good driving to meetings.” My parents eventually bought her a luxury SUV as part of our wedding arrangements, which seemed to pacify her. I was deeply relieved I hadn’t listened to her back then. This studio was my sanctuary now. And that luxury SUV? It had essentially become Chase’s personal ride. By the time I finished unpacking, the sun was rising. Exhausted but unable to sleep, I went down to the local copy shop and printed out a standard divorce agreement. When I got back to the studio building, Nydia was waiting outside my door. I blinked in surprise. This was the first time she had ever sought me out first. “Look, about last night—I went too far,” she said, though her tone was still laced with condescension. “But you shouldn’t have embarrassed me in front of my friends. Go apologize to Chase, and we’ll put this behind us.” I remembered what Chase had told her as I walked out the night before: “Duke behaves this way because you tolerate it. You need to train him. If you won’t do it, I will.” He had listed a whole playbook of manipulation tactics: financial withholding, silent treatment, emotional gaslighting. Listening to him, I realized Nydia had already been using every single one of them on me. She body-shamed me, comparing me unfavorably to Chase. She told me I was useless, destined to be nothing more than a glorified housekeeper. If I protested, she would snap: “Chase helps me run a multi-million dollar company. What do you do? He has an Ivy League degree. You have no right to compare yourself to him.” She forgot that I had abandoned my own career path and family connections to support her because I loved her. If she couldn’t respect that sacrifice, there was nothing left to say. I thrust the divorce papers into her hands and unlocked my door. Panic finally cracked through her cool exterior. She pushed past the threshold, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist from behind. “Stop being like this. I’ll apologize, okay? I’m sorry.” Her hands began to slide under my shirt, tracing my skin. “I know I’ve been distant lately. You’re angry, I get it. What if we start trying for a baby? I promise we can do it now.” Disgusted, I ripped myself from her grip and shoved her away with everything I had. “Don’t touch me. You make my skin crawl.” Nydia stumbled back, hitting the drywall, her eyes flashing with sudden anger. But before she could speak, my vision went black, and my knees buckled beneath me. 4 When I opened my eyes, the smell of antiseptic told me I was in a hospital room. My head was heavy, and my eyelids felt like lead. But before I could even pull myself up, a low, muffled moan drifted from the other side of the privacy curtain. “Nydia… this is so risky. What if Duke wakes up and catches us?” Nydia’s voice was breathless, heavy with exertion. “He won’t. I had the doctor slip some sedatives into his IV. He’s out cold. We have plenty of time.” The rhythmic squeak of a hospital bed and the wet, heavy sounds of their intimacy filtered through the thin fabric. I could see the distorted shadows of their bodies tangled together. Bile surged in my throat. I tried to pull myself up to escape, but my sedated muscles failed me, and I rolled off the mattress, crashing hard onto the linoleum floor. The noise cut the sounds short. The curtain was shoved aside. Nydia stood there, frantically buttoning her blouse, looking down at me. “Duke? You’re awake?” She tried to smooth her disheveled hair. “Chase was so worried about you. He actually brought you something to eat.” She pointed to the bedside table, where a plastic container of leftover seafood porridge sat. Right in the center was a thick dollop of peanut butter. Just as toxic and sickening as the two of them. Nydia, entirely oblivious to her own cruelty, sighed. “Duke, look, we can fight, but don’t play games with your health. You passed out from a massive fever. You scared me to death.” “And whose fault is that?” I rasped, my throat raw. “Who left me in the rain? Who dragged me out of bed and took me to a bar instead of an ER?” Nydia looked away, a brief flicker of guilt crossing her face. “Let’s not talk about that right now. Just eat something. Chase made this especially for you.” My eyes fixed on the peanut butter. Nydia’s gaze followed mine, and she suddenly paled. “Oh… I forgot. It’s fine, I’ll order you some takeout.” Before she could unlock her phone, Chase wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Nydia, the smell of bleach in here is giving me a headache. Let’s go grab a coffee downstairs.” Nydia looked at me, torn. “Go,” I said quietly, turning my back to them. I swept the container of porridge into the trash and cracked the window open to let the fresh air in. After a moment of hesitation, Chase pulled her out the door. “I’ll be right back,” she called out over her shoulder. She didn’t come back. An hour later, I ordered my own food, finished my IV drip, and went to the front desk to get my discharge paperwork. The doctor, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, looked at my chart and then up at me. “The woman who brought you in… is she your wife?” “Soon-to-be ex-wife,” I replied. “Ah. That explains it.” The doctor sighed, handing me my prescriptions. “The young man she was with… he’s a frequent flyer here. Your wife brought him in for an abortion last year. They listed her as the mother and him as the father.” She scribbled her personal cell number on the back of the discharge slip. “Keep this. If you feel dizzy or need anything else, call me directly.” I took the slip, my chest tightening, and gave her a tight, grateful nod. When I got back to my studio, a text from Nydia popped up. An emergency came up at the office. I had to run. Let me know if you need anything, I’ll come straight over. At the exact same time, a notification popped up on Instagram. An anonymous account had posted a photo: Office play. Best Tuesday ever! In the photo, Nydia was draped over her office desk, her blouse half-unbuttoned, while Chase grinned at the camera. In the background, on the corner of her desk, lay an empty condom wrapper. My skin crawled. I felt physically dirty just looking at it. I immediately booked an appointment at a private clinic for a full panel of STD tests. The physician there was incredibly kind, offering me a warm cup of coffee while I waited for the blood draw. It was the first time in days I felt like a human being. But the peace didn’t last. When I unlocked my apartment door that evening, my heart stopped. The tiny studio was packed. My parents, Nydia’s parents, Nydia, and Chase were all standing in the cramped space. Nydia’s eyes were red, staring at the divorce agreement on the counter. Chase stood beside her, arms crossed, looking smug. “I’ve never met anyone as shameless as you,” Chase spat the moment I walked in. “Nydia treats you like a king, and you’re out here sleeping around with other women.” My mother stepped forward, holding a printout of a photo—it was me and the clinic doctor having coffee. “Duke, what is this? Nydia says you’re having an affair and demanding a divorce. We thought you two were happy.” Nydia’s mother slammed her hand on my small dining table. “Divorce him, Nydia! We don’t need a cheating, deceitful man in our family.” “No wonder you couldn’t give Nydia a child all these years,” she sneered, looking me up and down. “You’ve probably been running around with cheap girls, ruining your own body.” A barrage of vile, disgusting accusations filled the room. I looked at Nydia, my chest heaving with silent rage. “Nydia, you really love spinning a victim narrative, don’t you?” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Do you honestly think I don’t know what you’ve been doing?” “I was going to let you walk away with some dignity. But since you want to drag my name through the mud, let’s lay it all out.” I walked into my closet and pulled out a heavy metal lockbox. The day I packed my things, I had stumbled upon a secret far worse than her infidelity. I had kept it to myself, waiting for the right moment to lay my cards on the table. That moment had arrived.

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When my family finally paid the ransom to bring me home, I was nothing but a bag of bones. Months of forced starvation had shrunk my stomach to the size of a fist, leaving me with a severe, crippling aversion to food. At my welcome dinner, when I couldn’t bring myself to pick up my fork, my sister, Bella, immediately welled up with tears. “Sophie, you won’t even touch your food. Are you still blaming me? I didn’t mean to leak your location to those kidnappers…” My older brother, Tayler, protectively wrapped an arm around her shoulders, shooting me a cold, disgusted look. “Stop being so dramatic, Sophie. You were gone for a few months, and you came back in one piece. No broken bones. Who are you putting on this victim act for?” He nudged the plate closer. “Bella spent all afternoon making this for you. Even if you have to choke it down, you’re going to eat it.” My parents joined in, their faces hardening. “You just get back and you’re already throwing a tantrum!” my father barked. “Eat the meat, Sophie. Now.” Looking at the three of them, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in their united defense of Bella, a profound numbness washed over me. I slowly picked up a slice of the greasy pork and forced it past my lips. The reaction was instantaneous. A violent spasm seized my abdomen. I collapsed from my chair, hitting the hardwood floor, dry-heaving desperately. There was nothing in my stomach to bring up, but the dry-heaves tore at my throat until I coughed up a pool of dark, brilliant red blood. Tayler immediately pulled Bella back a step, shielding her from the splatter. “Are you seriously biting your tongue to fake spitting blood now? You’re unbelievable, Sophie. Unforgivable.” Looking up at them from the floor, a hollow laugh died in my throat. “It’s fine,” I thought. “Go ahead. Keep coddling her. Keep hating me. It doesn’t matter anymore. After all, I don’t have many days left anyway.” … I lay there in my own blood, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Tayler stepped forward, his brow furrowed in irritation. He nudged my shoulder with the toe of his shoe, then scraped his sole against the floor as if he’d stepped in something foul. “Go clean yourself up in the bathroom. Don’t ruin the rug.” This was my brother. The same brother who once fought three older boys until his knuckles broke just to protect me. I tried to smile at the irony, but the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through my stomach, silencing me. My mother walked over, carrying a bowl of warm broth. Her eyes were rimmed with red; she looked like she had just been crying. “Sophie, you starved out there. I made this broth myself to help settle your stomach.” She knelt beside me, pushing the spoon directly against my lips. The heavy smell of grease hit my nostrils, triggering another violent spasm. Shaking with pain, cold sweat drenching my collar, I instinctively pushed her hand away. The bowl shattered against the floor. “Fine! Don’t eat then!” she cried, wiping a tear as she stood up. “I’ve been sick with worry, thinking you were starving, and this is how you treat me? If you’re going to be like this, don’t eat anything at all! Starve yourself for all I care!” Tayler’s gaze grew colder. “Mom spent hours on that. What is wrong with you?” As they comforted each other, cocooned in their warm family dynamic, the fire in my gut flared. Trembling, I reached into my pocket for my bottle of painkillers. “Oh my god, Sophie!” Bella shrieked. She lunged forward and kicked the bottle right out of my hand. The white pills scattered across the floor. “Those pills… you didn’t get hooked on “something” while you were gone, did you?” Her eyes went wide, a perfect picture of horror and concern. “Don’t worry, we’re going to get you clean. We’re a family. We won’t give up on you.” “They’re just… painkillers…” I croaked, dragging my body across the floor. But just as my fingers brushed the plastic bottle, Tayler stepped down hard, crushing it beneath his heel. “If you need medicine, we have doctors,” he said coldly. “We aren’t keeping street drugs in this house.” I stared at the white powder ground into the floorboards. My heart felt like it had been crushed right along with those pills. The medication was cheap, probably toxic, but it was the only thing strong enough to dull the screaming agony in my stomach. Now, I had nothing. Bella tucked herself behind Tayler, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. She let out a small, breathless laugh. “Sophie, can we please stop the drama? I only accidentally mentioned where you were. Mom and Dad paid the ransom, and you don’t even have any scars. Why are you still so mad at me?” She sighed. “I’m your sister. Playing the martyr to get attention is so childish.” My father, sitting on the leather sofa, spoke up in a flat, indifferent tone. “Exactly. Bella shouldn’t have said anything, but if you hadn’t been running around looking for trouble, those men wouldn’t have targeted you in the first place. You’ve always been spoiled. Go have some chilled melon in the kitchen to cool your temper, and let’s put this behind us.” “Put this behind us?” A dry chuckle escaped my lips. For three agonizing months, I was locked in a damp cellar. The only things my captors threw at me were moldy scraps, rotting bread, and putrid water. If I refused to eat, they pinched my nose shut and shoved the filth down my throat. Any resistance was met with a spiked leather whip and endless, dark torment. And now, a slice of chilled melon was supposed to make everything okay? I closed my eyes, letting my tears fall silently onto the blood-smeared floor. “She’s still acting!” my mother snapped, her face twisted in disgust. “Getting her to eat is like asking for her life. Your father had the kitchen prepare this fresh for you. It used to be your favorite.” My father slammed his hand on the dining table. “If she won’t eat, force it down her throat!” Two maids stepped forward. They pinned my arms, and one of them pinched my jaw, forcing my mouth open. Two cold, dripping slices of melon were shoved brutally past my teeth. The icy juice hit my raw stomach, triggering a spasm so violent I began to shake. I couldn’t hold it back. I threw up right there—a mixture of melon, stomach acid, and dark, thick blood. “Sophie, how could you…” Bella gasped, taking a dramatic step back. “Just to keep up this act, you’d waste Dad’s kindness…” I collapsed next to the mess, panting heavily, too exhausted to defend myself. “Slap!” A sharp, stinging blow caught me across the cheek, throwing my head back. My father stood over me, his hand still raised, eyes blazing with fury. “You ungrateful brat! Your sister didn’t even eat breakfast this morning because she was so anxious about your return!” he roared. “She has a weak stomach, yet she was still thinking of you. And you put on this deathbed performance to spite us?” I looked up at him, finding the sheer absurdity of it almost funny. Bella skipping breakfast meant she had a “delicate stomach.” Me, starved for three months and unable to keep food down, was “putting on a deathbed performance.” “Since you clearly need to cool down,” my father sneered, “get out. Go run ten laps around the estate. Don’t come back inside until you’ve cleared that attitude.” Run? In my condition, even standing was a monument of effort. Forcing me to run laps in the sweltering heat was a death sentence. “Didn’t you hear Dad? Get out!” Tayler grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and shoved me out the front door. My knees and palms scraped against the gravel driveway, drawing fresh blood. “Bella didn’t eat because she was genuinely sick. You’re doing this out of pure malice. Don’t even think about coming back inside until those ten laps are done!” The heavy oak doors slammed shut. From inside, the faint, warm murmur of my family comforting Bella drifted through the glass. Outside, I was left alone under the blazing sun, fighting to breathe. I curled into a ball on the scorching pavement, clutching my abdomen. The heat radiated from the concrete, yet cold sweat poured off my body in waves. My vision blurred. Then, the familiar sound of a car engine broke the silence. The family doctor’s sedan pulled into the driveway, stopping a few feet away. Dr. Evans stepped out, carrying his black medical bag, his pace hurried. With the last of my strength, I dragged myself toward him. “Help me…” I gasped, clawing at the hem of his trousers. “My stomach… please…” Dr. Evans frowned, looking down at me. “Sophie? What happened?” He started to kneel, but Tayler marched out of the house, his face contorted in anger. He kicked my hand away from the doctor’s leg. “Sophie! What the hell is wrong with you?” I let out a weak whimper, my hand falling limp. “You’re so desperate for attention that you’re trying to steal Bella’s doctor now? She’s inside with a severe stomach ache!” “Tayler… please… it hurts so much…” “Save the tears. Dad said ten laps, or you stay outside.” Dr. Evans hesitated, looking at my ghostly pale face. “Tayler, she looks extremely ill. Maybe I should just take a quick—” “Dr. Evans, don’t waste your time!” my mother’s voice called out from the doorway. “She’s just trying to ruin Bella’s day. Come inside, please. Bella’s been complaining of cramps all morning, and my heart is just breaking for her.” Tayler guided the doctor toward the entrance. Dr. Evans cast one final, doubtful look over his shoulder, but ultimately shook his head and followed them inside. The afternoon faded into twilight, and the temperature plummeted. A sudden downpour began, soaking my thin clothes in seconds. I dragged myself to the edge of the porch, curling up under the small overhang, shivering violently. Inside, the house was alive with warmth and laughter. I could hear my mother gently coaxing Bella to drink some warm soup. And there I lay, listening to their joy, waiting to die in the freezing rain. Through the sheet of water, a black umbrella appeared. Tayler stood before me, holding a plate. “Tayler…” I croaked, trying to push myself up. He had come to bring me inside. He had to. But his face remained cold as stone. He tilted his wrist. “Splat.” The cold leftovers slid off the plate, landing in a muddy puddle by my feet. The white rice scattered instantly, melting into the dirty water. “Bella was worried you’d starve,” Tayler said, his voice flat. “She told me to bring you this. Eat.” I stared at the sodden heap of food. When I was trapped in that dark cellar, choking down rotten scraps, I had kept myself alive by dreaming of the day my family would rescue me. I never imagined that my own brother would be the one dumping scraps into the mud for me. As I stared at the puddle, the sharp pain in my stomach suddenly vanished. Instead, an overwhelming, primal hunger took its place. My stomach began to growl, loud and desperate. Hearing the sound, Tayler let out a cynical laugh. “See? I knew you were faking. A little tough love and suddenly you’re cured.” My hand moved on its own, reaching toward the muddy puddle. “I’ll eat…” I whispered, my fingers trembling as I scooped up a handful of wet, gritty rice and shoved it into my mouth. “Tayler… I’m eating…” The gravel cut into my throat as I swallowed, but I felt nothing. I just gulped it down, desperate and hollow. I had lost all dignity, all pride. In that moment, the mud-soaked rice tasted sweeter than anything my captors had ever thrown at me. I stayed on my knees, scooping up the dirty water and rice with both hands. A flash of discomfort crossed Tayler’s face. He tightened his grip on the umbrella handle, taking a step back in disgust. “Have you no shame? Eating like an animal.” He turned on his heel. “We are hosting a welcome-back gala for you tomorrow. There will be important guests. If you embarrass us, you’ll regret it.” The next day, I sat in front of the vanity for a long time. My lips were completely bloodless. I grabbed the brightest red lipstick I owned and applied layer after layer, trying to paint over the deathly pallor on my face. I barely had the strength to stand. Clinging to the banister, I crept down the stairs step by agonizing step, my legs shaking so hard they felt like jelly. The grand foyer was filled with music and laughter. My father, beaming with pride, was chatting with his business associates. My mother was showing Bella off to a group of high-society women. No one noticed me. Not until my foot slipped on the final step, and I crashed against the railing. “Sophie! You’re finally down!” Bella squealed, walking over with a glass of dark, heavy liquor. The sharp, alcoholic sting reached my nose, and my stomach clutched in protest. “I had the bartender make this just for you. Your favorite!” “I can’t drink that,” I whispered, backing away. “It will kill me.” “Kill you?” Bella’s eyes welled with tears, her lower lip trembling. “Sophie, why do you have to say such horrible things? I already apologized to you! What more do you want?” She sniffled, looking around at the gathering crowd. “It’s not my fault you were out late that night. If you hadn’t been wandering around alone, those men wouldn’t have targeted you…” My father’s face darkened as he marched over. He snatched the glass from Bella and shoved it into my hand. “The city’s elite are watching us,” he hissed. “Do you intend to make a laughingstock of this family? Whatever grudge you’re holding, swallow it. Drink.” I clutched the glass, looking desperately at Tayler, who had just joined them. I wanted him to step in, just once, the way he did when we were kids. Instead, Tayler placed a heavy, warning hand on my shoulder. “Bella brought this to welcome you back. Don’t be ungrateful. Even if you don’t like it, you are going to drink it.” I looked up at the three people who shared my blood. Suddenly, the fight drained out of me. It was all so utterly pointless. “Fine,” I whispered, a ghostly smile touching my lips. “If this is what you want.” I threw my head back and swallowed the liquor in one long gulp. It burned down my throat like liquid fire, hitting my raw, empty stomach like a red-hot coal. My insides violently seized. I clutched my abdomen, trying to suppress the wave of agony, but it was impossible. Right there, in front of the entire high-society crowd, a massive torrent of thick, dark blood erupted from my mouth. Within the dark pool, there were distinct, shredded pieces of tissue. A collective gasp echoed through the room as panic erupted. But to me, the world simply grew quiet. The heavy burden of my body felt lighter. I smiled softly as the floor rose to meet me, and everything faded to black.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532333”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother made five million dollars a month running her real estate empire overseas. My monthly allowance was exactly ten dollars. My father fought for me, throwing plates and screaming until the word “divorce” hung over our home like a threat. My older brother, Pierce, once slipped me a crumpled fifty-dollar bill under my pillow with red, swollen eyes. He was caught and took fifty lashes with my father’s heavy leather belt as punishment. So, whenever the hunger pangs hit—sharp, twisting claws in my stomach—I directed all my hatred toward my mother. I hated her cold, arbitrary cruelty. I hated that she had brought me into this world only to abandon me to starve. But then came the FaceTime call from a number that didn’t exist. A call from myself, ten years in the future. When the connection went through, I gasped, my voice trembling with desperate hope. “How am I doing in ten years? Have I finally cut ties with that selfish monster of a mother?” But the future me on the screen only stared back with bloodshot, hollow eyes. She didn’t look victorious; she looked utterly destroyed. “You idiot,” she hissed, her voice cracked and furious. “That ‘monster’ you hate? When your own father and brother neglected you into complete kidney failure, she didn’t hesitate for a single second. She gave you her own kidney! “And to keep them from exploiting you further, she used every cent of her liquid net worth to buy out your custody and severance from them. She couldn’t even afford a ten-dollar bottle of antibiotics after the transplant. She died in agonizing pain in a sterile charity ward, clutching a cheap plastic cup, because she had nothing left.” As I stared at her, my mind spinning into a dark void of disbelief, the future version of myself let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh that sounded more like a sob. “The hundred thousand dollars she wired for you every single month? They pocketed ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety of it. Every dime went to his secret daughter. “If you don’t believe me, go to the Crestmont Estates on the west side. Go see what our ‘loving’ family has been building behind your back.” … I ended up at Crestmont Estates. The midday sun beat down mercilessly, baking the asphalt, as the security guard blocked my path at the iron gates. His eyes swept over my faded t-shirt and worn-out sneakers with immediate suspicion. “You can’t just wander in here,” he said, hand resting on his belt. “Who are you looking for?” Clutching the last shred of desperate hope in my chest, I spoke softly. “I’m looking for Richard Harvey. I’m his daughter.” The guard let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Are you out of your mind? Mr. Harvey only has two kids—a son, and a daughter named Mandy. He just took Miss Mandy out yesterday to a private trunk show to buy her a custom designer gown. Who the hell are you, some charity case trying to scam your way in?” To prove his point, the guard pulled out a local society print layout from his desk and tossed it onto the counter. When I saw the three faces smiling back from the glossy paper, the ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet. My chest tightened until I couldn’t breathe. There they were. My father and my brother, Pierce, standing on either side of a beautiful young girl, their smiles warm, radiant, and intensely familiar. The girl was Mandy Harvey. I knew her. She was the golden girl in my class. Two months ago, she had casually braged to her friends at school about how her family had just bought her a five-million-dollar townhouse, paid in full. When someone asked her about the price, she had simply shrugged, her lip curling into an effortless smile. “It wasn’t much. Just pocket change, really.” My ten-dollar allowance had started when I entered high school. Three years of high school. Over a million dollars a year. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the paper. I memorized every detail of their happy, perfect faces before turning back toward the bus stop. When I finally walked through the front door of our house, my father and Pierce were sitting in the living room. Neither of them noticed the ghostly pale color of my face or the hollow look in my eyes. My father stood up, offering a gentle, pitying smile as he held out a crisp ten-dollar bill. “Maren, sweetie, here’s your allowance for the month. Your mother just sent the wire. You’ll have to make it stretch.” I looked down at the single bill in my palm. Then I looked up, staring directly into his eyes. His face was a masterpiece of fatherly devotion and sorrow. I felt a cold, bitter laugh bubble up in my throat. My eyes burned, but I forced my voice to stay steady. “Ten dollars a month. Do you both just want to watch me starve to death?” Sensing the sharp edge in my tone, my father’s brow furrowed into a deep, disappointed line. “You know what your mother’s temper is like,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “If I dare to bring up your expenses to her, she’ll have her lawyers draft the divorce papers by morning. I’m trying to protect us, Maren.” I tilted my head, the sarcasm dripping from my words before I could stop them. “Really? Maybe I should just call her next time and ask her myself.” Pierce immediately stepped in, crossing the room to place a comforting hand on my head. He reached into his pocket and slipped a fifty-dollar bill into my palm, squeezing my fingers shut over it. “I’ll take responsibility for this,” he whispered, casting a nervous glance toward the hallway. “If Dad and I have to pretend we didn’t see you turn on your bedroom AC tonight, so be it. Just keep it on low, okay?” Ever since my mother had relocated her headquarters to Australia, my father had instituted strict “household rules.” All utilities, appliances, and even the Wi-Fi carried a rental fee that I was expected to pay out of my pocket. Since I had no money, I was only permitted to use electricity on the first and last days of the month. I lost count of the nights I had sat in the suffocating summer heat, trying to write my essays by the weak light of the streetlamp outside my window. During my period, when the cramps were so bad I felt sick, I would lie on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, rinsing myself with cold tap water just to keep from fainting. If Pierce had given me fifty dollars yesterday, I would have wept with gratitude. But today, all I could think about was Mandy. I remembered her telling the class how her family had installed a state-of-the-art climate control system in her townhouse because her sinuses were sensitive to temperature shifts. The system ran twenty-four hours a day, keeping her world perfectly comfortable. Her easy, beautiful smile burned in my mind like acid. I pushed the fifty-dollar bill back into Pierce’s hand, keeping only the ten. “No, thank you,” I said, my voice quiet but hard as flint. “I only want what actually belongs to me.” Without waiting for their response, I went into my bedroom, grabbed my ID, and walked to the nearest bank. I approached the teller, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Hi. I need to print the last three years of transaction history for all accounts under my name.” The printout was massive, thick enough to require a heavy binder. I took the stack of paper to a small table in the corner of the lobby and began to read. Every single month, on the first day at midnight, a wire transfer of one hundred thousand dollars had landed in my account from my mother. On holidays and birthdays, there were bonuses. Two hundred thousand. Three hundred thousand. Each transfer had a memo attached. “Happy birthday to my beautiful girl.” “Good luck on finals, sweetie. Buy yourself something nice to eat.” “Happy International Children’s Day. You’ll always be my baby.” And every single time, within five minutes of the funds clearing, the entire balance—minus ten dollars—was swept out via an automatic transfer into an account owned by Richard Harvey. By the time I reached the end of the pages, my breath was coming in shallow, ragged gasps. My father had married into my mother’s family. Pierce had taken my father’s last name, while I had taken my mother’s maiden name, Albright. Yet, despite that, my father had always played the part of the doting protector, constantly telling Pierce to let me have the best of everything because “girls need extra care.” I remembered when I was six and fell gravely ill. My father had spent seven days on his knees at a mountain retreat, praying for my recovery. Pierce had clung to my doctor’s coat, sobbing, begging to give me his own organs if it would make me better. I had loved them because of those memories. I had believed every single lie because of those memories. A heavy tear splashed onto the white paper, blurring the printed numbers. I bit my lip until it bled, refusing to let myself cry out in the crowded bank lobby. With trembling fingers, I packed the statements neatly into my bag. The next morning at school, a crowd of students had gathered around Mandy’s desk. She was glowing, holding her wrist up to show off a glittering diamond tennis bracelet. “It’s a limited edition,” she boasted, her voice sweet and light. “I casually mentioned to my dad that I loved it, and he said a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar project bonus had just cleared in his account. He bought it for me right then.” The crowd erupted into murmurs of envy. I sat at my desk, quietly chewing on a dry piece of bread. On ten dollars a month, the only meal I could guarantee myself was the cheap breakfast roll I bought at the corner bodega. Mandy caught my eye and deliberately walked over, extending her wrist so the diamonds caught the fluorescent light. “Do you like it, Maren?” she asked, her smile dripping with sweet malice. I didn’t miss the triumph dancing in her eyes. I took a slow bite of my bread, swallowed, and smiled back. “Of course it’s beautiful,” I said softly. “It’s always easier to appreciate things when they’re bought with someone else’s money.” A girl sitting near her scoffed, giving me a dirty look. “Don’t pay attention to her, Mandy. She’s just bitter because her family is broke and your parents actually adore you.” “Yeah, exactly. Who cares whose money it is? Her family actually values her.” Mandy didn’t get angry. She put on a show of gentle, patronizing pity. “It’s fine, guys. I heard Maren only gets ten dollars a month for lunch. I’d probably be bitter too if I were in her shoes.” The classroom erupted into snickers. “Ten dollars? My dog’s organic food costs more than that.” “Are we sure she isn’t adopted?” I didn’t let their laughter reach me. I finished the last crumb of my dry bread, stood up, and looked Mandy dead in the eye. “You know, yesterday was the first of the month,” I said, my voice carrying clearly over the giggles. “That’s the day my mother always wires my support. And yesterday, your dad suddenly got a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar ‘bonus.’ What an incredible coincidence.” Mandy’s perfect, glossy smile froze on her face. Before she could recover, I turned and walked out of the classroom. In the hallway, I ran straight into our homeroom teacher. She looked uncomfortable, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she avoided my gaze. “Maren… about the merit scholarship you applied for. The results came in.” Looking at her expression, my heart sank. I followed her to the principal’s office. The five-hundred-dollar academic scholarship that I had earned through sleepless nights and perfect grades had been reassigned. To Mandy Harvey. The principal gave me a canned, rehearsed speech. He claimed my mother had personally called the administration to request that my financial aid be revoked and given to someone more “deserving.” I didn’t bother to argue against the absurd lie. I just stared at the scholarship certificate on the desk. Five hundred dollars. To Mandy, it was the price of a designer silk scarf. But when I had submitted my application a month ago, I had stayed awake at night dreaming of what that money could buy. I could have eaten hot meals for months. I could have paid for a motel room just to sleep in an air-conditioned room for a week. Without a word, I reached across the principal’s desk and picked up his landline phone. The principal blinked in surprise. “Maren, what do you think you’re doing?” I dialed three digits, my face entirely devoid of emotion. “I’m calling the police. Even if they are my family, they have no legal right to intercept my academic funds or sign financial waivers on my behalf without my consent.” The principal’s face drained of color. He scrambled for his personal cell phone, his fingers shaking as he hurriedly dialed a number. The police officers arrived within fifteen minutes, and right behind them came my father and Pierce, both sweating and looking frantic. My father rushed into the office, reaching out to grab my arm. “Maren, stop this nonsense. Let’s go home and discuss this as a family.” I stepped back, evading his touch, and turned to the lead officer. My voice was chillingly calm. “Officer, I have been subjected to severe domestic neglect for the past three years. My father and brother have restricted my access to basic food and utilities, leaving me with only ten dollars a month, and now they have fraudulently signed off on my academic scholarship to divert the funds to another student.” The officer’s expression hardened instantly. He turned a stern glare on my father. “Are you the legal guardians? Is what she’s saying true?” Pierce stepped forward, his voice smooth and persuasive. “Officer, there’s been a massive misunderstanding. My sister is going through a difficult phase. Our mother set these strict boundaries as a form of behavioral modification. We’re just trying to respect her wishes.” I cut in before he could spin the lie further. “Officer, they claim this is my mother’s decision. If that’s true, you should verify it with her directly.” The lead officer turned to his partner. “Get the mother’s contact information and verify this immediately.” At those words, the blood left my father’s face. He shot a desperate, warning look at the principal. The principal immediately cleared his throat, stepping forward with a nervous chuckle. “Officers, actually, it seems we had a clerical error on our end! The scholarship belongs to Maren Albright, and we will update the roster immediately. It was just a minor administrative oversight. No harm done!” Pierce reached out, his hand wrapping around my wrist as he lowered his voice to a gentle, pleading whisper. “Maren, please. Mom’s parenting methods might be extreme, but we’re a family. We can fix this at home. You don’t need to make a scene.” My father nodded quickly, pulling out his phone. “Yes, absolutely. I’ll adjust your allowance to a normal level right now.” A chime sounded in my pocket. He had just transferred a thousand dollars to my account. Seeing the immediate financial transfer and the school’s quick correction, the officers’ suspicion softened slightly. Still, they gave my father a stern lecture about parental neglect and emotional abuse before finally taking their leave. The drive back to the house was dead silent. My father’s grip on the steering wheel was so tight his knuckles were white. The moment we pulled into our driveway, he slammed the car into park and spun around in his seat, his eyes boring into mine with a cold, venomous glare. “You found out,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Pierce let out a sharp, mocking sneer from the passenger seat. He reached into his leather bag and pulled out a stack of papers, tossing them into the back seat. They were the printed bank statements I had hidden under my mattress. Pierce looked at me, the warmth and affection he had performed for years completely vanished from his face. “Did you really think your little field trip to the bank went unnoticed, Maren?” I kept my jaw clenched, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me tremble. But the coldness in my chest was absolute. Now that their secret was out, they didn’t look remorseful at all. They looked amused. My father pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke. “Your mother sent that money, yes. But you’re a child. You don’t need that kind of cash. We kept it safe for you so you wouldn’t ruin your life. Besides, she’s thousands of miles away. She doesn’t care about you. Pierce and I are the only ones who actually put up with you.” Pierce leaned back against his headrest, a smug smile playing on his lips. “If you think we’re so terrible, go find your mother. See if she even remembers your name.” A wave of profound disgust swept through me. But I remembered the warnings from my future self. The trap had already been set years ago; my father and brother had systematically cut off every avenue of communication between my mother and me. I lowered my eyes, letting my shoulders slump. I made my voice sound small, broken, and defeated. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry, Pierce. I was wrong.” Seeing my submission, the tension in my father’s shoulders dissipated. He gave a satisfied grunt and unlocked the car doors. The moment I got to my room, I locked the door behind me. I crawled under my bed, reaching into the deepest corner of the floorboards until my fingers brushed against a cracked, wooden bracelet. It was the only gift my mother had given me before she left for Australia. My future self had told me that inside the wooden core was a cellular distress beacon. If the bracelet was broken, it would send an emergency alert directly to my mother’s private line. I had smashed the wood the very night I received that strange FaceTime call. Now, looking closely at the fracture line, I saw a tiny green light pulsing steadily. The signal had been sent. She was coming. The next morning, I walked down the stairs and froze. Sitting on our living room sofa was Georgia—our former housekeeper—and her daughter, Mandy. Georgia was draped in my mother’s expensive cashmere shawl, sipping tea with the practiced air of a wealthy matriarch. When she saw me, her gaze swept over me with cold dismissal. She gestured to a couple of movers standing by the door. “Go ahead and pack up her things,” Georgia said. Then she turned to me with a sharp, artificial smile. “My daughter needs a room with decent natural light. Your bedroom is hers now. You can either find a dorm at school or sleep in the attic storage room. I don’t care which.” I gripped the wooden banister, my knuckles turning white. “This house is registered under my mother’s name.” Georgia didn’t flinch. Her smile turned mocking. “Your father told me I make the decisions in this house now. If you have a problem with that, take it up with him.” Right on cue, my father and Pierce walked down the stairs. They walked straight over to Georgia and Mandy. My father slid a hand around Georgia’s waist, while Pierce greeted her with a warm, familiar hug. My father looked up at me, his face wearing a mask of false sympathy. “Maren, don’t be difficult. Your aunt is just trying to help you become more independent now that you’re older. In fact, since today is your eighteenth birthday, I’ve prepared a special gift for you.” He nodded to Pierce, who stepped forward and handed me a thick legal document. I flipped open the first page, and the words danced mockingly before my eyes. My father’s eighteenth birthday present to me was a itemized bill of debt totaling fifteen million dollars. My throat went dry. “What is this?” “An invoice for your upbringing over the last eighteen years,” Pierce said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “Your last name is Albright, not Harvey. It’s only fair that you reimburse our family for the cost of keeping you alive.” Mandy peered over my father’s shoulder, her eyes sparkling as she looked at the document. She squealed and threw her arms around my father’s neck. “Oh, Daddy! Is this the fifteen-million-dollar trust fund you promised to set up for my future?” My father stroked her hair, his eyes filled with genuine adoration. “Yes, sweetie. Exactly. You’re a smart girl.” He looked back at me, his voice dripping with condescension. “I know you can’t pay it all back at once. We’ll set up a payment plan. I’ll even keep the interest rate low for you.” Mandy giggled, tilting her chin up in triumph. “You were right, Maren. Things really do taste sweeter when they’re bought with someone else’s money.” The sheer, sickening absurdity of the moment washed over me. I looked at the three of them, then slowly, deliberately, ripped the contract in half, and then in half again, letting the white scraps flutter to the floor. “I’m not signing this.” The living room went dead silent. Georgia was the first to react. She let out a sharp gasp and tapped Mandy’s wrist. Mandy instantly caught on, letting out a dramatic, horrified shriek. “My diamond bracelet! It’s gone!” She pointed a trembling finger at me, tearswelling in her eyes. “Daddy, she stole it! She was jealous of me, so she took it!” My father didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his phone and made a single call. In less than ten minutes, three large, rough-looking men in dark uniforms walked through the front door. They wore badges from a notorious “behavioral correction academy”—one of those unregulated facilities designed to break troubled teens. The leader of the group looked me up and down with an unsettling, predatory grin. “Don’t worry, Mr. Harvey. We know exactly how to handle girls with attitude problems like this.” My father nodded, his expression as cold as ice. “Take her. I don’t care what methods you use to make her agreeable, just keep her alive.” I glared at him, my vision blurring with rage. “You will regret this,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I promise you, both of you will regret this.” The guards stepped forward, their heavy hands grabbing my arms and dragging me toward the door. Just as they pulled me past the threshold, the heavy oak double doors of the villa were violently kicked open from the outside. A sharp, commanding voice cut through the air like a blade. “Richard Harvey! Who gave you the authority to touch my daughter?!”

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My mother was the textbook definition of a hopelessly romantic heiress in a high-society melodrama. She was systematically ruined by my gold-digging, toxic excuse of a father, suffering seven consecutive miscarriages, all while genuinely believing her own body was simply too weak. As for me? I was the ultimate unlucky soul who failed to be born seven times in a row. By my eighth attempt at reincarnation, even the Lord of the Underworld lost his patience. He had the Keeper of Souls personally escort me to the mortal realm to ensure my safe arrival. And right before we left, they gifted my mother a maxed-out, supernatural ability to understand “baby talk”—the power to hear my silent infant thoughts. I thought this time, I’d finally get to kick back, relax, and live the pampered life of a princess in a trillion-dollar family dynasty. But the exact second I was born, I opened my eyes to see my toxic father, Laurence, cradling a strange baby boy. He walked right up to my mother’s hospital bed. “Sweetheart, you worked so hard,” he crooned. “Look at our son. The future heir to the Caldwell empire.” Meanwhile, I was stuffed into a hazardous medical waste bin, about to be wheeled away and incinerated. Desperate, I began screaming at the top of my lungs inside my dark, plastic prison: [You hopelessly romantic fool of a mother! That baby belongs to his secret first love, the girl of his dreams! Your real daughter is right here! Help me, Mom!] My mother, who had been gazing at him with teary, infatuated eyes, suddenly froze. … “Victoria, what’s wrong?” Laurence’s voice dripped with practiced worry. “Are you too exhausted?” My mother, Victoria Caldwell, stared at him with eyes wide with shock and confusion. Laurence cradled the boy, carefully leaning closer to the bed. “Look at his eyes, his nose. He looks just like you.” I kicked my tiny, fragile legs inside the sealed bin, which smelled suffocatingly of bleach and blood. But as a newborn, my muscles were like mush, and my frantic struggles only translated to the faintest rustle. [Mom! Don’t look at him! Look at the red waste container! I’m in here!] My mother’s face went entirely bloodless. She could actually hear me! The supernatural gift from the Keeper of Souls worked. My mother’s body shuddered violently. [Mom, that boy isn’t yours! He belongs to Sasha, his first love! If you check behind his left ear, he’s got the crescent-moon birthmark that runs in her family!] My mother’s gaze snapped to the boy. Seeing her stare at the child, the warmth in Laurence’s eyes deepened. He leaned down, gently stroking the infant’s cheek. “Victoria, you always wanted our own flesh and blood. Now that we have a son, my place in the Caldwell family is finally secure.” My mother’s fingers trembled as she parted the baby’s fine hair behind his left ear. There it was. A crescent-moon birthmark. During her first pregnancy, Sasha Mercer had visited their villa as Laurence’s “old friend.” She had accidentally exposed the exact same mark. At the time, Victoria had smiled and said, “What a unique birthmark, Sasha.” Sasha had blushed, replying, “It’s a family trait. All of us Mercers have it.” Now, that very trait was stamped on this supposed “Caldwell heir.” My mother’s breathing fractured. [Yes! See? Now do you believe I’m your real daughter? The nurse is about to throw me out like medical trash! Help!] I twisted my body inside the bin with everything I had. But because I had been deprived of oxygen from the moment of my birth, I couldn’t even muster a cry. Only a faint, pathetic whimper escaped my throat. She turned her head with sudden, terrifying speed. “Stop right there!” my mother commanded, her voice slicing through the room. The head nurse, who was slipping toward the exit, flinched. The biohazard container in her hands wobbled. “Mrs… Mrs. Croft, is there something you need?” A flicker of panic crossed Laurence’s face. He stepped forward quickly, pressing a firm hand onto my mother’s shoulder. “Darling, why are you so agitated? You just gave birth. You’re weak. You shouldn’t be moving.” My mother slowly pulled her hand back, her gaze turning freezing cold. “What is in that container?” Laurence shot a subtle, warning glance at the nurse. “Just the placenta and surgical waste. It’s dirty, blood-stained, and crawling with bacteria. We don’t want you or our son getting infected. Wheel it out for biohazard disposal, now.” “Yes, sir. Right away…” The head nurse turned to bolt. [Don’t let her leave! Mom, I’m suffocating! There are no air holes in here! If you don’t stop her, you’re going to lose me again! He’s swapping us so he can use this fake heir to steal the Caldwell inheritance!] I slammed my tiny fists against the plastic walls. But my strength was negligible, producing nothing more than a faint, dry scraping sound. My mother violently threw back her blankets, struggling to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. “I told you to stop! Are you deaf?” The head nurse froze. Laurence’s expression finally darkened. “Victoria, stop this nonsense. The delivery room has strict sterile protocols. Why on earth do you want to look at medical waste?” My mother gripped the bedrail, tears welling in her eyes. Yet, for the first time in ten years, she did not soften under his gaze. “I am the Executive Director of Caldwell Holdings. In this hospital—which is entirely owned by my family—my rules are the only rules!” The gentle facade on Laurence’s face began to peel away. “Are you throwing your family’s power in my face again?” He had used that line countless times before. Every single time, my mother would panic, immediately coddling him, terrified of wounding his fragile, working-class ego. But this time, she merely said flatly, “I just want to look.” Laurence stared at her, utterly baffled by how his usually submissive, doting wife had suddenly become so unyielding. After a heavy silence, he sighed. “Fine. If you are truly that paranoid, let Lydia check.” Lydia was my mother’s most trusted personal assistant. Laurence gestured to the quiet, unassuming woman standing by the bedside. “Go on. Inspect it.” Lydia looked up, her eyes darting away for a split second. The lid of the container was pried open just a crack, letting a thin sliver of light pierce the darkness. I forced my eyes open, trying to draw enough air to scream. If I could make even the slightest sound, my mother would hear me. I would be saved. But the severe lack of oxygen left my limbs heavy and useless. I couldn’t even open my mouth. Lydia blocked the container with her body, shielding it from my mother’s line of sight. She reached in, her hand brushing against my blood-slicked skin. “Mrs. Croft.” Lydia closed the lid without a single flicker of emotion. She turned back to the bed. “I checked. It’s just medical waste and bloody fluids. It’s filthy. There’s nothing unusual. Please, preserve your health and don’t look.” My heart plummeted into a bottomless abyss. The moment her hand had reached into the bin, I had seen it—a distinct, crimson mole on her left wrist. I had seen that mole seven times in my previous seven lives. Before my mother lost each of those pregnancies, it was always that hand with the red mole that handed her herbal tonic, adjusted the bedside humidifier, or steadied her arm on the freshly waxed stairs. It was her. I wanted to scream until my lungs burst. [Mom! Don’t trust her! Lydia was bought off by Laurence a long time ago! Look at her left wrist—there’s a red mole! She was the one behind your previous seven miscarriages!] I poured every ounce of my fading consciousness into that silent scream. My mother stared at Lydia, her voice trembling. “Lydia… did you look closely? Are you absolutely sure?” Lydia squeezed out a perfectly timed tear. “Mrs. Croft, I’ve been with you since I graduated college. My loyalty is entirely yours. How could I ever lie to you? It’s just waste. Mr. Croft is only trying to protect you from seeing something so grotesque.” Laurence chimed in, his tone carrying a wounded, weary sigh. “Victoria, do you not even trust Lydia now?” My mother’s eyes flickered with doubt. I knew how hard this was for her to believe. Over the years, under the guise of wanting an independent life, Laurence had coaxed her into moving out of the Caldwell estate, gradually estranging her from her doting father and her eight adoptive brothers. Lydia was the only confidante she had left. I had to push harder. [Mom! Wake up! During your third pregnancy, she ‘guided’ you to the yoga studio and spilled the slick oil that made you fall! During your fifth, she swapped your calming incense! During your seventh, she laced your imported prenatal vitamins with banned substances!] My mother’s gaze snapped to Lydia. Her lips trembled violently, unable to form a coherent sentence. Seven miscarriages. Seven agonizing, blood-soaked procedures. Each time, she had wept in the dark, blaming her own weak womb, apologizing to Laurence while he held her and whispered that having her was enough. It had all been a lie. “Victoria, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?” Sensing her shift in expression, Laurence stepped forward to restrain her. “Bring that container to me! I want to see it myself!” my mother rasped, struggling to rise. Yet, not a single medical professional in the room moved. This hospital bore the Caldwell name, but over the years, Laurence had systematically replaced the executive staff with his own people. Laurence forced her back onto the pillows with a heavy, unyielding grip. “Victoria Croft! Enough is enough!” His voice sharpened into a harsh, lecturing reprimand. “You just delivered the Caldwell family’s heir. Instead of resting, you are obsessing over biohazards! What is wrong with you?” Lydia joined in, sobbing. “Mrs. Croft, please listen to Mr. Croft! He has worked himself to the bone for you. You are breaking his heart!” The surrounding doctors and nurses chimed in like a rehearsed choir. “Mrs. Croft, postpartum trauma can trigger severe psychological distress.” “Please, prioritize your health. Do not look.” One heavy layer of guilt-tripping after another. Looking at this united front of conspirators, my mother shook with rage, a metallic taste of blood rising in her throat. Meanwhile, my breathing grew shallower by the second. [Mom… save me… I can’t breathe… it’s so cold…] “Get off me!” Hearing my fading voice, a fierce, primal maternal instinct erupted within her. She shoved Laurence back with enough force to send him stumbling. Barefoot, her hospital gown stained with blood, she lunged toward the container. “Give it to me!” Laurence’s face turned livid, a murderous glint flashing in his eyes. “Mrs. Croft is suffering from postpartum psychosis and having severe delusions! What are you all standing around for? Restrain her!” The VIP delivery room descended into absolute chaos. Lydia rushed forward to block her, only for my mother to strike her across the face with a resounding slap. The head nurse clutched the biohazard container, backing away toward the door. Suddenly, I felt the container shake violently. A pair of rough, rubber-gloved hands reached inside in the confusion, squeezing me tight, dragging me out of the plastic bin, and stuffing me into the deep, sweaty inner pocket of a bulky hazmat suit. My head spun from the impact. [Mom! I’m not in the container anymore! She’s hiding me inside her suit! She’s squeezing me!] My mother threw open the lid of the bin. But when she looked inside, there was nothing but a few blood-soaked medical sponges. It was completely empty. My mother froze, utterly bewildered. Laurence adjusted the lapels of his tailored suit, his face contorting into an expression of deep, wounded disappointment. “Do you see now, Victoria? What is in there besides medical gauze?” “Your wild accusations have not only endangered your recovery but shattered my heart. I’m having the chief of psychiatry come in to evaluate you immediately.” His talent for turning the tables was flawless. My mother stared at the empty bin, tears spilling down her cheeks. For a terrifying second, she began to wonder if her desperate longing for a child had finally driven her to hallucinate. No! She couldn’t give up now! Using the absolute last of my strength, I sent one final, desperate cry through our bond: [Mom… I’m not dead… I’m still in this room… I really don’t… have any strength left…] My mother’s head snapped up. The despair in her eyes hardened into a freezing, razor-sharp resolve. “Search this room. Call security. Search every inch!” The medical staff stood frozen, exchanging glances, waiting for Laurence’s command. Laurence cast a dark, threatening look at the head nurse, who shrank back. “Nobody moves!” Laurence barked. “Mrs. Croft is highly unstable and experiencing a psychotic break! Prepare a sedative. Hold her down and administer it immediately!” He was going to force her into silence. Two burly nurses approached her, holding a thick syringe. “We’re sorry, Mrs. Croft. This is for your own good.” My mother fought like a cornered animal, seizing ceramic mugs and metal trays, hurling them at anyone who came near. “Get away! Touch me and see what happens! I am the heir to the Caldwell empire!” But the nurses kept advancing. Laurence, losing all patience, lunged forward and pinned her shoulders down. “Stop resisting! Inject her!” Just as the cold steel of the needle hovered centimeters from her skin— With a deafening crash, the heavy double doors of the delivery room were kicked completely off their hinges. “I dare any of you to lay a single finger on my sister.” The room fell into a suffocating silence as the sheer gravity of his presence took over. Charles Caldwell strode in, bringing the chill of the winter night with him. Behind him marched two rows of heavily armed, black-suited Caldwell security operatives. His sharp, hawk-like eyes swept over the wreckage of the room, finally resting on the bruised, red grip-marks on my mother’s wrists. My eldest uncle’s expression turned instantly lethal. “Laurence Croft. Is this how you care for my sister?” The malice in Laurence’s eyes vanished in an instant, replaced by his usual gentle, submissive demeanor. “Charles, you’ve misunderstood. Victoria just gave birth, and her postpartum depression has triggered severe hallucinations. We were only trying to calm her down.” “I am not hallucinating!” My mother violently wrenched herself from Laurence’s grip, stumbling toward Charles and clutching his bespoke lapels. “Charles, that baby boy isn’t mine! They swapped my baby!” “She’s still in this room! I can hear her begging me to save her!” Charles’s eyes narrowed. Laurence let out a weary, practiced sigh. “Charles, you know the trauma Victoria carries from her seven miscarriages. Now that she finally has a son, she’s paranoid. If you don’t believe me, we can run a DNA test right now.” Charles glanced at the baby boy cradled in the nurse’s arms, sleeping peacefully. Tears streamed down my mother’s face. “The boy has Sasha Mercer’s family birthmark behind his ear! Charles, look!” Charles strode over and parted the infant’s hair. A moment later, his expression hardened. But Laurence was prepared, stepping in smoothly. “It’s just a common birthmark!” “Are you going to accuse me of infidelity and swapping heirs based on a speck of pigmentation, Charles? I respect you as Victoria’s brother, but at the end of the day, you aren’t even a blood Caldwell.” It was an open secret in high society: the patriarch of the Caldwell family had adopted eight orphaned boys. None of them carried the Caldwell bloodline. Charles did not immediately reply. My mother gripped his arm, her nails digging deep into his sleeve. “No! Charles, she is in here! I can hear her!” “Search the room! Just search it once!” Looking down at his sister’s pale, desperate face, Charles raised a single hand. “Search.” This time, no one dared to protest. The elite Caldwell guards immediately sealed the room. They tore apart the cabinets, checked under the bed, dismantled the ceiling vents, and searched the private bathroom. They left no stone unturned. They even overturned the medical waste bin again. I heard the heavy thud of combat boots pass by me once, then twice. They were so close I wanted to cry. But I didn’t know where I was, trapped in the dark. [Uncle! I’m right here!] But no one could hear me except my mother. As the guards shook their heads in defeat, the last spark of hope in my mother’s eyes began to die. Laurence knelt before her, his voice dripping with gentle condescension. “Are you satisfied, Victoria?” “Even Charles’s men found nothing.” “There is no stolen daughter. This boy is our son.” Charles remained silent. He gently patted my mother’s shoulder, his voice softening. “Victoria, you are exhausted. Perhaps the stress has gotten to you. Let’s get you some rest.” When even her strongest ally doubted her, my mother’s world collapsed. “Am I… am I truly losing my mind?” She fell back onto the bed, weeping hysterically. “I’m sorry… Laurence, I’m sorry. Maybe I really am sick.” A smug, triumphant smirk played at the corner of Laurence’s mouth. He squeezed her hand. “It’s alright. Just sleep.” Lydia stepped forward again with the sedative. Inside my dark pocket, I panicked. [No! Mom, don’t give up!] [I’m really here… but I’m fading…] The lingering resentment of seven unborn souls, combined with the sheer despair of being discarded like trash by my own father, boiled up inside my tiny chest. I refused to let it end like this. I hadn’t even looked at my mother yet. My trillion-dollar heiress life hadn’t even begun. I wasn’t going to die in a hazmat suit. Gathering every last ounce of life force left in my newborn body, I kicked out with all my might. A sharp, agonized shriek pierced the silence. “Ah!” The head nurse doubled over in pain, clutching her abdomen. The poorly tied sash of her medical pants snapped under the sudden impact. Thud. A tiny baby girl slid down her pant leg, tumbling onto the sterile floor.

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