Category: English

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

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

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I got tired of being an NPC in a horror game. The jump scares lose their novelty after the thousandth time. So I slipped out. Broke the code and went looking for a real life, and maybe, a real love. A year later, my boyfriend Caleb’s childhood sweetheart dragged us both back into the game. And to save her, he shoved me into a sacrificial coffin. “Chloe,” he’d said, his voice tight with a pathetic excuse for regret. “Ashley’s not built for this. Just… take her place for a little while. I promise I’ll come back for you.” Before I could even scream, a low, contemptuous chuckle echoed from the darkness above me. “Seriously? This is the man you picked out in the human world? What a fucking animal.” 1 It started because Caleb’s precious Ashley got tagged by the game. She came to him, naturally, a mess of perfectly orchestrated tears and trembling lips, begging him to save her. What she wanted was for me to give her my Mercy Pass. “Caleb, please,” she whimpered, her wide, innocent eyes flicking toward me. “I know her pass is for a low-mortality instance. Please.” She turned the full force of that gaze on me. “Chloe… you wouldn’t just let me go in there to die, would you?” Caleb ran a hand through his hair, the picture of tormented nobility. “Chloe, just give the pass to Ashley. She’s slated to go in tonight.” I stared at him, my own expression unreadable. “Give it to her? And what about me? I only have one. What happens the next time I get chosen? How do I know I won’t get thrown into a death match?” His patience snapped, the noble facade cracking. He yanked at the collar of his shirt. “And what if Ashley gets thrown into a death match?! God, Chloe, why are you being so vicious all of a sudden? You just can’t stand that she’s sweeter and kinder than you, can you? You’d rather see her die.” Right on cue, Ashley’s waterworks started up again. “Caleb, don’t say that. Chloe’s just… scared. I’m not afraid to die.” She bit her lip, her face so pale it looked like it might shatter. “I just… the thought of never seeing you again… it hurts.” Caleb’s jaw clenched, his heart practically breaking for her. “Ash, don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Without another word to me, he dragged her into my bedroom. He pulled the Mercy Pass from under my pillow and scribbled Ashley’s name on it. She shot me a triumphant, venomous little smirk over his shoulder, sticking her tongue out. “Sorry, Chloe. I’ll be sure to thank you properly when I get back. I’ll even buy you dinner. And I’ll be cheering for you when it’s your turn to go in!” Caleb shot me a glare, though his voice softened slightly. “Why are you looking at her like that? She said she’d buy you dinner. Stop being so dramatic. I’ll get you another pass when I get the chance, okay?” I just folded my arms, a humorless smile playing on my lips. For a normal person, getting a Mercy Pass was harder than winning the Powerball. I’d had to claw my way out of a nightmare to earn this one. I was done with them. I grabbed my bag and walked out. I hadn’t even made it to the end of the block when a searing pain flared in the palm of my hand. The binding mark. A line of blood-red text flashed in my mind. 【FABLEGATE – 10-PLAYER INSTANCE. LEVEL: UNKNOWN.】 Damn it. This was my instance. My pass. I sprinted back to the apartment. Ashley was curled up in Caleb’s arms, cooing at him. Caleb had the decency to look guilty, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, Ashley was too scared to go alone, so we’re all going in to help her. It’s a ten-person instance anyway. Better to be bound with people you know than with strangers.” He squared his shoulders, trying to sound reasonable. “Chloe, you’re both women. You should be supporting each other, not being so petty.” Rage, pure and hot, flooded my system. I wanted to tear them both apart. I was an NPC, yes, but I was AWOL. The Boss was probably going to kill me for this… The thought of the Boss, angry, sent a genuine shiver of fear down my spine. Adrenaline surged. I lunged, my hands closing around Ashley’s throat. “Are you insane? Why would you write my name down?!” Caleb tried to pull me off, and I spun, slapping him hard across the face. “You pathetic bastard! You want to protect your little princess? Fine! But what the hell does that have to do with me?!” 2 That night, I was pulled into the game. I scanned my surroundings, a small, unimpressed frown on my face. A year away, and Fablegate looked exactly the same. So much for the Boss’s promises of a complete overhaul. Just as I was thinking that, a familiar, saccharine voice squealed from behind me. “Wow! A fairytale instance is so different! It’s so beautiful!” Ashley cooed. “Caleb, after we clear this, can we stay and explore for a bit? Like a little vacation?” A bald, heavily muscled guy nearby snorted. “A vacation? You think this is a f—ing theme park? What kind of idiot newbies did we get matched with?” Caleb puffed up his chest to argue, then seemed to think better of it when he saw the sheer size of the other man. Ashley just stomped her foot, pouting. A moment later, two more people materialized. Caleb’s friends, Mark and Liam. Ashley’s loyal guard dogs. They were already puffing out their chests, promising they’d see her through to the end. 【All players have arrived. Please proceed to the town square to receive your objective.】 It was only then that the group seemed to notice me standing apart from them. Ashley trotted over, grabbing my arm. “Chloe, why are you walking so fast? Don’t worry, these guys are super strong. They’ll make sure we all get through this. You can stop sulking now.” I ignored her. Caleb, predictably, got annoyed. “We’re already here, Chloe. Can you drop the attitude? We’re a team now. We have to help each other.” The bald guy—I decided to call him Brock—stepped forward. “Alright, cut the crap. I’ve cleared three instances. You all know this one, right? The mortality rate is practically zero. You want to live? You listen to me.” Since no one else seemed to have his track record, he quickly became the de facto leader. Caleb tugged on my sleeve. “Stop messing around, Chloe. The most important thing is helping Ashley get through this. And what’s with the getup? You trying to hide your face because you’re embarrassed?” 3 To avoid being recognized by any of my old colleagues, I’d wrapped a scarf around the lower half of my face and put on a pair of dark sunglasses. When we reached the assembly point, the town’s “Mayor” kept glancing at me, his eyes lingering just a little too long. It made the hairs on my arms stand up. Finally, he cleared his throat and began the mission briefing. “Welcome, travelers, to the lovely town of Fablegate! Your tour will last for seven days. Please, enjoy yourselves! Our residents are all so very… hospitable. Today’s special attraction is the town’s most famous landmark, Blackwood Castle!” He went on for a while before pressing a single finger to his lips, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A word of advice. When you sleep tonight, you must remain perfectly silent. The master of the castle despises the sound of conversation.” After the Mayor shuffled away, everyone stood frozen. “What the hell was that?!” Brock muttered, looking like he wanted to spit but didn’t dare. “When did the instance change?!” Behind my sunglasses, my eyes were wide. So the Boss really had been overhauling the game. That must be why the level was listed as ‘Unknown.’ But I hadn’t heard any whispers of this over the past year. This instance used to be a three-day cakewalk. The castle was the final night. You just had to survive one evening, and as long as you didn’t break any rules, you were golden. But now… there were barely any rules at all, just one vague warning about being quiet. And the final destination was now the first. Ashley’s bravado vanished. She clung to Caleb’s arm, her knuckles white. “Caleb… d-don’t tell me the difficulty increased. I’m so scared.” Caleb’s own face was as pale as parchment, but he managed to pat her hand. “It’s okay, Ash. Maybe they just changed the location. The core difficulty probably hasn’t changed.” His words seemed to soothe the group, a collective sigh of relief rippling through them. Ashley was no longer in the mood for sightseeing, her fingers clutching Caleb’s sleeve. I pulled my scarf up a little higher. I really hoped I wouldn’t run into the Boss. The doors of Blackwood Castle creaked open, releasing a wave of bone-deep cold that washed over us. Ashley’s knees buckled, and she nearly collapsed. Brock shot her a look of pure disgust. “Alright, if the Mayor didn’t give us any rules, that means we have to find them. It’s not dark yet, so we should be safe. Pair up. Don’t wander around in a big clump.” Caleb supported the whimpering Ashley, then looked at me hesitantly. “Ashley’s too scared to be alone. I’ll team up with her. It’s a ten-person instance, you’ll find a partner.” I gave him a cold smile. Ten people, sure. But one group was a family of three who were sticking together. I was the odd one out. I didn’t bother replying, just turned and headed up the grand staircase. I checked the rooms where the rules used to be hidden, searching every nook and cranny. Nothing. Half an hour later, we regrouped in the main hall. Every face was pale. No one had found a single rule. Caleb took a deep breath, trying to be the voice of reason. “The first day is always the easiest. Maybe the only rule really is to be quiet while we sleep.” Brock snorted. “Shut up, you clueless idiot. Go comfort your crybaby girlfriend.” Ashley’s face flushed. “I’m not his girlfriend,” she mumbled, but no one was listening. The light outside was fading fast. Brock suggested everyone go to their rooms and stay put for the night. But no one had noticed the woman who had appeared at the foot of the stairs. Her makeup was exaggerated, theatrical, like a porcelain doll cracked down the middle. She pressed her fingers to her lips, her voice a high, sharp trill. “Oh, my! We have guests!” She counted us with a long, manicured finger. “One, two, three, four… ten! Exactly ten! What a delightful coincidence! Now, everyone, come and choose your number card!” She curtsied. “By the way, you may call me Corinne. I am the castle’s housekeeper. If you have any questions at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.” With that, she became a statue, a standard NPC waiting for players to approach. My temple throbbed. Wasn’t she the Boss’s older sister? What was she doing playing housekeeper? Brock glanced at one of Caleb’s friends, Liam, and jerked his chin. “You. Go get a card. And see what you can find out.” Liam didn’t dare refuse. He went up and, to everyone’s surprise, struck up a lively conversation with Corinne. Ashley clasped her hands together. “Wow, Liam is so amazing. He’s such a charmer, he can even flirt with an NPC.” Five minutes later, Liam returned, beaming. “The number cards are fine. They’re for a prize drawing tomorrow. And the lady is super nice. I asked about the rules, and she confirmed the only one for tonight is no talking.” “A prize drawing?” Brock asked. “What’s the prize?” Liam shrugged. “She wouldn’t say.” With the immediate danger seemingly gone, everyone went up to get their cards. They all came back with the same information as Liam. No one could figure out what the prize was. When it was my turn, Corinne didn’t even give me a second glance. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Corinne had the sharpest eyes of anyone. If she didn’t recognize me, no one would. There were ten rooms. Nine were on the right side of the staircase. Only one was on the left. And its number, 4, was painted a sickening, visceral blood-red. 4 Corinne leaned against the newel post, a malicious grin stretching her painted lips. “My dear guests, all of our rooms must be occupied. The master of the house gets so upset when he finds an empty room, and believe me, you do not want to see him when he’s upset.” She gestured gracefully. “As for how you choose… well, that’s up to you. But I should mention, the room on the left can only accommodate a single guest.” Brock stroked his chin. “All the other rooms are on the right. In these games, the majority path is usually the safe one. The left…” A heavy silence fell over the group. Everyone understood. Whoever stayed in that room was probably going to die. A blood-red room number was a universal sign for death in these instances. He flexed a bicep. “To be fair, we’ll draw lots. The nine of you. Whoever draws ‘Left’ gets that room.” Caleb bristled. “What about you? You should be in the draw, too. How is that fair?” Brock actually laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. He shot forward, grabbing Caleb by the collar and lifting him slightly off the ground. “How is it fair, you little shit? You want to know how it’s fair?” He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “I’ve cleared three of these goddamn games. How many have you amateurs cleared? None? That’s what I thought. You want to live, you do what I say. Otherwise, you can f— off and die on your own.” He dropped Caleb in a heap and spat on the floor near his head. “Any other objections?” Heads shook like a field of bobbleheads in an earthquake. Ashley helped her fallen hero up, whispering reproachfully, “Caleb, why did you have to say anything? It’s a one-in-nine chance. It probably won’t be one of us. It’ll be some other unlucky person.” Her eyes flickered in my direction. Caleb glared at me. “Chloe, you’re not even going to help me up? Ashley’s a better friend to me than you are. Why didn’t you back me up just now? I’m your boyfriend! You just stood there and watched him humiliate me?” I shrugged. “I agree with Brock. Why would I back you up?” Besides, I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be the unlucky one. And even if I was… so what? I wasn’t afraid. Okay, that was a lie. I was terrified. I had a horrible suspicion that the Boss himself was staying in that room. The draw began. Every hand holding a slip of paper was slick with sweat. I opened mine. Right. I let out a long, slow breath. A moment later, a sharp gasp cut through the silence. The unlucky one was Ashley. The paper fluttered from her grasp as fat, silent tears began to fall. “H-how… how could it be me? Caleb…” She turned to him, her face a mask of despair. “Caleb, you won’t let them do this to me, will you?” The color drained from Caleb’s face. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Brock just sneered and turned to leave, claiming what he deemed the best room on the right. The others quickly followed suit, scurrying away. Ashley’s silent tears turned into gut-wrenching sobs. “Caleb, I’m going to die tonight! I know it! You all said you’d protect me! Are you just going to stand there and watch me die?” Caleb looked away. His friends, Mark and Liam, suddenly found the floorboards and the ceiling fascinating. Then Mark’s eyes landed on me. “Chloe,” he said, his voice wheedling. “You’ve always been the brave one. Why don’t you switch with Ashley?” My eyes narrowed. I laughed. “What, the three of you big, strong men are less brave than me? Why don’t you switch with her?” His face tightened. “You know how dangerous the castle is at night,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We need to stay in the rooms next to hers to protect her.” He turned to Caleb. “Caleb, talk to her. It’s just the first night. Nothing serious ever happens on the first night.” Caleb’s expression was grim. He looked at me, then back at the sobbing Ashley. He sighed. “Chloe, just switch with her. She’s not strong like you. If she starts crying in the middle of the night, it’s over. It’s probably just a guess that the room is dangerous anyway. Go on. It’ll be fine.” 5 I laughed, a cold, sharp sound that echoed in the hall. I looked my boyfriend of one year up and down. “Caleb, who exactly is your girlfriend here?” I asked. “If it’s ‘just a guess,’ why don’t you switch with her? You piece of shit.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes, scratching the back of his head guiltily. “I can’t. Ashley will be too scared without me nearby. What if she has a panic attack? Chloe, you’ve always been the reasonable one. Look, when we get out of here, I’ll take you to meet my parents. We can finally get engaged. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” A smile touched my lips, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “Let me make this perfectly clear, Caleb. First, I am not giving my room to Ashley. Second, I would rather die than marry you. We’re done. Go protect your useless, crying waste of space.” As the last word left my mouth, a deep bell chimed through the hall. Eight o’clock. Corinne’s red lips stretched into an impossibly wide grin, her voice trembling with barely concealed excitement. “Eight o’clock! The master of the house is getting hungry! Any guests not in their rooms in five minutes will be considered… part of the menu.” The color drained from their faces. I didn’t hesitate. I spun and ran for an empty room on the right. A powerful hand clamped down on my arm, yanking me back. The world spun. When it stopped, Caleb had me pinned against the door of the blood-red room on the left. “Quick! Get Ashley to her room!” he yelled to his friends, his voice shaking. He turned back to me, his face close to mine. “Chloe, stop it. I know you don’t want to break up. You’re just angry. I swear, when we get out, I’ll take you home to meet my parents. Please, just be good. It’s only for one night. Nothing is going to happen.” To prove his sincerity, he leaned in to kiss me. A wave of nausea washed over me. I twisted my head away, and in that split second, Caleb wrenched the door open and shoved me inside. “Chloe,” he gasped, his voice full of false sincerity. “You have to survive.” Click. The door slammed shut. A few seconds later, I heard the sound of another door locking from the other end of the hallway. Hilarious. They were afraid I’d come out and fight them for their rooms.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384440”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Scarlett Crane and I have been mortal enemies since childhood. In kindergarten, she humiliated me by pulling down my pants; I ripped the gold star off her chest. She dumped chalk dust in my backpack; I filled her ballet slippers with sand, spraining her ankle. In high school, she took my toughest classes just to outscore me. “No fun if I can’t crush you,” she smirked. So I pinned her love letter to the bulletin board, getting her a week of detention. After 15 years of rivalry, I grew tired. I fled to a southern university, avoiding her entirely. As I left, she called me a coward: “Drop dead and never come back.” Five years later, at our alma mater’s gala, she mocked my worn jacket: “Just a handyman now? Without me, you’ve let yourself go.” But I wasn’t a handyman—the gala was a fundraiser to save my life. 1 Scarlett’s arrival was a spectacle. The school grounds were swarmed by media, turning the event into a circus, all for her. She’d turned down every interview, all so she could come back here and flaunt her victory over me. “Scarlett, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not working here, I—” She cut me off, her voice brutal. “Ethan, when are you going to finally admit you’re weaker than me? That stubborn pride of yours hasn’t changed a bit!” She was no longer the girl from high school, her features sharpened by success, but the fire in her eyes was the same. She still needed to conquer me, to be better in every conceivable way. I remembered winning the state-level design award in high school. She claimed I only won because one of the judges was a distant relative. I remembered choosing a design program in the south. She said it was because I was terrified of competing with her in the north, too spineless to face a real fight. “Admit it, Ethan,” she taunted, her smile dripping with arrogance. “You just can’t measure up to me.” I stared into the familiar, ferocious competitiveness in her eyes and felt the corner of my mouth twitch into a smirk. Yeah, I was dying. We’d been fighting for fifteen years. How could I not play the final round? I lifted my head, my gaze locking with hers, and pointed to a poster on the bulletin board for an international design competition. “Scarlett, what makes you so sure that just because I’m standing here, I’ve lost?” She blinked, caught off guard by my sudden defiance. Then she scoffed. “You? You think you’re qualified to enter a competition of that caliber?” “On what grounds? Isn’t it obvious?” she continued, spreading her arms wide, a gesture for the whole world to see. “Because I’m a rising star in the design world. And you’re just some manual laborer.” Our old classmates started to gather around us, their whispers like a swarm of bees. “Is that Ethan Hayes? Wow, he really fell off.” “He used to be a legend back in the day. What a shame.” Scarlett’s smirk widened, laced with pity. “Oh, you guys don’t know the half of it. He insisted on going south for design school, swore he’d start his own brand. Five years later, he doesn’t even have a proper job.” In front of everyone, our teachers and our peers, she seemed determined to rip away my last shred of dignity. My knuckles turned white as I clutched the application for severe illness assistance the principal had given me. A bitter taste filled my mouth. 2 “Ethan, my boy, have you finished filling out that grant application?” Principal Thompson spotted me and walked over, his face etched with concern. A hot wave of shame washed over me. I didn’t want anyone to know, especially not her. But before I could hide it, Caleb Moss, the same campus heartthrob from high school, snatched the form from my hand and started reading it aloud. “Ethan Hayes… ALS? A fundraiser?” As the words left his lips, a ripple of derisive laughter spread through the crowd. “ALS? You? You don’t look sick. Can’t even fake an illness properly.” Caleb shot me a look of disgust, as if I were something he’d scraped off his shoe. Scarlett’s pupils contracted. She strode forward, grabbed the diagnostic papers and the application, and scanned them intently. Caleb sneered. “Seriously, Ethan, you’ve really hit rock bottom. Trying to scam the school for donation money?” He jingled some coins in his pocket. “If you’re that desperate, get on your knees and beg. I might toss you a few quarters for old times’ sake.” Hearing that, the tension in Scarlett’s shoulders eased. Her expression hardened into cold contempt. “Ethan,” she said, her voice dripping with disgust, “you’re pathetic.” My heart pounded as I watched her tear the application form to shreds, piece by piece. The money I’d earned from my small design studio over the years was almost gone, drained by medical bills. If I hadn’t run into Principal Thompson at the hospital last month, I would have given up completely. The only reason I could still walk and talk was because of the initial funds raised by the faculty. I’d tried to tell him it was pointless, that this disease was a bottomless pit. I told him not to bother the alumni. But he insisted, saying they had to save me, and that sliver of hope he gave me was now being ripped apart. He said I had been the pride of the school once, and they wouldn’t just let me fade away. I began to shuffle toward the campus lake, my legs already stiffening, each step clumsy and comical. Suddenly, Caleb shoved me hard from behind. I stumbled, my body refusing to catch itself, and pitched forward into the muddy grass. I writhed on the ground, trying to get up, but my body wouldn’t obey. I was just a mess of mud and humiliation. Scarlett’s fingers twitched, but her face remained a mask of indifference. “Don’t think you can scam the school just by putting on a show, Ethan.” “You’re a disgrace,” she spat, her voice laced with venom. “You don’t deserve an ounce of pity.” She then announced to the stunned crowd, “You want money? Fine. My studio, Crane Designs, will donate ten million dollars to our alma mater!” A wave of gasps and applause erupted from the onlookers. Caleb immediately sidled up to her, puffing out his chest, his eyes full of adoration. Scarlett ignored him, her gaze fixed on me. “But this donation,” she declared, her voice ringing with finality, “is specifically for underprivileged students, to upgrade the cafeteria and dorms.” She ground her heel into my jacket, her face a mask of contempt. “You, Ethan, won’t get a single cent.” “No, Scarlett, please, you have to listen,” Principal Thompson pleaded, trying to explain. But she was already walking away, surrounded by a crowd of admirers. 3 “Ethan, my boy, I’ll figure something else out,” Principal Thompson said, his voice choked with urgency. “Your health… maybe you should pull out of the design finals next week…” Everyone knew. Designing a new academic building for our school had been a shared dream for Scarlett and me. Our old building was a wreck, with peeling paint we’d cover with old newspapers and homework assignments. The windows rattled in their frames with every gust of wind. Back then, we’d both sworn that the day we became architects, we would design a new building for our school—one that was beautiful, functional, and built to last. We’d stay up late after study hall, secretly competing, sketching out one naive blueprint after another, dreaming of the day they’d become real. I brushed the dirt from my jacket and forced a weak smile. “I only have a month left. Scarlett did the right thing. Those kids need the money more than a dying man.” “Thank her for me,” I added. Principal Thompson’s lips trembled, and he let out a long, heavy sigh. I dragged my stiffening limbs off the school grounds, the harsh afternoon sun making me dizzy. By the time I reached the bus stop, the world tilted and went black. I hadn’t eaten all day. My blood sugar plummeted, and my legs gave out from under me. I collapsed. “Ahh! That man is dead!” a little girl shrieked. My forehead had smashed against the curb, and blood was now streaming down my face. She was so startled she dropped her can of soda, which fizzed and spilled all over the pavement. I desperately needed sugar. My body shaking, I propped myself up on my hands and began to crawl, licking the sticky, sweet liquid off the dirty concrete. At that moment, only one thought consumed me: I couldn’t die before the finals. “Heh. Ethan, look at the state of you. Licking soda off the ground?” A sleek Maybach had pulled up to the curb. Through the tinted window, I could see Scarlett’s silhouette. “And you thought you could compete with me?” Her voice was smug, but her eyes held a flicker of something complex, something I couldn’t decipher. All I could do was focus on the soda, trying to bring my body back from the brink. “First, you try to scam the school, and now you’re begging on the street? To think I ever considered you my rival.” Scarlett’s face was a mixture of disappointment and rage. She tossed a wad of cash out the window, the bills fluttering down onto the pavement. “Take the money and get lost. Don’t embarrass the school any further!” My hands moved numbly, gathering the bills. With this, I could buy more paper, more time to perfect my design. But my actions only fueled her fury. “Ethan, have you no shame?” she roared. “Do you really want to be a dog?” “If you’re so determined to be a dog, then be my dog!” She started to open her door to grab me, but Caleb stopped her. “Scarlett, maybe Ethan is just going through something. I’ll talk to him,” he said smoothly. “Don’t you need to study Aether’s past works? I heard he’s participating in this competition. You go study the master’s designs. I’ll take care of Ethan.” At the mention of the name Aether, Scarlett’s expression softened into one of pure reverence. “To see Aether’s work in person… I could die happy.” She shot me one last cold glare. “This pathetic waste of space isn’t worth my time.” “You should get on your knees and thank Caleb, Ethan.” As the car pulled away, Caleb’s face twisted into a cruel mask. He crouched down, grabbing my chin, his eyes filled with menace. “If you hadn’t posted Scarlett’s letter on that bulletin board and gotten her in trouble, we would’ve been together years ago.” I laughed, a dry, rasping sound. Scarlett had trailed after him like a lost puppy for an entire year, and he’d never given her a second glance. “Who was it that said a desperate girl’s love isn’t worth a damn?” I taunted. “Who was it that smashed the gifts she gave you in front of the entire school, humiliating her?” “Now that she’s successful, you’re blaming me? You’re disgusting.” “Shut your mouth, you son of a bitch,” he snarled, his anger finally boiling over. He stomped his leather shoe down hard on the back of my hand. A sickening crack echoed in the silence, followed by a wave of blinding pain. He leaned in, his smile chilling. “You like soda so much?” “Don’t worry, old friend. I’ll make sure you get your fill.” A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. I tried to fight back, but my muscles were frozen, unresponsive. Caleb had his friends pin me down as they brought over an entire case of soda. “Pour it all down his throat. My treat.” The cold, fizzy liquid flooded my mouth and nose, burning its way down my throat. My stomach felt like it was being shredded by a thousand needles. I choked and coughed violently, spitting up mouthfuls of blood. I tried to stand, to push myself up, but my arms and legs were no longer my own. Again and again, I struggled, only to collapse back onto the pavement. Finally, I couldn’t hold on any longer. The world dissolved into darkness. 4 The doctor’s face was a portrait of sorrow. “Mr. Hayes, your condition has deteriorated rapidly. Today’s… incident has caused significant trauma.” When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. “I’m afraid… you have less than a week.” “If you have any last wishes, now is the time.” He couldn’t bear to look at me any longer. He turned and left in silence. Wishes? An image of the crumbling school building flashed in my mind, followed by the coldness in Scarlett’s eyes as she walked away. My resolve hardened. At the very end of my life, I was going to win. One last time. I painstakingly uncurled my fingers. Tucked in my palm were the few bills she had thrown at me, now stained with my own blood. I didn’t want to die indebted to her, but it was all I had. I asked a nurse to buy me drawing supplies, and I continued to work. The horror of ALS is how it devours you, piece by piece. I could no longer walk, so I drew from a wheelchair. Soon, my right hand went numb. So I used my elbow, my teeth, whatever it took to keep the pencil moving. The day before the finals, as I painstakingly signed the name “Aether” in the corner of the final drawing, a wave of relief washed over me, and I smiled. I looked at my completed design, and I laughed and cried all at once. This was the last piece of me I could leave in this world. I prayed it would continue to provide shelter for the children long after I was gone. Determined to attend the finals the next day, I gritted my teeth and went to handle my discharge paperwork. That’s when I saw her. Scarlett was at the hospital, helping Caleb with a follow-up appointment. “Don’t blame Ethan,” Caleb was saying, putting on a pitiful display. “He was just in a bad mood. He had every right to hit me.” He pointed to his slightly sprained ankle. “He almost crippled me, but Scarlett, please don’t confront him for my sake. We’re all old friends. I don’t want to see you two fight.” Scarlett’s face was a thundercloud. I scoffed. He’d twisted his ankle when he lost his balance stomping on my hand. But I didn’t have the time or the energy to waste on him. I was running out of both. I turned to leave, but her voice, sharp as a whip, cracked through the air. “Ethan! Get over here. Now.” I ignored her and kept moving, but she grabbed my wheelchair, forcing it to a halt. “Ethan, I am so disappointed in you,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “Caleb was trying to help you, and you attacked him? Do you have a conscience? Did your parents raise a monster?” “Apologize to him! Right now! Or I swear I will call the police and have you thrown in jail.” Looking at that familiar yet alien face, I couldn’t help but laugh. The victim, forced to apologize to his abuser? “In your dreams,” I spat, and tried to wheel myself past her. But Caleb snatched the portfolio containing my design from my lap. “Ethan, I don’t blame you for hurting me, but what are you doing at the hospital? Couldn’t scam the school, so now you’re stealing things?” Panic seized me. “Give it back!” I reached for it, and Caleb dramatically fell to the ground. “Ethan, stealing is wrong! You can beat me to death today, but I won’t let you go down the wrong path!” Whispers erupted around us. The hallway filled with pointing fingers and ugly words. “That’s mine! Give it back!” I lunged forward, trying to grab it, but a firm hand shoved me back into my chair. It was Scarlett. She was flipping through my sketches, her expression growing darker with every page. When she finally looked up at me, her eyes were filled with pure disgust. “Ethan, I was so wrong about you.” “Scarlett, listen to me, that’s really—” “Enough!” she roared, flinging the stack of drawings at my chest. “Do you have any idea whose work you’ve stolen? Do you know what Aether means to me?” “He is a god in my eyes, and I will not let you defile his work with your filthy hands,” she seethed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “I was trying to give you a chance, a way to redeem yourself! I convinced Caleb not to press charges for what you did to him! But you’re just… rotten.” “Since you have no shame, I’ll expose you for the fraud you are!” She grabbed my bandaged hand and began to tear viciously at the gauze. “You love to act, don’t you? You love playing the victim to get money! Well, act now! Keep acting!” A white-hot pain shot up my arm, and the world began to fade to black. I slumped to the floor, my body giving out. But in the next instant, Scarlett froze. Beneath the bandages on my hand was a bloody, gaping wound.

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The moment the plane’s engines sputtered and failed, the flight attendants handed out paper and pens for us to write our last words. Right in front of me, my wife, Luna, wrote down another man’s name. “Rich,” her pen whispered across the page, “it took me half a lifetime to realize… you were always my one true moon.” “If this plane goes down, and they’re lucky enough to find the wreckage, let my ashes be returned to Rich’s side.” Rich. My adoptive brother. The one who shattered my mother’s ashes. As fate would have it, the crisis was a false alarm. The plane landed with no casualties. Back home, Luna invited me to a dinner party to celebrate our survival. I handed her a set of divorce papers instead. “Sign them,” I said. “It’s time you went to find your real moon.” … Luna just stared at me, her expression blank for a second. “Alex, I’m busy right now. I don’t have time for your jokes.” “Tonight’s party is important. It’s not just for us—it’s a chance to see friends and family we haven’t connected with in ages.” Friends and family, or just Rich? She’d spent two hours in front of the mirror this morning, cycling through outfits. I hadn’t missed the engagement ring she’d prepared, tucked away in its box. The one engraved with the initials “R.V.” for Rich Vance. This party wasn’t a celebration of life. It was just an excuse to see him again. “Could you move? That table isn’t set yet,” Luna said, her voice soft but strained. I didn’t budge. My hand, holding the documents, was unyielding. “Just sign it.” Her brow furrowed. “Alex, do you really have to be like this?” “Yes.” She sighed, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Look, I know you’re still angry about what I wrote on the plane.” “But we thought we were going to die, Alex.” “I was just writing whatever came to mind. I didn’t think you’d take it so seriously…” I shrugged her hand off. “Let’s get a divorce.” Before we were together, Luna had pursued me relentlessly. She used to say my quiet, reserved nature was what drew her in, that she’d never met a man like me—cool and distant, like the moon in the sky. But after I accepted her proposal, I suddenly became boring. Stale. Five years of marriage, and my quiet nature had turned into a flaw. Countless times, I’d overheard her telling others: “I just feel like my life wasn’t supposed to be… this.” “Alex is so rigid and dull. It’s like we’re from different worlds.” “Rich is different. He’s vibrant, passionate, and so kind.” “He’s like… a ray of moonlight that brightens everything.” In those moments, my nails would dig into my palms, a dull, crushing ache spreading through my chest. She knew. She knew exactly who Rich was to me. If he hadn’t hidden that venomous snake in my mother’s trunk, she never would have crashed on the freeway. If he hadn’t intentionally caused a scene at her funeral, her urn wouldn’t have been shattered, her ashes scattered and lost. Rich and I were sworn enemies, bound by a debt of blood. And Luna had chosen his side. Guests were beginning to arrive. Not wanting to prolong the scene, she snatched the pen from my hand in a fit of pique. “Fine! You want a divorce? I’ll sign it!” Without even a glance at the contents, she flipped to the last page and scrawled her name. Then she threw the papers in my face. “There. Are you happy now?” Expressionless, I picked them up from the floor, checked the signature, and tucked the folder safely into my bag. This party might have been to celebrate our survival, but as far as I was concerned, it had nothing to do with me. I grabbed my coat to leave, but a low voice stopped me from behind. “Big brother, leaving so soon? You only just got here. Did I do something to offend you?” “Look, I even brought you a gift.” Rich stood there, a smirk playing on his lips, dressed in a sharp red suit and holding a gift-wrapped box. The sight of his perfectly innocent face made my entire body go rigid. My hands clenched into fists. An image flashed in my mind: my mother’s funeral. Rich, pretending to trip, sending her urn crashing to the floor. Then, “accidentally” knocking over a vase, soaking her ashes, rendering them unsalvageable. And through it all, his face, streaked with crocodile tears, insisting it was all an accident. The memory made me sick. I turned to walk away. A hand grabbed my arm, hard. “Alex, don’t be childish,” Luna hissed. “We’re the hosts tonight. At least have the decency to stay.” “What will it look like if you just walk out?” I shook her off, my patience snapping. The sound of my palm connecting with her cheek echoed in the sudden silence. “Luna, I’m not in the mood for your little play. And in case you forgot, today is the anniversary of my mother’s death.” I shot a venomous glare at Rich. “I find it disgusting to breathe the same air as a murderer.” “Don’t you dare use that word to describe him!” Luna shrieked, her eyes turning red as she rushed after me. “I told you, it was an accident!” I didn’t bother to respond. I made it to the parking lot, ready to drive off, but my pockets were empty. No keys. “Looking for these?” Luna stood behind me, dangling my car keys from her fingers, her smile devoid of any warmth. “Give them back.” In the next second, she tossed them, and they clattered into a storm drain. “You want to leave? Fine. After the party’s over.” “You know what they’ll say about Rich if you’re not here. The gossip will hurt him.” I stared at her, a bitter, self-mocking laugh catching in my throat. “He deserves it.” She knew full well the cloud of suspicion that had hung over Rich since my mother’s death. She just wanted me there as a prop, to create the illusion that we were all one big, happy family. But I refused to play along. I wouldn’t accommodate a killer. No keys, no car. Fine. I turned and started walking toward the main gate. This was a private estate in the hills. Just driving down the mountain took half an hour. Laughter echoed behind me. “Brother, are you really going to walk? You won’t get down until the sun comes up!” Rich called out. “Luna, darling, don’t worry about me. You should go drive him down. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to him…” In the reflection of a parked car, I saw the adoring, gentle look Luna gave him. “Forget him,” she said. “Let’s go back to the party.” I don’t know how long I walked along that winding mountain road. Blisters formed and burst on my feet. I finally took my shoes off, carrying them in my hand as I limped forward. At least it wasn’t too late. I could still make it to the cemetery for my mom. Just as my energy was completely gone, a car horn blared behind me. “Get in.” The window rolled down, revealing the sharp, elegant face of Victoria Frost. “Victoria?” I stopped, stunned. “When did you get back from overseas?” “Landed yesterday.” Yesterday. The same day my flight nearly went down. Before I could process it, Victoria was out of the car, scooping me up in her arms as if I weighed nothing. “What in the world happened to you?” she murmured, her voice a mix of warmth and concern. Inside the dimly lit car, her face was close, her voice a soothing balm. For some reason, I felt a blush creep up my neck. “Nothing. Just got divorced.” Victoria’s gaze was intense. “Divorced?” “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Decided it was time to let myself go.” We drove in silence for a while, her thoughts seemingly a million miles away. It wasn’t until we reached the bottom of the mountain that she spoke again. “Straight to the cemetery? I already have the cake.” A lump formed in my throat. Someone else remembered. I nodded. “Thank you, Victoria.” When we arrived, I carefully placed the cake on the cold stone and lit the candles. My mom had always loved sweets. I’d never missed her birthday, but this year, I’d almost been too late. As I stood up, a sharp pain shot through my stomach, making me freeze. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. Noticing my distress, Victoria draped her jacket over my shoulders. “Stay here. I’ll go get you some medicine.” I just nodded, my head bowed. As she drove off, I watched her car disappear, a strange warmth spreading through my chest, like something had gently nudged my frozen heart. The candlelight flickered, dancing like fireflies before my mother’s grave. I was talking to her, telling her about my day, when a line of cars pulled up nearby. “Brother! I knew I’d find you here. Lucky guess.” Rich’s cloying voice drifted through the night air. I looked up, my body tensing in alarm, only to meet Luna’s disapproving glare. “This is all your fault,” she snapped. “You ruined a perfectly good party with your tantrum. It was Rich’s thoughtful idea for all of us to come and keep you company.” I ignored her, my voice dangerously low. “All of you, get out.” But they paid no attention, instead wandering around the grave, pointing and commenting. “Wow, Alex is cheaper than I thought. This plot is tiny. The feng shui must be terrible.” “They say he’s such a devoted son, but if he really cared, wouldn’t he have found the killer by now?” Rich listened to it all, a smug smile on his face. My fists clenched. I had been so close to putting him in prison, but at the last minute, Luna had secretly submitted a letter of forgiveness on my behalf, derailing the entire case. “Alex, your mother’s crash was just an accident,” she had insisted. But looking at the triumphant smirk on Rich’s face now, I knew that was a lie. I took a deep breath, about to order them out again. But before I could, Rich leaned forward and, with a playful puff, blew out all the candles on the cake. He blinked his big, innocent eyes. “That looked fun, so I did it for you, brother. You don’t mind, do you?” Without a second thought, I grabbed the cake—wax from the freshly extinguished candles and all—and shoved it squarely into his face. “How about this? Is this fun?” Rich froze for a second, then let out a theatrical wail. “Luna! I was just trying to be nice! Why is he always so mean to me?” he cried, burying his face in her shoulder. Luna frantically wiped the frosting from his face, her voice a furious roar aimed at me. “Alex, what is wrong with you? You’re a monster!” “The candles were still on the cake! You could have hurt him!” I laughed, a cold, empty sound. “He deserved it.” He came here, to my mother’s grave, to taunt me. “Rich is your brother, for God’s sake! All he did was blow out a candle. You can’t be this petty!” “Get out,” I repeated, my voice like ice. “Luna…” Rich whined, clinging to her arm, their bodies pressing together in a way that was far too intimate. Luna, for her part, seemed to be enjoying it. “See? He just doesn’t appreciate me. I only wanted to help celebrate his mom’s life… Did I do something wrong again? It’s all my fault…” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “My mother never gave me a brother.” Rich was a stray my family took in, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. At my words, his eyes filled with fresh tears. “I know you’ve never accepted me as family, brother, but you don’t have to be so cold every time you see me…” I stared him down. My gaze must have been colder than the grave itself, because he trailed off, shrinking back behind Luna like a frightened child. “Luna, I’m sorry, it’s all my fault…” “GET OUT!” I roared, my patience gone. I closed my eyes, trying to regain control. “Never in history has a murderer dared to be so arrogant in front of his victim. Rich, are you testing my limits, or are you just begging to die?” “Alex!” Luna cut me off, her patience finally snapping. “Watch your words! I’ve told you, the crash was an ACCIDENT.” “Rich is so gentle and kind he wouldn’t even step on an ant. How could he possibly harm your mother?” I sneered. “An accident?” “Then how do you explain the highly venomous snake that just happened to crawl into her trunk?” I had the surveillance footage. The dashcam video. It clearly showed Rich buying the snake and hiding it in her car in the middle of the night. But when I presented the evidence in court, it had mysteriously vanished. Wiped clean, with no backups. “Alex, your mother is dead! What’s the point of all this drama?” Rich sobbed, wiping at his eyes. “You’re such an unlovable man. What is your problem?” He then pulled a portable speaker from one of the cars and blasted cheerful, upbeat music. “I know you’re still mad about the funeral,” he said, his voice laced with false sincerity. “So I’m here to apologize.” On the anniversary of my mother’s death, he was playing “Celebration.” A white-hot rage burned through me, and the pain in my stomach intensified. “Do you want to die?” I gritted out. “What will it take for you to forgive me, brother? Should I get on my knees and beg…?” He made a show of starting to kneel, but Luna caught him before his knees could touch the ground. “You did nothing wrong. You don’t have to apologize to him.” Then, in a move that stunned me, Luna knelt before Rich on one knee and pulled out a ring box. “Rich, even the master jewelers said the gem was one of a kind. I had it recut and set for twenty million dollars. A unique gift, for a unique man.” A searing pain shot through my eyes. Even though the setting was different, I recognized it instantly. The ring was forged from my mother’s heirlooms. “Oh, Luna, thank you! You’re too good to me!” Rich exclaimed, slipping the ring on and rushing over to flaunt it in my face. “Look, brother! Isn’t it beautiful?” He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “You know what your mother said, right before she died? She said she was sorry. To you. Hahahaha, can you believe it? Dying, and still thinking of you. So touching…” That was it. I lunged, grabbing a fistful of his hair and slamming him against the cemetery wall. “Alex!” someone screamed. “Let him go!” Luna shrieked, her eyes wild with panic, her voice raw. “What do you want? Just tell me! Alex, I’ll give you anything!” I pulled a knife from my pocket. And pressed it to Rich’s throat. “Anything?” A bloody, feral grin spread across my face. I probably looked completely unhinged. The crowd of onlookers, who had been enjoying the show, scrambled backward, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. I turned my attention back to the terrified man in my grasp. “Just because I didn’t send you to prison doesn’t mean you’re not a murderer.” “As long as I’m alive, you will never know peace.” If he’d just stayed away, he might have been safe. But he had to parade himself in front of me. If he died on my blade tonight, he’d have brought it on himself. “You… you wouldn’t dare, brother,” Rich stammered, though his eyes held a flicker of defiance. “You’re just trying to scare me…” I pushed. The blade sank into his shoulder. He let out a bloodcurdling scream. “Luna, help me! He’s a psycho! Alex is a goddamn psycho!” “Get him!” Luna commanded. She had come prepared. She shot me a look of pure loathing and kicked me hard in the chest. “Did you really think I’d let you hurt Rich again, you lunatic?” The kick was thrown with her full force. I stumbled back, landing hard on the ground, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. Rich was clutching his bleeding shoulder, but Luna was already at his side, gently supporting him. “Quick! Get the first aid kit from my trunk!” she ordered her bodyguards, her eyes filled with nothing but adoration for him. She had long since stopped hiding her true feelings. She began cleaning his wound while another guard called for an ambulance. “It’s okay, Luna, I’m fine…” Rich gasped, waving the guard away. “It’s just a scratch. The knife… it cut him too when he stabbed me.” He leaned against her, then glanced at me, a sly look in his eyes. “You know, Luna, I think brother’s gone crazy from being so lonely.” “I mean, we’re both men, I get it. You haven’t been… intimate with him in years. He’s probably desperate for a woman’s touch…” At his words, Luna stroked his cheek tenderly. “You’re always so thoughtful.” “As for Alex,” she said, her voice dripping with disgust, “I wouldn’t touch a vile, pathetic man like him with a ten-foot pole.” She pulled out a checkbook and waved a check at a group of female bodyguards. “You girls are up.” “Keep Mr. Collins here… entertained,” she instructed them. “You’ll all be well compensated.” The women’s eyes widened at the amount on the check. Greed won over professionalism. They began shrugging off their jackets, advancing on me. “Sorry about this, Mr. Collins. We’ll be sure to take good care of you…” Luna stepped back, wrapping an arm around Rich, and let out a low whistle. “Now the real show begins. Everyone get your phones out. You won’t want to miss this.” They moved to tear at my clothes, but one of the women paused, looking at the jacket Victoria had left on the ground. “Ms. Vance, this jacket… it looks like a woman’s.” “Who cares where he picked it up? Get on with it!” Luna snapped. But before another hand could touch me, the roar of a high-performance engine cut through the air. A sleek, black luxury car screeched to a halt beside us. The door opened, and a woman stepped out. The aura of power that radiated from her silenced the entire cemetery. Her voice, when she spoke, was low, calm, and terrifying.

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The first time my mother looked at me, her eyes were filled with sorrow. She wouldn’t hold me, wouldn’t feed me. She just let me wail until my throat was raw. I was born with all my memories, so I knew that in my last life, she had loved me more than life itself. But when I was three, I died in a fall from our balcony. The tragedy shattered her mind, and she lived out the rest of her days in a fog of pain. Reborn, my mother had chosen a different path. A quick, sharp pain now was better than a long, drawn-out agony later. She was going to let “fate” take me, just as it had before, before I could become the flesh and blood she couldn’t bear to lose again. But she didn’t know the truth. My fall wasn’t an accident. I was pushed by our nanny. And in this life, that same nanny was about to walk through our door. 1 I was born in the dead of winter. The delivery room was heated, but I was cold. A chill that seeped into my very bones. It came from my mother, Rachel. The look she gave me was a mask of grief and despair. A nurse cleaned me, swaddled me up like a tiny burrito, and presented me to her, beaming. “Congratulations, she’s a beautiful little princess! Here, hold your daughter.” My mother flinched as if she’d been burned, snatching her hand back and turning her head away. “I don’t have the strength,” she whispered, her voice weary and hoarse. The nurse’s smile faltered for a second before she quickly recovered. “Of course, you must be exhausted after everything.” She turned her attention to the man waiting anxiously at the door—my father, Jacob. He rushed in, a goofy grin plastered on his face. He took me from the nurse’s arms with a clumsy reverence, as if he were holding the most precious thing in the world. “Rachel, you did it! You were amazing,” he breathed. “Look at her, she’s the spitting image of you! Especially her eyes.” He held me up for my mother to see, his face glowing with pure joy, waiting for her to share it. But Rachel only gave me a fleeting glance before shutting her eyes. A single tear escaped and traced a path down her temple, so fast you could have missed it. The smile vanished from my father’s face, replaced by a look of helpless confusion. He looked from me to my mother, his voice dropping to a concerned whisper. “Rachel, what is it? Are you in pain?” “Just tired. I need to sleep,” she replied, her voice utterly flat. Dad didn’t press her, but I felt his arms tighten around me. Cradled in his embrace, I looked at the woman on the bed. I knew she wasn’t just tired. Her heart was already dead. In my last life, her love for me was a force of nature. She’d given up a flourishing career to be a full-time mom, to be there for every moment. She told the best bedtime stories, made my baby food into tiny works of art, and would celebrate my smallest milestones as if I’d conquered the world. Her love was an all-consuming fire, a promise to give me everything. Then came that sunny afternoon when I was three. I fell from our apartment balcony and died on impact. That day marked the beginning of my mother’s tragedy. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping. She’d spend entire nights clutching my old clothes, her sobs echoing in the silent apartment. Her world had crumbled into dust. My father and grandmother took her to countless doctors, tried endless medications, but nothing could piece her back together. She withered away, consumed by a grief that finally stole her life. And now, she had returned to the day of my birth, dragging all those memories with her. She was terrified. She was terrified of feeling that soul-crushing grief again, of pouring all her love into me only to watch me walk toward my “destined” end. But Mom, you don’t understand. My death wasn’t an accident. I was pushed. Pushed by the nanny who had seemed so simple and trustworthy. 2 “Waaaaah!” I let out my first cry, pouring every ounce of my strength into it. It was a long, loud wail, thick with desperation and a sense of betrayal. Dad immediately went into a panic, patting my back awkwardly. “Rachel, she must be hungry. Is it time to feed her?” My mother’s body tensed, but she still didn’t turn around. “I don’t have any milk,” she said. “How can that be? The doctor said…” Dad started, but he was cut off by an older, eager voice. “Jacob, let me hold my sweet granddaughter!” Grandma was here. She wore a dark blue quilted jacket, her hair neatly pinned up, her face radiating pure joy. She took me from my father’s arms, cooing “my precious girl,” and “little darling.” Grandma’s embrace was warm and soft, smelling of sunshine and soap. It was a small comfort, and my tiny, tense body relaxed a little. “Oh, listen to you cry! My poor baby must be starving,” she said, her voice full of sympathy. She looked at my mother. “Rachel, dear, you should feed her. That first milk is liquid gold.” My mother slowly turned over. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow as she looked at me, as if I were a complete stranger. “Mom, I told you, I don’t have any.” “Nonsense! What mother doesn’t have milk?” Grandma’s brow furrowed, her tone sharpening. “Or is it that you don’t want to? Let me tell you, Rachel, this child is your own flesh and blood. You can’t just—” “Mom!” Dad cut in, placing a gentle hand on Grandma’s shoulder. “Rachel just gave birth. She’s exhausted. Let’s not pressure her. I’ll go mix up some formula.” He hurried out with a bottle and a can of formula. The room fell silent, the only sound my soft, hiccuping sobs. Grandma sighed, her voice softening as she looked at my mother. “Rachel, I know this is hard. But the baby is innocent. Look at her, she’s so tiny, so helpless.” My mother’s lips parted as if to speak, but she said nothing. She just turned her head back toward the wall. I knew she had milk. She just refused to create that bond with me. Nursing is the most intimate connection between a mother and child. Once it’s forged, it’s nearly impossible to break. She was afraid of a love she couldn’t sever. Soon, Dad returned with a warm bottle. The formula trickled down my throat, and I slowly stopped crying, my hunger overriding everything else. Full and exhausted, I drifted into a hazy sleep. For the rest of our time in the hospital, my mother barely touched me. Feeding, changing, and soothing me were all handled by Dad and Grandma. She would only watch me from a distance, her eyes shadowed with that same sad detachment. Sometimes I’d wake to find her sitting by my bassinet, staring at me with a turbulent, unreadable expression. But the moment our eyes met, or if I made the slightest sound, she would recoil like a startled animal, looking away as if the sight of me physically pained her. Things didn’t get any better when we went home. We lived in a modest two-bedroom apartment. To make sure my mother could rest, Dad set up my crib in Grandma’s room. At night, my cries were always answered by Grandma, never my mother. The door to the master bedroom remained firmly shut. I knew that behind that door, my mother was lying awake, just like me. Her attempt to find peace was just another form of self-torture. A few days later, Grandma’s old back injury flared up, a slipped disc from the strain of caring for me. She was in so much pain she couldn’t get out of bed. As if on cue, Dad was called away on an urgent, week-long business trip. Suddenly, our home was in crisis. Before he left, Dad looked at Mom, his face etched with worry. “Rachel, it’s all on you for a few days. The baby…” “Hire a nanny,” she said, cutting him off before he could finish. Her voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of urgency I couldn’t miss. Dad was taken aback for a second, then nodded. “Okay, that’s a good idea. It’ll be easier on you and Mom. I’ll call an agency right now.” My heart sank like a stone. She was coming. 3 The next afternoon, a woman in her forties appeared at our door. She wore a plain gray coat and had an anxious, eager-to-please smile on her face. “Hello, the agency sent me. My name is Brenda.” It was her. In my last life, this woman, Brenda, had been our nanny for three years. She was efficient and quiet, with a harmless, salt-of-the-earth look. Dad and Grandma sang her praises, and Mom trusted her like family. No one could have ever guessed what a venomous heart beat beneath that unassuming exterior. A tremor of fear shot through my body, and I let out a terrified wail. From her bed, Grandma heard me and called out, “Rachel, is that the nanny? Let her in, the baby’s probably hungry.” My mother stepped aside to let Brenda in, never once looking her in the eye. She gestured vaguely toward Grandma’s room. “The baby and my mother-in-law both need care. She’ll give you the details.” With that, she turned to go back to her room. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Brenda called out, her smile fixed in place. “I’m here for the interview. Don’t you want to see my ID and health certificate? Or ask me any questions?” “If my mother-in-law is happy, that’s all that matters,” Mom said, and shut her bedroom door. Brenda’s smile twitched. A flicker of something dark—annoyance? malice?—crossed her eyes before it was replaced again by her folksy demeanor. She walked into Grandma’s room and expertly took me from her arms, patting my back and humming a tuneless lullaby. “There, there, little one. Auntie Brenda’s got you. No more crying now.” Her voice was gentle, but the moment I was in her arms, I was hit by that familiar, nauseating smell of cheap soap. The terror of my final moments from my past life seized me, and I screamed even louder, thrashing my arms and legs, trying to escape the devil’s embrace. “Oh dear, she’s a bit shy with strangers,” Grandma said apologetically. Brenda just chuckled. “Don’t you worry, ma’am. All babies are like this. We’ll be best friends in a few days. I’ve cared for babies much fussier than this little one.” Her easy confidence soothed Grandma’s concerns. She mixed my formula, tested the temperature on her wrist, and placed the nipple in my mouth. I fought back, pushing it away with my tongue and turning my head, my cries my only form of protest. “Well now,” Brenda said, her voice taking on a strange, theatrical tone of concern. “The little thing won’t even eat. Do you think… do you think she might have some kind of developmental issue?” 4 Brenda’s words were like a shard of poisoned ice, stabbing straight into my infant heart. Fear and despair washed over me, and I started screaming again, a raw, gut-wrenching sound of pure agony this time. But the harder I cried, the wider her smile became. She held me, rocking me gently, murmuring empty words of comfort while her eyes remained as cold and hard as a snake’s. “Go on, cry it out,” she whispered, for my ears only. “You’ll tire yourself out soon enough.” She placed me in my crib and left me there, turning to start dinner in the kitchen. My cries woke Grandma in the next room. “Brenda?” she called out weakly. “What’s wrong with the baby?” Brenda’s head popped out of the kitchen, her voice pitched with just the right amount of helplessness. “I’ve tried everything, ma’am! But her mother won’t hold her, and she just won’t stop crying.” Grandma sighed and fell silent. I cried until my throat was hoarse, until my whole body was trembling and my hands and feet were ice-cold. This couldn’t go on. My tears wouldn’t earn me any sympathy; they only delighted my enemy. I had to find another way. After dinner, Brenda came to feed me again. I was exhausted and starving after my afternoon of hysterics. This time, I didn’t fight. I drank the milk quietly. Brenda seemed surprised but didn’t think much of it, assuming I had simply worn myself out. When I finished, she lifted me to her shoulder to burp me. And that’s when I saw my chance. With my face pressed against her shoulder, I summoned every ounce of strength I had, opened my toothless mouth, and clamped down on the soft flesh of her shoulder. I had no teeth, but I used all my might, grinding my gums into her skin with the same desperate force I used to nurse. “Ah!” Brenda shrieked in pain, her immediate instinct to throw me off her. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact. It would hurt, but it was a risk I had to take. I had to create evidence that she was a danger to me. But just as I felt myself falling, a pair of strong, trembling hands caught me, securing me in a steady grip. My eyes flew open. I was staring up into the frantic, worried face of my father. He was back. He had come home early. “Jacob? What are you doing home?” Grandma called out in surprise. My father’s expression was grim. He held me tightly, his gaze fixed like a laser on the terrified nanny. “The project wrapped up early. I walk in the door and I see you about to drop my daughter! Brenda, what the hell are you doing?!” Brenda’s face went white as a sheet. She clutched her shoulder, stammering. “Mr. Miller, no, it’s a misunderstanding! It was the baby… she bit me, out of nowhere! It hurt so much, my hand just slipped… I didn’t mean to!” She was already tearing up, putting on a masterful performance of a wrongly accused victim. “She bit you?” Dad frowned, looking down at me. I immediately played my part, opening my mouth to give him a gummy, innocent, and completely harmless smile. What kind of damage could a newborn possibly do? Dad was clearly thinking the same thing, and his suspicion of Brenda deepened. “Let me see the wound.” Brenda’s face grew even paler. “It’s nothing, Mr. Miller, really. Just a little red mark, it’s fine…” she stammered, covering her shoulder. Her reluctance only made my father more determined. He took a step forward, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Move your hand.” Terrified, Brenda flinched and dropped her hand. Dad pulled back the collar of her shirt. There on her shoulder was a clear, angry red mark, already starting to purple at the edges. It looked… exactly like a bite mark. A vicious one. How was that possible? I didn’t have any teeth. My heart sank. I knew instantly what had happened. In my past life, Brenda had a strange habit of drinking a specific herbal tea, claiming it was for her “health.” I remembered knocking her cup over once, and she had completely panicked. That tea. It had to be the cause. It must have made her skin hypersensitive, so fragile that the slightest pressure would leave a terrible bruise. She had been planning this all along. 5 Dad’s brow was furrowed in a deep line, the anger in his eyes slowly giving way to confusion. He looked down at me, a helpless infant. How could I have possibly caused an injury like that? Seeing his hesitation, Brenda burst into a flood of tears, sobbing as if her heart would break. “Mr. Miller, I swear I didn’t do it on purpose. This baby… I don’t know what it is, but she’s been hostile to me from the moment I arrived. Nothing I do can soothe her; she just cries and fusses. Just now, after her bottle, I was burping her and she just… she lunged at me, like she was trying to hurt me. It was such a shock, I almost lost my grip.” She punctuated her story with sobs, sneaking glances at my father’s face. “Her grandmother can vouch for me! I’ve been working so hard these past few days. I would never, ever do anything to harm a child!” From her bed, Grandma chimed in. “She’s right, Jacob. Brenda has been wonderful. It’s the baby who’s been unusually difficult. Maybe… maybe she and Brenda just don’t get along.” My father stood there, holding me, trapped in silence. On one side was the seemingly honest, deeply wronged nanny. On the other was his own daughter, who was indeed acting strangely. He couldn’t make sense of it. Just then, the master bedroom door opened again. My mother emerged, drawn out by the argument. Her gaze swept over the scene—Brenda’s tear-streaked face, me in my father’s arms, his own conflicted expression. “What’s going on?” she asked. Dad quickly explained what had happened. Rachel listened without a flicker of emotion on her face. When he was done, she gave Brenda a cool, appraising look. Brenda immediately saw her as a potential ally. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry. Maybe… maybe it’s best if you just let me go. I’m so afraid I might accidentally hurt the baby if I stay.” There it was again: her signature move, feigning retreat to gain ground. Everyone looked at my mother. As the lady of the house and my mother, her word was final. I watched her, my tiny heart pounding in my chest. Who would she believe? In our last life, she had trusted Brenda implicitly. In this one, she treated me with nothing but cold indifference. The answer seemed painfully obvious. My mother was silent for a long moment. Just as I braced myself for her to agree with Grandma and ask Brenda to stay, she said something that stunned everyone. “Since it’s not working out, she can leave.” Her voice was quiet, but it was laced with steel. The room fell silent. Brenda’s tears froze on her cheeks. She stared at my mother, utterly baffled. “Ma’am, you…”

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The moment I knew—truly knew—that Mark was keeping someone on the side came three days after I’d pressured him into getting married. He had insisted on one last night out as a “single man,” a transparent excuse to get drunk enough to force my hand, to make me back down. “Seven years together doesn’t mean you have to get married, you know?” “Do women just shrivel up and die if they don’t get a ring?” And then, the drunken whisper that gutted me: “If I marry Grace… what about Lexi? She’s only twenty-one. She can’t live without me…” After that, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just did exactly what he wanted and called the whole thing off. And then, he had the audacity to show up at my new apartment, banging on the door in the middle of the night. “Grace,” he slurred, his voice wrecked. “I can’t sleep without you.” 1 Mark and I had been a single entity since college. Seven years of navigating life from campus to our careers, building an empire from nothing. We were the couple everyone pointed to—a success story in love and business, a partnership of equals. He was stable, patient, a perfect partner in every way but one: he had absolutely no intention of marrying me. But I dreamed of it. I wanted the dress, the vows, the public declaration. So, at the launch party for his company’s biggest project, I took a breath, gathered all my courage, and proposed to him. In front of everyone we knew, the easy smile on Mark’s face froze. The mask of unflappable composure he wore so well cracked, just for a second. My heart hammered against my ribs as I watched him. These were our friends, people who had watched us grow together for years. If he said no, here and now, the humiliation would be absolute. He just stood there, his face a cold blank. My friend Wendy, bless her heart, saved me. She smoothly took the ring box from my trembling hands and pressed it into Mark’s. “Don’t just stand there,” she hissed playfully. He took it, but said nothing. Gave no answer. The night before our engagement party—a party he’d reluctantly agreed to—Mark insisted on his “last night of freedom.” Around midnight, my phone buzzed with his name. I answered, but it was clearly a pocket dial. I could hear the rustle of fabric, the clink of glasses. I whispered his name, got no response, and was about to hang up when I heard his voice, sharp and laced with contempt. “Who the hell does Grace think she is, pulling a stunt like that? Forcing my hand in public?” “I thought she was different,” he continued, his voice thick with alcohol. “I thought she understood me. Turns out she’s just as basic as every other woman.” I froze, the air leaving my lungs in a silent gasp. Then, another man’s voice chimed in. “But come on, man, Grace is a knockout. She was the queen of Northwood’s campus. And she’s been with you for seven years.” Mark scoffed, a bitter, ugly sound. “And that means I have to marry her? Let me tell you something, after seven years with any woman, you’d be bored too.” “She’s like my buddy now. The feeling’s gone. Honestly, if any of you guys want a shot, I’ll even set it up for you.” “I get it,” another voice slurred, followed by a wave of knowing laughter. “Grace is like a Michelin-star dinner. Amazing at first, but you can’t eat it every night. Sometimes you just want a fucking burger.” The laughter was the soundtrack to Mark’s final, soul-destroying confession. “Besides,” he slurred, his voice dropping. “If I marry Grace, what about Lexi? She’s only twenty-one. She can’t live without me…” It felt like a lightning strike, a physical blow that left my entire body buzzing and hollow. I don’t know when the call ended. But in that moment, with the silence of my apartment pressing in, I knew we were over. That night, I booked a one-way ticket to Carmel. No hesitation. No second thoughts. 2 The next time I saw Mark was at our friend Wendy’s birthday party. I pushed open the door to the private room and the scene hit me like a physical blow. Mark, lounging on a velvet banquette, with a girl nestled in his lap. She was young, her cheeks flushed as she tilted her head back, nibbling on one end of a cracker while Mark leaned in to bite the other. A stupid, intimate game. The boisterous laughter in the room died the second they saw me. The air crackled with awkwardness. Wendy jumped up, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the table with a strained smile. “Grace! You made it! My birthday wouldn’t be complete without you.” I managed a weak smile back, handing her a gift. “Happy birthday, star.” The girl in Mark’s lap turned bright red and tried to stand up, but Mark’s arm tightened around her waist, holding her in place. “Where are you going, little one?” he murmured, his voice a low tease. Her blush deepened as she shot him a playful glare. Mark grinned, a wide, genuine smile full of an adoration I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. He was completely captivated by the girl in his arms. It was a bitter pill to swallow, remembering when I was the girl in his arms, the center of his world. The sight was a knife twisting in my gut. Wendy’s voice was ice. “Mark, that’s enough. Grace is right here.” Sam, one of Mark’s closest friends, spoke up before he could. “Who’s the one out of line here? She’s the one who canceled the engagement without a word and just disappeared. You don’t get to play games like that, Grace. If you didn’t want to marry him, why the hell did you propose?” He was right, in a way. Our engagement party was supposed to have been two weeks ago. The venue was booked, the invitations sent. But on the morning of, I’d left a single, breezy note—The world is too big, and I want to see more of it—and vanished. I’d only just returned to Seattle. To them, I was the selfish one, the villain who broke his heart. Fine. If that’s the role they’d cast for me, I’d play it. I gave a small, cool smile and slipped the engagement ring from my middle finger, placing it gently on the polished wooden table. My eyes met Mark’s, his face an unreadable mask. “Mark,” I said, my voice steady. “The engagement is off. Congratulations, you’re free.” 3 A collective gasp went through the room. “Is she kidding?” “Everyone knows she’s crazy about him. She practically gave up her career to be a stay-at-home girlfriend when Mark’s stomach issues got bad.” “She’s just trying to get a reaction.” “Grace, you’re twenty-eight. Are you really going to throw a fit over some meaningless fling? It’s just how things are.” None of them believed me. Even Mark was looking at me with a flicker of amusement, a condescending smirk playing on his lips as if he were watching a child’s tantrum. I sighed internally. I guess I really had been the doormat for too long. They’d all forgotten who I used to be. The woman who never backed down. “Mark,” I said, my smile never reaching my eyes. “I’m twenty-eight. In your eyes, that obviously can’t compete with a younger model.” The corner of his mouth ticked up in that infuriatingly smug way, daring me to lose control, to become the hysterical, crazy ex-girlfriend he wanted me to be. In the two weeks I was gone, Mark hadn’t called me once. Instead, he’d curated a perfect victim narrative on social media, posting photos of our empty apartment with captions about how quiet and lonely the house was. The comments section was a predictable sea of sympathy from his friends, all rushing to console him. It was almost funny. Men will always have each other’s backs. My smile widened, becoming brighter, sharper. “Don’t worry, I’ll survive without you. And by the way, a mature woman has something called allure. Do you even know what that is?” I leaned forward slightly. “A woman is like a fine wine; she gets better with age. And men? You peak at twenty-five and it’s all downhill from there.” I paused, letting the words hang in the air before delivering the final blow. “And Mark, a little secret? For the past few years… I’ve been faking it. Every single time. I’m done with the performance. I suggest you find a new leading lady.” I savored the look of pure shock on his face, threw him one last dismissive glance, and walked out of the room. 4 It took less than an hour to pack up my life with Mark. One suitcase. Seven years of my life, all packed into a single suitcase. It didn’t matter. I was ready to leave even that behind. I’d just dropped my bags in my new apartment when my best friend, Chloe, called, insisting I come to the grand opening of her new bar. “You’ve been cooped up for too long,” she said. “You need to get out and see the world. There are way better guys out there, and I have a whole tank of them at my place tonight.” At nine, she called again. “Get over here now. Some tech billionaire just showed up and put his card down for the whole night. Free top-shelf everything. Don’t miss this.” That was all the convincing I needed. I stood in front of the mirror, drew a perfect, sharp cat-eye, grabbed my clutch, and headed out. Chloe saw me the second I walked in, her eyes widening. “Damn, girl. Best breakup ever. Do you know how many years it’s been since I’ve seen you look this incredible? Keeping a body like that hidden at home is a criminal waste.” I just smiled. Chloe sat me in a quiet corner booth while she played host. The drinks were light, but I was drinking them one after another. Just as a pleasant buzz started to set in, a tall figure slid into the seat across from me. A long arm reached for my drink. I quickly covered the glass with my hand. “Get your own,” I said without looking up. “There’s a billionaire buying tonight. Don’t be cheap.” A low chuckle, warm and familiar, vibrated through the air. He gently tapped my hand with his finger. “You’re the one who runs off without a word, and you won’t even let me have a sip of your drink? That seems a little unfair, don’t you think?” That voice. My head snapped up, and I found myself staring into a pair of bright, familiar eyes. The man was watching me, a slow, intoxicating smile spreading across his face. My voice caught in my throat. Leo. The college student I met on my soul-searching trip in Carmel. “Leo! You know my Grace?” Chloe appeared at the table, her face alight with surprise. “This is perfect. I was worried about her getting home alone after a few drinks. Would you mind terribly giving her a ride? I’d feel so much better.” I started to protest, but Chloe shot me a look and pinched my arm under the table. She leaned in, whispering, “Grace, he’s the ‘billionaire’ I was talking about. Word is he’s been in a foul mood lately, looking for some heartbreaker who ghosted him. This is the best I can do for you, honey.” Before I could refuse, Leo answered for me. “Of course.” I met his gaze again, his eyes still dancing with that playful smile, and my own smile slowly faded. It was suddenly occurring to me… The heartbreaker he was looking for? There was a very, very good chance it was me.

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The argument with my childhood sweetheart ended with the sharp crack of his hand against my face, in front of everyone. That day, I deleted him from my life. Every contact, every connection, gone. No one could believe it. Aiden and I had grown up together. I’d been in love with him, trailing after him like a shadow for nine years straight. “Why, Zoe? Was it really just because of that one slap?” he asked, his voice hollow with confusion. “Yes,” I said, my own voice heavy with a certainty that felt like stone. “Because of that one slap.” 1. When Aiden’s palm connected with my cheek, for a split second, my brain refused to process what had happened. A dull smack echoed in the sudden silence of the classroom. I stumbled back a step, my head swimming, a sharp ringing in my ears. The spot on my left cheek bloomed with a hot flush, then began to burn like fire. I cupped my face, staring at him in a daze. My Aiden. My childhood sweetheart had just, in the middle of an argument I was having with the new transfer student, publicly slapped me. He seemed to freeze for a moment, the realization of his own action flickering across his face. But the shock was quickly swallowed by a wave of anger and impatience. “Can you just stop causing a scene, Zoe? Go back to your seat!” A few snickers broke the tension in the classroom. Most people just watched silently, eyes wide, taking in the free drama. Vanessa, the transfer student, stood beside Aiden, casually twirling a lock of her perfect chestnut hair. She clicked her tongue. “Oh, Aiden, what did you do that for? Can’t you see your little princess is about to cry?” Her words only fueled his anger. His voice dropped, turning icy. “If you’re going to cry, Zoe, do it at home. This is a school, not a stage for your little princess act.” A toxic cocktail of humiliation, grief, and rage churned inside me. Fat, hot tears finally broke free, spilling down my face. As the laughter of the boys in the class rose around me, I turned and bolted from the room. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay for the next class, couldn’t bear to face any of them for another second. Aiden had always been impatient with me, that was nothing new. But for him to hit me… that was a first. More than that. In all my life, no one had ever laid a hand on me like that. 2. Aiden and I were the textbook definition of childhood sweethearts. We’d known each other since we were three. Our parents were best friends, our apartments right across the hall from each other. And I had loved him for as long as I could remember. In elementary school, I was an easy target for the boys. One was particularly relentless—he’d pull my hair from the seat behind me, stick gum on my chair, and once even set off a tiny firecracker in my desk. I cried to the teacher, and she’d give him a talking-to, but then she’d turn to me with a smile and say, “Oh, he only does that because he likes you.” I didn’t believe it. The boy never stopped, so I went home and told my parents. They were furious, ready to march down to the school and have a word with that teacher. Aiden’s dad, who happened to be visiting, overheard. He called Aiden over and told him it was his job to protect me at school from then on. We were the same age but in different classes. The very next day, during recess, Aiden stormed into my classroom, dragged the boy out into the hall, and laid into him. He’d always been tall for his age, with a fierce streak, and he left that kid and his friends whimpering. Before he left, he shot a warning glare at the other boys. “Anyone messes with Zoe again, you’ll answer to me!” That was the moment. That was when my crush solidified into something unshakable. From then on, I became his little shadow, sticking to his side wherever he went. Aiden hated it at first. He had this whole macho complex and thought hanging out with a “girly-girl” like me wasn’t cool. But I was persistent, trailing behind him, calling his name. After a few years, he softened. The annoyance melted away. I started to notice things—the way his eyes would linger on me a little too long, the way he’d get flustered if our gazes met, his cheeks flushing as he’d stammer and change the subject. One evening, his dad joked, “Since the kids are so close, why don’t we just promise them to each other?” Aiden didn’t say a word, but his hand found mine and squeezed tight. I saw his ears turn bright red. A sweet warmth spread through my chest, and I declared loudly, “Yes! I’m going to marry Aiden!” But when high school started, everything changed. At the end of our first semester of freshman year, we got a new transfer student. Her name was Vanessa. The rumor was her parents’ work had brought her here. She had great grades and a face that was more than pretty—it was stunning. On her first day, she walked in with a cascade of chestnut curls and told the teacher with a cheeky grin, “It’s natural, I swear. The color and the curls.” Then she scanned the room. Her eyes landed on me, paused, and she let out a loud, incredulous laugh. “Oh my God… seriously… are we looking at a real-life Barbie Princess? Ha! Everything’s pink! We’re in high school, honey, are you trying to be cute? It’s a little… cringe.” Every head in the class swiveled to look at me. My face burned. I loved pink. It was my color. Pink backpack, pink tumbler, pink hair clips, pink sweaters, pink phone case. Even my keychains were pink. It wasn’t the first time I’d been teased for it. In grade school, boys called me cutesy or prissy; some girls said I was trying too hard. But most people were kind. More often, girls would tell me I looked adorable, that pink suited me perfectly. But I had never been mocked so openly, so cruelly, in front of everyone. I felt an overwhelming urge to disappear, to sink right through the floor. “Oops, sorry,” Vanessa said, winking playfully when she saw my expression. “I’m just a little blunt. Don’t get upset, Princess.” “That’s enough. It’s your first day, keep it down,” Aiden’s sharp voice cut in. I turned to see him scowling at Vanessa, his face clouded with annoyance. Vanessa just raised an eyebrow, her gaze locking onto him. “Oh? Has the Princess’s knight in shining armor arrived?” “What are you talking about? Are you crazy?” Aiden shot back, slamming his hand on his desk as he stood up. The teacher quickly reprimanded him and found Vanessa a seat. As if by some cruel twist of fate, the only empty desk in the entire classroom was the one directly in front of Aiden. And just like that, they were neighbors. 3. I don’t know when, exactly, they got close. It was subtle at first. One day, the strawberry milk Aiden’s dad always had him bring me in the morning was replaced with plain milk. “I hate plain milk, you know that,” I said, frowning at the carton in my hand. “Come on, you only like the other one because the box is pink,” he said, ruffling my hair. “You’re too old for strawberry milk anyway. Plain is healthier.” Vanessa, holding an identical carton of plain milk, turned around and gave me a half-apologetic smile. “Sorry about that, Little Miss Pink. I prefer plain, so I asked Aiden to grab this kind.” She took a sip. “Besides, strawberry milk is so sweet, it’s sickening. Do all you girly-girls actually like that stuff?” I set my carton down, my eyes narrowing. “Do you enjoy giving everyone nicknames?” She blinked, feigning surprise and a little hurt. “Wow, don’t take it so seriously. It was just a joke. You’re so sensitive…” “Is it me being sensitive, or is it your guilty conscience talking?” “Alright, Zoe,” Aiden cut in, looking exhausted. “Vanessa… doesn’t always think before she speaks. Don’t take it to heart.” That was it. I was so angry my eyes started to sting. I shoved Aiden, hard, and shot a glare at Vanessa. “If you don’t know how to talk, then don’t talk at all!” Aiden stumbled, surprised, but his arms shot out to steady me. “Okay, okay, my fault,” he said instantly. “Don’t be mad. I’ll bring you strawberry milk tomorrow, alright?” I glanced over his shoulder and saw Vanessa’s face. Her smile was gone, replaced by a cold, hard stare fixed directly on me. 4. After that, it was like a switch had been flipped. Vanessa started targeting me. I’d pull out a pack of pink tissues, and she’d exclaim, “Wow! Even your tissues are pink! Are you trying to turn yourself into a life-sized Barbie doll?” During classroom cleaning, I used a wet wipe to clean the handle of my broom. She’d catch the eye of a few boys and smirk. “Here comes the princess act.” When we had to rearrange desks every two weeks, I paused for a moment to catch my breath. Vanessa’s voice would ring out across the room: “The princess is tired! We need some knights over here to help the princess!” And every single time, the group of boys she hung out with would roar with laughter, egging her on as if it were the funniest show on earth. At first, Aiden would try to intervene. “Hey, cut it out,” he’d mutter. But Vanessa would just wave a dismissive hand. “It’s just a joke! Zoe’s always so uptight. I’m just helping her loosen up and get along with everyone.” Aiden would nod thoughtfully. “Yeah, she can be a bit of a princess. Are all girls like that these days?” Vanessa would playfully punch his shoulder. “Hey! Don’t lump me in with them. I’m not like that at all.” Aiden would just smile. A bitter pang went through me. I’d always known Aiden thought I was a little delicate, a little spoiled. Maybe to most guys, liking pink, having a thing for cleanliness, and not being very strong just screamed “princess syndrome.” Finally, one day, I snapped. Over the summer, my family went on a beach vacation, and I came back with a serious tan. It had happened before; my skin would usually return to its normal shade after a couple of weeks indoors, so I didn’t think much of it. A few days after school started, I wore a pink button-up under my school uniform blazer. Vanessa saw me and her voice shot up, dripping with mock horror. “Oh my God! Zoe, you’re wearing that pink with your skin tone? Don’t you think you look ridiculous?” She doubled over, howling with laughter. “I’m sorry, I can’t—you can’t be a princess anymore! Where are there any tan princesses? You look more like… a stray puppy trying to play dress-up! Hahahahaha!” She and a few boys collapsed into a fit of giggles. I saw Aiden crack a smile, clearly amused. In that moment, a tidal wave of shame and helplessness washed over me. Blood rushed to my head, and my hands clenched into fists. Through the sound of their laughter, I grabbed my water bottle, twisted off the cap, and flung its contents directly into her face. Vanessa gasped, sputtering as she frantically wiped at her drenched face. Her makeup—the eyeliner, the foundation—began to streak. “Cough—what the hell is wrong with you? Are you insane?!” “Oh, dear,” I said, mimicking her tone. “Coming to school with a full face of makeup? No wonder you’re not a princess. You’re more like a clown, here to put on a show.” A couple of boys moved to step between us, but Aiden was faster. He snatched the bottle from my hand. “Zoe. Apologize.” He looked down at me, his brow furrowed, his voice cold and hard. My eyes burned. I stared right back at him. “Did you not hear what she called me? She said I looked like a stray puppy.” “That’s a separate issue. You already insulted her back. Now you need to apologize for throwing water on her.” He said it so matter-of-factly. “Admit when you’re wrong. Be good. Stop throwing a tantrum.” “Just apologize,” he pressed on. “Vanessa won’t hold it against you.” A cold laugh escaped my lips. “Go to hell.” Aiden’s eyes widened in shock. Then, his arm swung back, and he slapped me across the face. 5. I didn’t go back to class that day. I went straight home. I tore through my room like a hurricane, pulling books off shelves, yanking clothes from my closet, ransacking storage bins. I found a large cardboard box and started filling it, throwing in every single thing Aiden had ever given me, from childhood trinkets to recent gifts. When the box was overflowing, I made one last sweep to ensure I hadn’t missed anything. Then I hauled it downstairs and dumped the entire collection of our shared history into the communal dumpster. My parents weren’t home yet, so I called my mom. “Hey, sweetie. What’s up?” “Mom,” I said, my voice flat. “When you get home, I need you to go tell Aiden’s parents that he and I are done. And one more thing.” My voice was ice. “From this day forward, Aiden is never, ever to set foot in our house again. Tell him to get lost and stay lost.” When my mom got home, her eyes went wide with a mixture of shock and fury as she saw the red handprint blooming on my cheek. I told her everything that had been happening for the past few months. Listening, I could see a vein throbbing in her temple. Without a word, she spun around and marched across the hall, banging on Aiden’s door. His mom was confused at first, but my mother laid it all out, sparing no detail: how hard Aiden had slapped me, how he’d stood by while the new girl relentlessly bullied me, and how, in the end, he had chosen to stand in front of that girl and defend her. Aiden’s mom’s face cycled through shades of white and green. The friendship our two families had cherished for over a decade was fracturing right before her eyes, because of me. But my own mother didn’t blame me for a second. She just wrapped her arms around me, her voice soft but firm. “No one gets to hurt my Zoe. Whatever you decide to do, your father and I are behind you one hundred percent.” The dam of suppressed hurt and grief finally broke. My nose stung, and I buried my face in her shoulder and sobbed. 6. When Aiden got home that night, he must have seen the discarded contents of the box in the dumpster. He came to our door, his knocking sharp and angry. “Zoe! Come out here! We need to talk.” I opened the door. He stood there, his face a mask of cold fury. “Why did you throw away everything I ever gave you?” “What’s it to you?” I asked, my gaze as cold as his. The mark from the morning’s slap was still vivid on my face. He hadn’t held back. My cheek was swollen and purplish, the outline of his fingers darker now than it had been hours ago. His expression shifted, the anger dissolving as he stared at the bruise. “I… I didn’t realize it was that bad,” he stammered. He reached out to touch my face, but I flinched back, my expression unchanging. I was rarely injured, but in the past, even the smallest scrape would have me running to him with teary eyes, demanding he kiss it better. I was never really afraid of pain; I just liked the excuse to be coddled by the boy I loved. And Aiden, for all his talk about me being delicate and prissy, secretly loved being needed by me. Not anymore. I was done playing that part. He’d never seen me this cold, this distant. He looked at me with disbelief. “I didn’t mean to, Zoe. It’s just… you swore at me, and I got angry…” I cut him off. “Since you’re here, let’s get this straight. From today on, we’re strangers.” “I want you to call me by my full name. If you see me at school, don’t talk to me. And don’t you ever come knocking on my door again.” I started to close the door. He shot his hand out, grabbing my wrist. His eyes bored into mine, his expression morphing from guilt to confused rage. “Is it really that serious, Zoe? If you’re mad about the slap, I’ll apologize. But don’t you think you’re being a little extreme?” He tightened his grip. “Have you thought about what you’ll do when you regret this?” “I won’t regret it.” “Why?” he demanded, his voice strained. “Just because I accidentally slapped you?”

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The year I went completely off the rails, I played the part of a girl from the wrong side of the tracks and became the kept woman of the Manhattan tycoon, Cole Blackwood. In public, he was glacial. In private, a storm of a man, possessive and insatiable. I developed a taste for it. For three wild months, I let myself drown in him. Then, the novelty wore off. Just as I was about to call it quits, I overheard someone warning him: “You need to be careful with Ava. The last thing you want is to get her pregnant. Those true-believer types, the ones who think it’s a fairytale, are the hardest to get rid of.” Cole’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Enough money solves any problem.” He paused. “Besides, the girl’s in the thick of it. Incredibly clingy. There’s no rush.” Clingy? Was he talking about me? That was funny. Because I seemed to recall him, drunk and wrecked, weeping and begging me never to leave him. And I happened to have recorded the whole thing.

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My husband, Cole, went bankrupt. To keep from dragging me down with him, he tried to kill himself, over and over again. For five years, I gutted fish at the market by day and scavenged for recyclables by night, pregnant and trying to pay off his debts. One evening, as I was resting on a curb after clearing out a wealthy neighborhood’s recycling bins, I heard a baby’s cry from within my own womb. 【Mommy, stop picking up trash to support Daddy. He’s a huge liar! The mansion right behind you is his house. He’s the heir to the richest family in the city!】 【After you give birth, he’s going to say you failed his ‘poverty test.’ He’ll take me and have you thrown out of the hospital to freeze to death on the street!】 I sat there for a long time, my hand on my belly. Then I took out my phone and searched for the city’s wealthiest family. Under the “Family” section, a familiar face stared back at me. Cole’s. Son of the city’s richest man. He had been playing me for a fool for five long years. But what he didn’t know was that I was born with a unique gift. A blood curse. Any lie he told would come true within a month. 1 When I got back to our rundown apartment, Cole opened the door from the inside. He looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot, as if he were carrying the weight of the world. Seeing my blank expression, he pulled me into a tight hug, burying his face in my neck. “Honey, you’ve worked so hard.” “I managed to get some day labor at a construction site today. Made eighty bucks.” His gentle expression seemed so real, but I heard my baby’s indignant voice in my head. 【That jerk just climbed out of someone else’s bed, and now he’s pretending he was working!】 Instead of comforting him like I usually did, I found myself asking, “Did you go to a public bath? You smell… nice.” He smelled of a crisp, expensive cologne, not the sweat of a man who’d been hauling bricks all day. I had been so stupid, I’d never noticed before. Now, the scent just made my stomach churn. Cole’s body tensed. He looked up, his eyes welling with tears. “Honey, I’m so tired. Sometimes I just want to end it all. But I can’t bear to leave you and the baby.” Every time he said that, my heart would break. I would have done anything to earn more money to pay off his debts. I did the laundry. I cooked the meals. I paid the bills. When he complained that condoms were too expensive, I offered to get an IUD. He was probably laughing at how pathetic I was, even then. When he proposed, he had gotten down on one knee and promised me, “Stella, I will cherish you for the rest of my life. I’ll work hard so you’ll never have to suffer.” Not a single word of it had been true. Cole. All you’ve ever given me is pain and betrayal. I looked at his face, at his carefully crafted expression of devotion, and said calmly, “Then let’s just stop. We owe so much, we’ll never pay it back in a lifetime.” “The three of us can just die together. At least we’ll have each other on the other side.” Cole froze, a flicker of panic in his eyes. “Honey, what are you talking about? I have to live, for you and the baby!” He had no intention of dying. This whole charade was just a way to manipulate me into working myself to the bone for him. I fought back the nausea and reached out, patting his back reassuringly. My fingers brushed against his shirt. The fabric was soft and fine, definitely not something from a discount store. Cole, thinking he had fooled me again, let out a sigh of relief and was about to launch into another sentimental speech. The flimsy door was kicked open. A glamorous woman with a group of burly men stormed in. “Cole, I know you got paid today. Stop playing dead!” This was Melissa, the “debt collector” Cole had told me about. 【Mommy, that’s Daddy’s adopted sister. They’re both in on it, playing you for a fool!】 A sharp pain lanced through my chest. I watched as the men ransacked our tiny apartment, grabbing the few hundred dollars I had earned that day from the market and from collecting cans. The woman wrinkled her nose in disgust and threw the money on the floor. “It stinks of fish. Your wife is disgusting.” She pointed the toe of her expensive high-heeled shoe at me. “Fishmonger. Lick my shoe clean. If you do a good job, I might let you off the hook for a little bit.” Cole sighed. “Honey, I’m so sorry you have to go through this.” When I didn’t move, one of the men grabbed my hair and slammed my face to the ground. Tears streamed down my face, not from weakness, but from the searing pain of pure hatred. Melissa seemed to lose interest. “Forget it,” she scoffed. “You’ll just get my shoe dirty.” Cole quickly pushed me into the bedroom and locked the door. “Honey, it’s my fault you’re in this mess. Let me deal with them.” It was quiet for a moment, and then I heard a woman’s voice, deliberately lowered. It was Melissa, her voice a seductive purr. “If Stella finds out we’ve been lying to her this whole time, you know how stubborn she is. Do you think she’ll try to get revenge?” Cole’s voice was laced with contempt. “She wouldn’t dare. She’s madly in love with me. She’d do anything for me. We made a bet to see how long she’d last, and it’s been almost five years. She’s still gutting fish and picking up trash like a fool.” Melissa giggled. “It was just a stupid game, a bet to see if you could pretend to be poor with the first person you met until they figured it out.” “You’re a master, Cole. You’ve played the part so well. You’ve got Stella trained like a dog.” “Remember that time we went to the Maldives? You pretended you’d been kidnapped by debt collectors, and she went crazy looking for you. She spent days at a temple, praying for your safety.” We met when Cole saved me from being harassed at a restaurant. But from the very beginning, it was all a lie. I had prayed so hard for him, my forehead bruised from bowing, begging the heavens to keep him safe. And it was all just a game to him. “So what’s the plan? Are you really going to let her pay off your ‘debt’? I’m getting tired of this act.” Cole’s voice was sickeningly sweet. “You have trouble conceiving, you know that. We’ll wait until she has the baby, I’ll have it legally registered under your name, and then I’ll find a way to get rid of her.” My baby’s tearful voice echoed in my mind. 【Mommy, I’ll be a good baby. I don’t want that bad woman to raise me!】 My heart felt like it had been plunged into a vat of ice. Tears streamed down my face, but I was smiling, a silent, mirthless smile. Cole didn’t know it, but his good days were numbered. Three days. That’s all I needed. Three days by his side, and my blood curse would make his lies a reality. I was going to watch him lose everything. The next morning, Cole saw that I wasn’t getting ready for the market. “Honey, are you too tired?” he asked, his voice filled with fake concern. “Don’t go in today. Just rest.” I dodged his outstretched hand. “I’m going to the hospital to see Mrs. Gable.” After my parents died in a car crash, I was sent to an orphanage. Mrs. Gable, the director, had taken care of me, especially when I was sick. She was the only family I had left. For five years, I had been so consumed with paying Cole’s debts that I hadn’t even visited her once. Yesterday, one of the staff members had called. Mrs. Gable had a massive heart attack and needed emergency surgery. Cole took the earliest bus with me to the hospital, playing the part of the perfect, caring husband. Mrs. Gable took my hand and slipped a jade bracelet onto my wrist. “Stella, my dear, you’re so thin! What have you been doing to yourself?” “This bracelet has been in my family for generations. You’re like a granddaughter to me. If I don’t make it, I want you to have this to remember me by.” Before I could even say a few words, a doctor called me out of the room. The surgery was going to cost fifty thousand dollars. My hands trembling, I grabbed Cole’s arm. “The bank card I gave you—that’s for next month’s payment. Give it to me. I’ll earn it back, I promise!” Cole’s expression froze. “Honey… they took the card yesterday…” Tears welled in his eyes. “It’s all my fault. I’m so useless. I can’t save her.” 【Mommy, he’s lying! He gave the money to Melissa to buy a new handbag!】 I pulled my hand away from his. The last shred of hope I had been clinging to vanished. Even now, he was still acting. The doctor looked at my malnourished frame and sighed. “We need to have blood on standby for the surgery. If you have a rare blood type, we can waive some of the fees. You can figure out the rest later.” I grabbed onto that lifeline. Without a second thought, I was on the gurney, a needle in my arm. 200cc, 600cc… By the time they pulled the needle out, I was too weak to move. In a semi-conscious haze, I thought I heard Melissa’s high-pitched giggle. I must be hallucinating from the blood loss. I forced my eyes open and saw Cole and Melissa in the room across the hall. On the table between them were several bags of blood. My name, and Mrs. Gable’s, were written on the labels. Melissa pouted. “Cole, it’s such a waste to give this rare blood to that old woman. Why don’t we feed it to my pet snake?” They had stolen the blood that was meant to save Mrs. Gable’s life… to feed a snake. I wanted to storm in there and tear them apart, but my body wouldn’t move. Tears were the only thing I could manage. This was the man I had loved for five years. He was treating my life, and Mrs. Gable’s, like a joke. Melissa threw her arms around Cole. “Oh, Cole, you’re so good to me.” “It’s a good thing this hospital is owned by your family. You can do whatever you want here.” Cole smiled indulgently. “Anything for you, my dear. Without this blood, that old woman won’t make it off the operating table. It’s just her bad luck.”

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