Category: English

I took a personal day for Christmas, boarding a three-hour train to give my boyfriend a surprise. The second I stepped out of the rideshare, a heavy rain broke. I dashed into a corner store to buy an umbrella. While I was looking at the selection, a girl nearby was chatting with her friend about her own boyfriend. “He is such a stage-five clinger, seriously. If I don’t text him back for an hour, I get ninety-nine new messages.” “And today, of all days, he whined and practically demanded I come down to the studio to keep him company.” “I’m only going because the Christmas gift he promised is supposedly epic.” Her friend chuckled. “You landed a high-caliber guy like Graham, you should count your blessings.” I froze. My boyfriend was also named Graham. And, his recording studio was just around the corner. 1 As if possessed, I pulled out my phone and sent him a message. Graham, it’s Christmas night. Are you really going to work late? No reply. The girl beside me looped her arm through her friend’s and headed to the checkout. She waved her phone. “Look. It’s been five minutes, and he’s already asking if I’ve arrived.” Laughing with her friend, she reached toward the shelf near the counter—the one stocked with contraceptives. Her friend gave her a suggestive elbow nudge. “Two boxes? Vivian, you and Graham must be really going at it. And here I thought you were complaining about him being clingy, when really you were just bragging.” The girl, Vivian, swatted her friend playfully. “Hey, if I don’t wear him out, who knows what other little vixen will?” Other customers in the store glanced over, a few of them stifling smiles. Vivian didn’t seem to care, tossing her long, dark waves as she walked out with her friend. I paid for my umbrella and followed them out. At this point, I was still clinging to the cold comfort of coincidence: Graham is a common name. It was a December winter, but this girl, Vivian, was wearing a crop top under her jacket and had bare legs. She looked barely twenty, radiating an effortless, reckless kind of sunshine. A stark contrast to me, the woman with every single button of her shirt done up to the throat. On the sidewalk, Vivian’s friend hailed a cab and waved goodbye. Vivian started humming, continuing down the street. At every intersection, our paths remained the same. When I finally registered the tune she was humming, my steps slowed involuntarily. It was Graham’s new track, a song he’d personally arranged and recorded, which had only been released to the public today. Even I had only heard a few snatches of the chorus during a video call. Vivian lifted her phone and dialed. “Hey, Graham, I’m almost there. Come meet me at the door?” Whatever he said on the other end, she responded with a playful, mock-offended huff. “I’m wearing tons of layers! I’m not cold at all, you big baby. If you don’t believe me, come check for yourself.” “You can even slip your hand under my coat, past my shirt, and down to my…” I scanned my own phone screen. Still nothing. A cold draft snaked its way up my sleeve, and I shivered, clutching my jacket tighter. My finger hovered over the call button. I pressed it. A mechanical, cold female voice replied, “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable.” I understood immediately: Do Not Disturb mode. He’d told me he was too busy with work this year, and that once he was in the studio, he couldn’t pick up. Not being able to reach him wasn’t new. “Graham!” Vivian suddenly ran forward a few steps and threw herself into a man’s arms. I raised my umbrella slightly and looked ahead. In that single, sharp moment, I was pinned to the spot. The man, holding his own umbrella, held Vivian tight, then sighed, rubbing her hair with a helpless, yet utterly familiar tenderness. “You, I swear.” He had the face I had etched into my bones. At five, we walked hand-in-hand from kindergarten back to the same apartment complex. He gave me the chocolate he’d kept hidden all day. “Delaney, from now on, all my candy is yours.” At fifteen, when first love bloomed, he awkwardly told me to throw away the notes the boys put in my locker. “Those guys have agendas. I’m the only one who’s good to you.” At nineteen, when we started dating long distance, he took an overnight Amtrak just to see me, the gift bags leaving red welts on his hands. At twenty-three, he came alone to the city to start his company. He cooked for me in his cramped, humid sublet, coughing from the smoke, but still telling me to stand back. “Honey, I’m putting you in a hotel tonight. This place is too damp. You won’t sleep well.” Last month, he handed me a crisp, new set of documents. “Wife, as soon as the house is renovated, we’ll go down to the courthouse and make it official.” Twenty-eight years. Childhood sweethearts. We had grown into a co-dependent, interlocked tree. But in this second. Everything turned to ash. 2 The rain hammered the umbrella, drip-drop, drip-drop. Only after they turned, locked in an embrace, and walked away, did the numbness begin to recede. My phone screen flickered. It was Graham. Busy. Can’t take the call. The sudden downpour had soaked my shoes. The wet, icy sensation spread from my feet, and I felt as though my legs had been encased in concrete, stiff and immovable. I pulled my jacket tighter. With trembling hands, I dialed again. Still busy. Graham sent a new text. I said I was busy. Stop blowing up my phone. I bit down on my lip, typing word by word. Busy working, or busy cheating? Just as I was about to hit send, a shout came from behind. “Look out!” I couldn’t react in time. A delivery cyclist, skidding on the wet pavement, struck me. The world spun. I slammed onto the slick ground, landing heavily on my side. The cold, sharp dampness seeped through my clothes instantly. The pain, a slow-motion throb, climbed from my knee to my heart. I slowly got back up, wiping the rain and a strange wetness from my face. The delivery driver, looking equally rough, rushed over. “Are you okay?” Seeing his own bedraggled state, I shook my head. “I’m fine.” My phone screen had shattered, leaving my unsent question with no follow-up. I found a nearby hotel and took a scalding hot shower. Downstairs, I bought a cheap new phone and swapped my SIM card. Graham had sent one new message. Something came up, so no video chat tonight. Talk tomorrow, be good. I blinked my dry eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed in a daze. I simply could not understand. Why? Why would Graham cheat? And the girl—did she know she was the other woman? A thought struck me. I opened Instagram. Despite not knowing her full name, I quickly found her in the comments section of Graham’s latest post. Her profile picture was taken in Graham’s room. The curtains behind her were the ones I’d spent three hours at the fabric store agonizing over. Graham often pulled all-nighters working, and worried he’d have trouble sleeping during the day due to light sensitivity, I had specifically asked the tailor to double-line them. Vivian was a fashion influencer with a decent following. I scrolled down. The first post involving Graham appeared in June. Vivian was clutching a man’s arm in front of a comedy club. The caption: First date with a certain someone. So happy! That was the same comedy club I had taken Graham to—I thought he needed a break from work stress and a good stand-up show. He had promised me, “Delaney, I’ll only go to these things with you. That way, all the really happy memories will belong only to us.” In July, Vivian and Graham were on a beach vacation. It was my birthday that month, a day Graham had told me he was out of town on a work trip. But in her post, she was talking about challenging herself to “first-time surfing” with him. A deep chill settled over me. Graham’s face wasn’t clearly visible in any of the photos, but I couldn’t lie to myself or ignore the familiar, recurring details. I opened a private message to Vivian. Hi. Do you know Graham has a serious girlfriend? Did he lie to you and say he was single? Less than half an hour later, Vivian posted a new story. The dress in the photo looked like a crisp white coat, but its length barely covered her bottom. Tonight’s battle uniform. Gave a sneak peek to a certain someone, and he is obsessed. I clenched my jaw, shaking from the cold that was now deep inside me. Just last month, I’d come home from work and excitedly jumped into Graham’s arms. He had gently pushed me away. He frowned. “Honey, you smell like hospital disinfectant.” Vivian’s reply finally landed in my DMs. Dr. Delaney. I know who you are. It’s an open market, all’s fair in love and war. Winner takes all. And right now, it looks like you lost. 3 I forced a wry, mocking smile onto my face. The night after high school graduation, Graham had called me to the park near our homes. In the moonlight, his ears red, he produced a handwritten promise. “Graham promises that Delaney will always be number one to him.” His eyes had been bright, almost frighteningly so. “Delaney, please, be with me.” Years of long-distance through college. Everyone doubted us, but we never drifted apart. When he chose to start his own business, he couldn’t tell his parents how hard it was. I used my fellowship money and student stipends to help cover his living expenses. From the cramped, leaky sublet to the upscale loft, and finally, the paid-off house meant to be our marital home. He said, “As soon as you finish your residency, you can move here to be with me.” Only a few months left. Happiness was on the very doorstep. But today, he let a stranger declare me the loser. Vivian sent another DM. It was a video, secretly recorded. Graham’s eyes looked hazy, like he’d been drinking. Vivian giggled. “Graham, what is your girlfriend like, anyway?” The bar music was loud, but it didn’t completely drown out his reply. “Don’t even mention her. She’s the same every single day.” “Honestly, she’s pretty boring.” He looked directly at the camera with the familiar, gentle gaze I knew so well. “What new trouble should we get into tonight?” The camera shook, and the sound of an intimate kiss followed. The phone screen went dark, reflecting my own pale face. The images in my head made me nauseous. Rushing to the bathroom, I dry-heaved a few times, then booked a train ticket back home. While packing, a sharp pain in my lower right abdomen came in waves, leaving my forehead slick with sweat. Suspecting acute appendicitis, I hailed a cab straight to the ER. It was flu season, and the waiting room was so crowded people were sitting on the floor. I crouched outside the clinic, unable to stand up straight from the pain. At three in the morning, I finally got the ultrasound report. The doctor told me, “The symptoms and scan confirm acute appendicitis. We should perform surgery as soon as possible.” “Is your family not here?” Just then, Graham’s number flashed on my phone. I disconnected the call. He called back again, relentlessly. In the quiet consulting room, the ringing was impossible to ignore. I answered. His voice was frantic, almost panicked. “A friend of mine cut her foot pretty badly on a broken vase. What should I do?” In the background, I could hear Vivian’s low, whining sobs. If I hadn’t seen them, I would have been naive enough to assume it was a studio employee. The last of my warmth drained away. I spoke in an icy tone. “Deal with it however you see fit.” “Delaney!” “You’re a doctor! Listen to yourself. What kind of heartless thing is that to say?!” Graham’s enraged shout echoed through the phone. I curled into a ball, struggling to suppress the spasm of pain. I thought of the glass vase we had picked out together at the home goods store. We had planned to take it to the new house. Now, it must be completely shattered. Graham continued. “I didn’t want to bother anyone in the middle of the night, so I called you. She’s crying from the pain. Just tell me what to do!” My eyes felt hot and scratchy, but I tilted my head back, forcing the stinging liquid back down my throat and nose. The doctor opposite me produced the surgical consent form. “If no family is coming, you can sign yourself.” Graham was silent for a few seconds. “Wait… are you at the hospital?” Without waiting for my answer, he stated with certainty, “You’re on a night shift, aren’t you?” “If you’re not sleeping, then is it really that difficult to answer a simple question? What are you trying to prove with this childish tantrum?!” A tear finally broke free and fell. I let out a small, hollow laugh. “You’re right.” “I am throwing a childish tantrum.” “Graham, we’re finished. It’s over.”

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Five years into our marriage, my husband suddenly passed away from a severe asthma attack, leaving me and our son alone in the world. Friends pitied me for becoming a widow so young. My parents begged me to move on, to find a new father for my son. I refused. I was adamant about honoring his memory, staying single to mourn the love of my life. But on the third anniversary of his death, I accidentally overheard my father-in-law screaming at my brother-in-law in the study: “The one with asthma was your brother! The one who died was your brother! Is it really worth it? Faking your own death, deceiving your wife and child just to take care of your sister-in-law?” “For three years, Elara has mourned you. She’s raised Leo all by herself. You gave your niece a father figure, sure, but have you ever thought about the fact that from the day you ‘died,’ Leo lost his dad?” In that moment, the blood in my veins turned to ice. It hit me like a freight train. The man who died three years ago wasn’t my husband, Caleb. It was his identical twin brother, Connor. My three years of grieving, of loyalty, of pain… it was all a joke. That night, I picked up the phone and called my parents. “Mom, Dad? I’m ready. I’ll marry Mason.” 1 After my husband allegedly died from that asthma attack, my in-laws looked at me with guilt-ridden eyes every single day. They tiptoed around me, terrified I wouldn’t be able to handle the grief, afraid I’d take their grandson and remarry, cutting off their family line. My own parents, on the other hand, kept pushing me to date. They said I couldn’t play the grieving widow forever, that they had great guys to set me up with. I was stubborn as a mule. I dug my heels in. I told my in-laws to rest easy—I wouldn’t let my son call another man “Daddy.” For three years, no matter how hard or lonely it got, I grit my teeth and survived. Until that third anniversary. I was walking past the study when I heard my father-in-law’s voice booming at my brother-in-law: “Caleb, your brother was the one born with asthma! He’s the one who passed! Why did you have to stage this fake death and steal his identity?” Caleb? That was my husband’s name. Fake death? I froze in the hallway, my brain unable to process the words. Then, I heard the voice I had yearned for in my dreams: “Dad, Elara was pregnant back then. The shock would have destroyed her. Besides, I gave her a son. She won’t be lonely in her old age. That’s enough.” “From that day on, I decided I had to step up and take care of Connor’s wife and daughter. As for the identity of ‘Caleb’… let him stay buried.” I couldn’t listen anymore. My hands were shaking, and my head felt like it was being split open by an axe. So, my husband wasn’t dead. His twin brother was. The man I loved more than anything had faked his death and abandoned me and our son, just to play house with another woman. Tears finally broke through the dam. Caleb had once pulled me out of the darkest time of my life. When I was at rock bottom, he didn’t turn away. He got down on one knee and promised to cherish me forever. After the wedding, he treated me like gold. Everyone said I was the luckiest woman in town. That’s why, when he “died,” I decided to dedicate my life to his memory. Now, I felt like the world’s biggest fool. Caleb was always healthy. He never even caught a cold. How could he have died of asthma? It was all an act. He had been acting for three years, pretending to be his brother to take care of his “sister-in-law”—his high school sweetheart. But what about me? What about our son? Were we nothing? I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream and ran back to my room. 2 Back in the bedroom, the noise woke my son. He sat up, rubbing his sleepy eyes. I looked at his face—a miniature copy of Caleb’s—and my heart shattered. How could a father be so cruel? How could he let his own child grow up thinking his dad was dead? seeing the devastation on my face, my son’s expression turned to pure worry. “Mommy? Is Daddy pretending he doesn’t know you again?” My heart stopped. I suddenly remembered all the times “Connor” (Caleb in disguise) came over. Leo would run to him, calling him “Daddy.” Every time, I would hush him. I’d tell him, “No, honey, that’s Uncle Connor. Daddy is in heaven.” I thought he was just a grieving child who couldn’t tell the identical twins apart. I was so wrong. Children see everything. He knew. He always knew that was his dad. He just didn’t understand why his dad stopped loving him overnight. It all made sense now. Why “Uncle Connor” was so good to us. The groceries, the secret cash envelopes, the toys. But whenever Leo called him “Daddy,” he would get strict. He would shut it down immediately. Neighbors whispered that he was the best brother-in-law on earth. Better than most real fathers. I had been so grateful. I kept a tally of his kindness in my heart, planning to repay him one day. Now, the gratitude tasted like bile. He was the father. Being good to his son was the bare minimum. Did he feel no shame? I swallowed the bitterness. The Caleb I loved was dead. He buried himself. My three-year vigil was over. I took a deep breath and looked at my son. “Leo, if Mommy wanted to get married again… if I found you a new daddy… would you be okay with that?” “Mommy, I don’t know why Daddy won’t talk to me. But if you don’t want him anymore, I don’t want him either. I go where you go. If he won’t protect you, I will!” He wrapped his small arms around my neck, patting my back with his little hand. The tears I was holding back finally fell. “Okay,” I whispered. “It’s a deal.” I hugged him tight, then dialed my parents. The moment they picked up, my mom started her usual lecture. “Elara, honey, Mason has asked us about you a dozen times. You grew up together. He’s a Colonel in the Air Force now, a good man. Why are you so stubborn?” I cut her off. “Mom, Dad. I’ve thought it through. I’ll marry him.” Silence for five seconds. Then, eruption. “Really? Oh, thank God! We’ll call him right now. We’ll start planning the wedding! Mason promised he’d treat Leo like his own flesh and blood. You just come home and be happy.” I could hear the relief in their voices. I had worried them sick for three years. Not anymore. 3 The next morning, I took Leo downstairs for breakfast. Caleb was there, acting the part of the doting uncle. He was bustling around, serving his “sister-in-law” Sarah and her daughter, looking for all the world like a happy family man. Before I knew the truth, I used to envy Sarah. I used to think, If Caleb were alive, he’d treat me like that. Now, the scene just made me sick. Caleb noticed my pale face and placed a slice of bacon on my plate, then one on Leo’s. “Elara, eat up. Even if you don’t do it for yourself, do it for my nephew. Caleb is gone, you have to stay strong.” He said it so naturally. Talking about himself in the third person like a sociopath. “Uncle Connor, I can put meat on Mommy’s plate!” Leo suddenly spoke up, moving the bacon with his fork. Caleb flinched. His hand jerked, knocking over his coffee mug. Brown liquid splashed everywhere. It was the first time Leo had ever voluntarily called him “Uncle.” Before today, no matter how much we corrected him, Leo insisted on calling him Daddy. The word “Uncle” hit Caleb like a physical blow. “Leo… you… you always used to call me Daddy. Why the change?” He tried to keep his voice steady, forcing a smile. Leo looked him dead in the eye. “Uncle Connor, I was little before. I got confused. But I’m big now. I know my Daddy died three years ago. Don’t worry, I won’t make that mistake again.” Caleb stared at him, mouth slightly open, unable to find a single word. Finally, he managed a dry, choked laugh. “Is that right? Well… good. That’s good.” But he couldn’t eat. He kept glancing at us, his eyes darting between my face and Leo’s, searching for something. We ignored him. We ate our breakfast in silence. The silence made him anxious. Finally, he couldn’t take it. “Even though I’m not Leo’s dad, I love him like my own. We’re family. If you ever need help, Elara, you come to me. Don’t carry the burden alone.” I forced a smile. It didn’t reach my eyes. Was he panicking because his son finally rejected him? He chose this. He chose to “die.” I put down my fork, wiped Leo’s mouth, and stood up. I didn’t thank him for the food. instead, I looked him straight in the eye. “You’re right, Uncle Connor. But no matter how close we are, you aren’t his father. Leo and I… we’ll build our own life just fine.” 4 The next day, I went to the department store. I bought Leo the expensive chocolates he’d been begging for. Then, I walked into the formal wear section. I pointed to a beautiful, soft ivory cocktail dress. “I’d like to try that on.” Stepping out of the fitting room, I looked in the mirror. I looked younger. The grey cast of grief was gone. The salesgirl clasped her hands. “It’s for a wedding, isn’t it? You look stunning. Most people buy the darker colors, but this… you glow in this.” I smiled, but then I took it off. “Actually, pack up the blue one. The silk one.” Widows don’t usually wear bright colors. But brides do. As I walked out of the store, loaded with bags, I literally bumped into Caleb. He was carrying shopping bags for Sarah. He froze. Then, he put on his “concerned brother-in-law” mask. “Elara? What are you doing out? You bought… a lot.” Since his “death,” I barely left the house. I certainly didn’t go on shopping sprees. I muttered a vague excuse. I didn’t want to talk to him. But as I brushed past him, the bag shifted. The silk dress peeked out. It was clearly a dress for a special occasion. A celebratory dress. When we got married, we bought my dress at this exact store. He stood there on the sidewalk, staring at the bag, long after I had walked away. Sarah had to tug on his sleeve to snap him out of it.

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My billionaire husband never touches me. But I’m pregnant. To avoid him discovering the green hat I presumably forced on his head, I filed for divorce and ran to another state to book an abortion. Later, he tore my dress apart. His kisses fell like rain, his tone dark and dangerous. “Don’t cry. I haven’t even started yet.” “Be good. Once I become your first love, you won’t want to leave.” 1 I stared at the two pink lines on the pregnancy test. My vision went black. I’d taken a dozen tests, and the result was always the same. But I hadn’t slept with my husband. How was I pregnant? I replayed the last few months in my head. I hadn’t even touched a male dog, let alone a man! Wait. Was it my birthday? The night I got blackout drunk? That night, Declan promised he’d be there. But I waited until midnight, and he never showed. Declan Sterling was forced to marry me. He disdained touching me. He was always cold, maintaining a polite, icy distance. I had hoped my birthday would bridge the gap. But he ghosted me. He didn’t answer my calls. My best friend, seeing me heartbroken, joked she’d hire a guy to keep me company. I drank too much. The next morning was a blur. I thought the soreness in my body was from falling down the stairs. I didn’t think I’d actually slept with someone! Suddenly. The sound of an engine cut through the silence. Declan was home. Oh god. How was I going to explain this accidental infidelity? 2 I frantically swept all the pregnancy tests into the trash can. I rushed downstairs. Declan looked exhausted, carrying the chill of the night air. I noticed a smear of blood on his white dress shirt and gasped, stepping forward. “You’re hurt?” I tried to check him. Declan dodged my hand, his voice cold. “Don’t touch me.” I almost forgot. He hated my touch. I retracted my hand, feeling the sting of rejection. I was about to get the first aid kit when he spoke. “It’s not my blood. It’s from a subordinate.” “He sold me out. I handled it. He’s on a one-way trip to nowhere.” “Traitors deserve to die, don’t you agree?” “…” I hid my trembling fingers behind my back, my throat tight. They said Declan Sterling was ruthless in the business world, a man who burned bridges to build empires. If he knew about the green light flashing over his head… My fate would probably be worse than that subordinate’s. Declan studied me, frowning. “You look pale. Did the blood scare you? I’m going to shower.” He started up the stairs. I looked at his tall, imposing back. I couldn’t help but ask: “Declan, why didn’t you come to my birthday?” “…” Declan stopped, his back to me. He didn’t answer for several seconds. It seemed like a difficult question. Actually, I knew. That day, his childhood sweetheart returned from Europe. He went to her welcome party. Sloane had posted on Instagram, saying nothing had changed. In the photo, they stood together, a bond so tight no one could squeeze in. “I had work. Didn’t I send a gift? You didn’t like it?” “No, it was fine.” My chest felt heavy. I knew I was just a wife in name only, less important than his Sloane. But his clumsy lie made me feel even more pathetic. The “gift” was a designer bag his assistant picked out. Expensive, but not my color. I couldn’t help but think… If he had come that night, maybe I wouldn’t be pregnant right now. 3 Declan and I slept in separate rooms. Most of the time, he was away on business. Maybe he just didn’t want to see the wife who occupied a space that wasn’t hers. My phone pinged with an anonymous message. It was a photo of Declan and Sloane shopping together. In the picture, his eyes were glued to the beautiful woman beside him. Declan never shopped with me. He said it was a waste of time. Even our wedding rings, I picked out alone. I was the “good girl.” My father was new money—a lottery winner turned investor. Without the old-money pedigree, I was always ostracized by the socialites. In high school, during a track meet, someone soaked my shirt with water. It was thin. My bra showed. The crowd laughed. One person handed me a jacket and pointed to the locker room. I looked up, but the tall figure was already walking away. The name tag on the jacket read: Senior Class A, Declan Sterling. I started watching him. I never thought I’d become his wife. I secretly hoped he might eventually fall for me. But reality was harsh. He wouldn’t. There was only one person in his heart. If Sloane hadn’t needed to flee the country due to a family scandal, he never would have married me. 4 I deleted the photo and went down to dinner. Seven o’clock. Declan wasn’t back. When he wasn’t traveling, he usually came home for dinner. I waited a long time, only to get a call. “I’m not coming home tonight. I was in a meeting, forgot to text.” In the background, a woman’s voice. Soft, sweet, telling him to get in the car. It was Sloane. I swallowed the lump in my throat, playing the role of the understanding wife. “Okay. Remember to eat.” I was about to hang up. He suddenly asked: “You aren’t going to ask why?” “I know you’re busy.” Busy dating your childhood sweetheart. I knew Sloane sent the photo. She was hinting that it was time for me to leave. Declan seemed bothered by my calm tone. “What’s wrong with you lately? Is this about your birthday?” “…” So what if it is? His devotion to Sloane was common knowledge in New York. My silence made him panic, which was rare. “Harper, don’t overthink that night. I’ll explain when I get back.” “Okay.” I hung up. I picked up my fork, but nausea hit me instantly. I ran to the powder room to avoid the maids and vomited. Looking at my pale reflection, seeing the faint spots from pregnancy… I wasn’t as pretty as Sloane. Now, I wasn’t as “clean” either. If Declan found out… What would he think? He’d probably be disgusted.

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Five years. Five years since Rhys Harrington and I lost our son, Leo, in a car accident. He was across the country, escorting his mistress for the birth of their child, and didn’t even attend Leo’s funeral. Now, after years of silence and survival, I found him again. In the cemetery. I was holding a mini-cake, ready to spend a quiet afternoon talking to my son. Instead, I saw Rhys setting a limited-edition sports car—the one Leo always wanted—at the headstone. Beside him, a small boy burrowed into his side. “Daddy, do you think big brother will like the gift I picked out?” 1 The autumn air carried a sharp, desolate chill through the cemetery. Rhys bent down, patiently zipping the boy’s jacket all the way up. That was the careful, solicitous kind of fatherly love my Leo never knew. The boy noticed the mini-cake I held, which had a tiny race car drawn on the frosting. He peered up at me, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Auntie, it’s my brother’s birthday today. Are you here to celebrate him, too?” I turned my head, pretending not to hear. I used a moist wipe to clean the dust from the photo on the headstone, then placed a small candle on the cake. My Leo. His life frozen at five years old. The boy looked at the cake, then up at Rhys, and finally back to me. Silently, he picked up the sports car he’d brought and placed it next to the tombstone. A haze of disorientation washed over me. The boy—tall for his age, with deep, perceptive eyes—shared a strong resemblance to Leo. They both carried the dominant Harrington genes. If I didn’t know exactly who his mother was, I might have been tempted to pull him into my arms, a desperate, flawed solace for the wave of grief that constantly crashed back over me. The cold wind sliced in from all directions. I tried several times to light the candle, but my hand was shaking too badly. Rhys reached out naturally, taking the lighter from my grasp. For a fleeting second, our skin touched. The proximity of his scent, his body heat, the things I once clung to, now made my stomach churn with pure revulsion. I snatched the lighter back, my movement violent enough to make him stumble a few steps. The boy cried out defensively, shielding his father. “You shouldn’t push people! You need to apologize to my Daddy.” 2 “Finn Harrington, that is enough.” Rhys’s voice was low and heavy, utterly lacking the gentle patience he’d shown moments before. The boy’s face crumpled with offense, a look that painfully mirrored his mother’s pride and stubbornness. It was impossible not to recall Seraphina Maxwell, flaunting her pregnancy in front of me years ago. “Genevieve Hartley,” she’d sneered, “if fate hadn’t gotten in the way, Rhys would have met me first. He would never have needed to marry a spoiled, clueless debutante like you.” Rhys crouched down, touching the boy’s pouting cheek. “Don’t you love your big brother most? This is his mother. If you’re too loud, it will make your brother sad.” I gritted my teeth. How dare Rhys? How dare he let Seraphina’s son call my Leo “brother,” and use a name—Finn—that felt so deliberately resonant, designed to replace the Huai character that was part of my son’s Chinese name? I had no intention of lingering. I was back in New York to finalize the process of having Leo’s remains moved. I needed to speak to the cemetery director. Rhys followed, still holding Finn. When he heard my request, his voice was thick and hoarse. “Genevieve, you haven’t visited Leo in five years. And the moment you return, you want to take him away?” “He is my son. I won’t allow it.” I let my eyes trail over Rhys with a cold, dismissive look. He was still the impeccably tailored man I remembered, tall and commanding in his expensive suit. The tie he wore—that signature burgundy red, almost certainly chosen by Seraphina—spoke of power, warmth, and quiet strength. Five years after losing Leo, Rhys Harrington was still thriving, still on top. I, on the other hand, had a few strands of gray at my temples. Leo would have worried about me. But he was gone. I tilted my head back, a bitter, icy smile touching my lips. “I’m not asking for your permission. You didn’t even attend his funeral. You forfeited the right to discuss this with me.” 3 Rhys seemed to be fighting back a response, but his phone lit up. Finn, who was pale and slender, spoke in a thin, childish voice. “It’s Mommy calling! Is the new baby in her tummy being naughty again?” Rhys turned his back to take the call. Finn, undeterred by my obvious detachment, leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m going to be a big brother soon, just like my other big brother! Daddy is really excited about the baby, and I’m going to share all my toys.” The papers I was skimming paused in my hands. Rhys and Seraphina—a picture of a successful marriage, professionally and personally. Two children in five years. Their son looked perfectly cared for and shielded. My face felt tight and cold, but Finn wasn’t afraid. My Leo was different. Before he was three, his father was too busy building his empire to spend time with him. After he turned three, Rhys fell in love with Seraphina. He grew to resent me, and by extension, the child I’d given him. Rhys stopped coming home for Leo’s birthdays and holidays. That last, rainy night, Leo insisted on waiting for his father. He said Daddy had promised to bring him a sports car from out of town. In that one blink of an eye, my Leo ran into the street and was hit by a car. 4 Rhys hung up. I was about to sign the transfer papers with the cemetery director. He grabbed my wrist, his composure barely holding. “I told you, you are not taking Leo away.” I stood perfectly still, my expression blank. “Then you can tell my son that yourself, in the grave.” Rhys’s grip tightened, digging into my flesh. It hurt. There was a time when this man would have been near tears if I scraped my knee. When I was giving birth to Leo, he was beside himself with fear and guilt, promising through sobs that he would never put me through that again, that he couldn’t bear to lose me. He broke that promise, of course. Not a thousand days into our marriage, he was already rolling around in his penthouse office with Seraphina. I fought. I screamed. I made a spectacle. All that got me was Seraphina’s ever-increasing encroachment on my life. With Rhys’s tacit permission, she eventually pushed me out of the company altogether. 5 The contract was ripped into pieces, scattering across the wet grass. Rhys’s jaw was a tight knot. He signaled to Walter, his long-time driver, to take Finn to the car. Walter caught sight of my face, and a flicker of panic crossed his features. “M-Miss Genevieve!” Walter had worked for the Hartley family when Rhys was a struggling young man. He’d seen me argue with my stepbrother, Connor, to invest in Rhys. And he’d also helped Seraphina cover up the lipstick she dropped in Rhys’s car. It was the rich man’s world: the patrons change, but the driver stays the same. Rhys’s eyes were black, bottomless pools. The aura of a man in charge surged around him. He turned to the cemetery director, his voice menacing. “If my son’s rest is disturbed, I will ensure you understand the true meaning of consequences.” The director gave me a helpless look and quickly retreated. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I raised my hand to slap him. But I didn’t land it. My hand was captured in his vise-like grip. Rhys spoke with a low, desperate ferocity. “Gen. You want to sever every connection we have, even Leo.” “You hate me, don’t you?” He closed the distance, pinning me against the cold, gray stone wall, fine dust particles settling on my coat. I took a deep breath. “Why waste the energy to hate you? Does someone keep a score of every dog that has ever bitten their family, just so they can remember to look after it forever?” Given Rhys’s current wealth and standing, the Hartley family at its peak couldn’t compete. I’d made too many futile attempts to fight him. I’d lost too much. He had no qualms attacking my family for Seraphina. I learned to accept the harsh, unpredictable reality of life. I just wanted to take my Leo home. 6 A layer of autumn rain, a layer of cold. It was clear I wouldn’t finish the paperwork today. I started to leave. Rhys glanced at my light trench coat, and the ingrained habit surfaced: he took off his six-figure Kiton coat, ready to place it over my shoulders. “Where are you going? I’ll take you.” I slapped the coat to the ground. The top-tier Neapolitan brand, famous for its flawless tailoring, instantly soaked up the wet mud. I used to love dressing Rhys. Dressing the man I loved in the way I loved. Rhys let out a low, self-deprecating laugh. “When I first met you, you were still the fierce, defiant socialite.” “I wanted so badly for you to hold on to that high-and-mighty position forever.” “But you destroyed me, didn’t you?” “I…” His usually calm voice held a subtle, nearly imperceptible hint of panic. Dark clouds approached, and the sky grew heavy. My ride-share car arrived. Ignoring Rhys’s outstretched arm, I got into the back seat. Less than two minutes later, the driver looked in the rearview mirror and whistled. “Ayo. Is that guy trying to pull a move from an action movie? He looks like he’s trying to box us in.” I looked back. Rhys’s large, black SUV was aggressively tailing us. It quickly pulled up right next to my side window. Rhys rolled down his window, his lips moving as if shouting something. Finn was strapped into his booster seat, a look of small, frightened confusion on his face. I stared straight ahead. The driver, however, was clearly invested. “That’s your husband and kid, right? Is he trying to mess with you even at a time like this? The spirits won’t rest easy if he keeps pushing you around!” “Don’t worry, Sis. I used to race cars. I’ll make sure we lose this tail.” He gripped the wheel, floored the gas, and sped past the SUV. Almost simultaneously, I received two text messages. Give me another chance. Let’s talk this through properly. Gen, Dr. Andy is a leading neurosurgeon. He’s arriving in the city this weekend. Perhaps there’s hope for Connor. 7 The first message was, without a doubt, from Rhys. I had blocked his number, changed mine, and disappeared five years ago. He was resourceful enough to find it in mere hours. The second was from my brother’s friend, Dr. Daniel “Dan” Cross. He’s a physician, a neuro specialist who studied abroad. Connor sustained severe brain trauma in the accident, resulting in significant memory loss. I’d spent the last few years in Europe with him, focusing on rehabilitation, with frustratingly little success. Dan’s text was likely meant to reassure me, to give me something to hold onto. I reached the hospital, paid the driver a generous tip, and he drove off happily, wishing me a good life. A life like that—simple, predictable, with minor worries—always seemed so appealing. I was born a Hartley, and I had seen the heights of power. I once had a pair of red party heels that cost more than some people’s annual salary. But the bloom on the rose is fleeting. After my father died, Connor inherited the family business. He faced down a pack of greedy relatives with ruthless efficiency. But he couldn’t refuse my tearful pleas to invest in Rhys. Rhys Harrington was at his lowest point, facing complete financial ruin. I found him in a dive bar, being force-fed liquor by his old rivals. I couldn’t stand to see my moon dragged through the mud. I pestered Connor until he agreed to pay off Rhys’s staggering debt. He resisted, so I used the one thing I knew he couldn’t deny—the fact that my father had found him in an orphanage and brought him home. Finally, he conceded. “Gen, the Hartley name and everything that comes with it is yours. You make the call.” The tragedy of my life began when I poured everything I had into that love. Rhys accepted my help, and promised on my parents’ graves that he would never betray me. Yet, history proved that once a man becomes a power unto himself, he subtly rewrites his origin story, re-casting the help that sustained him as a flaw that needed to be overcome. 8 In the VIP room, I was helping Connor practice making tea, breaking down the steps into simple actions. His mental capacity was regressed to that of a five or six-year-old. He’d suffered from selective mutism and was prone to emotional outbursts. Dr. Cross entered, looking frustrated. “Dr. Andy was just taken by Mrs. Harrington. She claims her mother has a severe migraine and needs the most authoritative specialist immediately.” Seraphina had a pattern of this. Years ago, on a snow-laced night, Leo was running a high fever. I called Rhys, but Seraphina answered, informing me that my husband was in her shower. I screamed at her, calling her a gold-digging predator. Seraphina simply arranged for Rhys to turn off his phone and stay out all night. I drove slowly through the snow, Leo sleeping fitfully in the back seat. I nearly spun out multiple times, but he still murmured a warning. “Mommy, the road is slick. Please be careful. It would make me sad if you got hurt.” Now, empowered by her title as Mrs. Harrington, Seraphina would only escalate her cruelty. My anger flared, and I marched to the room next door. 9 Seraphina was draped in a mink coat and heavy jewelry, projecting an image of effortless wealth. A faint, arrogant smile played on her lips, the same haughty demeanor of the brilliant young woman I’d met years ago. She was exceedingly thin, however, which made her very pregnant belly seem grotesquely out of proportion. I had heard Seraphina’s name long before I saw her. Rhys mentioned her several times after the Harrington company stabilized and he decided on a pivot. He’d found a brilliant programmer—an overseas graduate whose vision aligned perfectly with his. A primal sense of alarm made me jealous. Rhys rubbed my hugely pregnant stomach, gently flicking my nose. “Talent isn’t gendered. If you’re worried, I’ll report my whereabouts from the office every day.” The next day, he installed real-time monitoring in his conference room, allowing me to check in at any time. Later, when a piece of core technology was leaked, costing the company millions, Seraphina implied the monitoring system had been compromised, suggesting that my hands had reached too far. Rhys publicly dressed her down, asserting I was the owner’s wife and would never betray the company. I didn’t care to get involved. Once Leo was born, all my focus went to him, and I lost the will for such trivial fights. Seraphina took advantage of the gap, using the excuse of “expanding their empire” to travel constantly with Rhys. Their shared mission, their close proximity, and their similar ambition—the perfect conditions for the heat to ignite quickly. Postpartum hormones made me demanding and irritable. I constantly asked Rhys to check in. He stopped wanting to come home, barely finding time for our adorable, soft Leo. I suggested divorce several times. Rhys vehemently refused, insisting he couldn’t live without me, and I didn’t want Leo to grow up in a broken home. I agreed to hold off, on the condition that he limit his contact with Seraphina. In the end, I lost everything. 10 I walked up to Dr. Andy, who was patiently explaining something to Seraphina’s mother in English. The older woman was clearly fine. Seraphina was simply trying to spite me. Five years ago, she did the exact same thing, spiriting away Leo’s pediatrician overseas to protect her own delivery. I explained the situation to Dr. Andy. He smiled warmly, thanking me for funding his student’s lab a year ago. As he prepared to leave with me, Seraphina gave her mother a sharp look. The older woman, Mrs. Maxwell, blocked the doorway like a street fighter. “He was brought here by my son-in-law! You cheap little hussy, you have no right to take him!” I didn’t spare her a glance. I forcibly pulled my arm free from her chicken-claw grip. Seeing her mother pushed aside, Seraphina seemed to find her justification. She raised her hand to strike me. But the years of physical therapy I’d done with Connor had given me significant strength. I caught her wrist mid-swing, twisted, and pinned both her arms against the wall. The esteemed Mrs. Harrington’s face was pressed against the cold wall in a ridiculous, absurd “wall kiss.” “Genevieve Hartley, how dare you touch me? Rhys won’t let you get away with this!” I leaned in close to her ear and spoke clearly, every word a deliberate weapon. “I haven’t even come for you yet, and you seek me out. Aren’t you afraid that the details of the car accident you arranged five years ago will be revealed? That you and your mother will go to jail?” Seraphina’s face instantly drained of color. 11 After Leo’s funeral, I was a shell of a person. I planned to drive to the cemetery myself, but Connor, seeing my fragile state, insisted on taking the offerings and Leo’s new toy car instead. On the way, he was hit by a truck. The initial investigation concluded the driver was drunk and he was jailed. The back-to-back tragedies destroyed me. I filed for divorce immediately. At the time, Finn Harrington had just been born. Rhys, unwilling to let his beloved mistress’s child be labeled illegitimate, immediately agreed to the terms. I took Connor abroad for treatment, desperate to catch the six-month golden window for recovery. When I finally recovered enough to look into the truck driver’s background, I found an unusual wire transfer to his account. All the evidence, however, had been expertly erased. The cover-up was meticulous. I only found the trail leading to Mrs. Maxwell—Seraphina’s mother—a year ago. Mrs. Maxwell, seeing that Leo’s death hadn’t made Rhys divorce me, had contacted a distant relative in a remote town, who then hired the truck driver. It was a convoluted plot designed to remove me so her daughter could take my place. Rhys might not have known about the plot initially, but he protected his wife and covered up the scandal, burying the truth deep in the ground. … A moment later, Seraphina’s composure returned. “You don’t have proof, or you would have used it already.” “Poor Connor Hartley. He loved you all those years, only to end up with no dignity left.” She let out a cruel, pitying laugh. “I hear he can’t even use the restroom without wetting himself. Everything has to be taught from scratch. It’s pathetic.” It brought me back to years ago, when she would whisper in my ear. “Poor Miss Hartley, you can’t even hold onto your husband’s heart.” She’d follow up by texting me photos of herself in lingerie, lying next to Rhys. I raised my arm, ready to finally land a blow on her despicable face. But I failed again. Rhys arrived. He seized my wrist with punishing force, his eyes threaded with blood. Finn’s small voice piped up. “Mommy, is this the bad lady who was bullying you?”

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Forty-five years after I walked away, a missing person’s plea ripped the quiet fabric of my life. On the video screen, world-renowned scientist Dr. Graham Harrington lay on a hospital bed, his white hair disheveled, his frame gaunt and frail. Yet his voice was instantly, sickeningly familiar: “Ellie, I’m sorry… In this life, you were the only one I ever held in my heart.” “Where are you? Can we… meet again?” I quietly pressed the screen dark. My son, Owen, walked into the kitchen, scooping rice. “Mom, you know him?” “No,” I said, turning to lift the lid off the pot. A plume of white steam rose, momentarily blurring my vision. “The braised short ribs are almost ready. I’m taking them to your dad. The doctor says he can come home tomorrow.” What’s past is past. Some words arrive so late that they lose all their intended weight. Besides, I never needed his affection in the first place. 1 The antiseptic smell in the City General hallway was thick and cloying. I set down the thermos and went to find the water fountain, covering my nose. I didn’t slow down enough at the corner and collided solidly with someone coming the other way. “Excuse me,” I murmured, moving to walk around them. But the person grabbed my arm, his voice catching. “Ellie? Is that really you!” That one sound was all I needed to know who it was. I yanked my arm away, my expression deliberately neutral. Graham Harrington awkwardly withdrew his hand. His gaze dropped to the faded, pale blue loaner jacket the nurse had given me, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I never imagined… you were working here?” He instinctively reached for his pocket, then stopped. “My wallet is in the suite… Ellie, come up to the private ward with me. I need to talk to you.” I froze for a moment, then let out a sharp, unexpected laugh. I’d dressed too lightly this morning and was freezing. The aide from the next room had forced her spare scrub top on me, worried I’d catch a chill. It was clear Graham assumed I was destitute. I didn’t offer an explanation. I just turned to leave. But he followed, grabbing my arm again. “Ellie, it’s me, Graham! Don’t you remember me?” My spine stiffened. I pulled free once more. “I remember,” I said, my voice flat. “You are Vivian Wells’s husband. My sister’s husband.” Graham Harrington’s hand, left suspended in the air, slowly dropped. Forty-five years ago, my half-sister, Vivian Wells, filed a report accusing me of immoral behavior. My fiancé, Graham, stood me up on the night we were supposed to run away together. A month later, the embossed, gold-stamped wedding invitations for Graham Harrington and Vivian Wells were distributed across the entire Mid-State Engineering campus. How could I possibly forget any of that. Back in the room, Art was gone. I opened the thermos, and the rich, complex aroma of braised short ribs instantly filled the air. I was smiling, explaining the recipe to the older woman in the next bed. “Three tablespoons of brown sugar, a chunk of cinnamon stick, and a slow simmer in the Dutch oven for two full hours.” “Don’t rush the heat, and don’t rush the process. You have to sear the meat first to draw out the flavor, then simmer slowly…” I glanced up, and Graham had followed me all the way to the doorway. His nose twitched, and his eyes were rimmed with red. “Ellie, that’s the exact smell! The taste from all those years ago!” “If I hadn’t let go back then, I wouldn’t be so full of regret today…” I didn’t say anything. I simply closed the door and pressed the call button for the nurse. It wasn’t long before a stern nurse escorted him back to his private suite. Just then, Art returned, triumphantly waving his discharge summary. “Doctor says the lung nodule is stable, so I’m out early! I snuck the paperwork through myself!” He was always like that—protective, never letting me worry about a thing. The next few days, my phone screen was a constant stream of alerts for the trending hashtag: #NobelScientistGrahamHarringtonSeeksFirstLove. #TerminalLiverCancerFinalWish #LoveAcrossHalfACentury #LovedYouAllThisTime Even The City Ledger ran a full-page spread of the search plea. I tried hard to ignore it, but the push notifications were relentless. The comment sections were a sea of tears: “She needs to find him! That’s true love!” “To achieve so much and still remember his first love—how moving!” I couldn’t even avoid it during my neighborhood walks: “You don’t see men this devoted anymore!” “I wonder which lucky old woman he’s looking for…” But they didn’t understand. A love that’s expired is worse than a lifetime of silence. The worst came when Owen sent me a link with a headline that stung: #GrahamHarrington’sFirstLoveIsHer. The accompanying picture was a faded photo of us taken in front of the factory gates in 1982. In the photo, I wore my hair in two braids, my eyes crinkled in a genuine smile. Graham stood beside me, his hands behind his back, looking like he wanted to reach for mine but couldn’t. I stared at the yellowed photo, my fingers icy cold. In the end, there was no escaping it. 2 On the set of the national program The Echo, Graham Harrington, dressed in a replica of his old work shirt, did his best to sit up straight. “In 1980, I was accepted into Mid-State Engineering. A year later, my childhood friend followed me there.” He pointed to the photograph, recounting the story slowly: “Her name is Ellie Reynolds. She’s three years younger than I am.” “I was in Technical Design; she worked in the canteen. Her braised short ribs were incredible—even now, I can close my eyes and taste them.” “I was twenty-three then, and I didn’t understand real love. I hurt the person who loved me, and I’ve regretted it ever since.” “Now, I don’t have long left. My only wish in coming back to the States is to see her one last time, just to tell her I’m truly sorry.” … He produced several objects: a bookmark I’d given him, the bus ticket from the night we planned to run away, and his rejected money orders… He’d handled the yellowed paper so often the edges were frayed, as if they were the only proof of his remaining conscience. “I wrote her letters, but they were never answered. I sent her money, but it was returned.” He coughed violently. “Ellie, I want you to know, the night we agreed to run away, I actually went to the station…” I didn’t know any of this, but it no longer mattered. Graham was still talking on the television, but I couldn’t bear to listen anymore. I turned off the set and automatically wiped a layer of dust off the credenza. The fine dust motes swirled in the air, stirring up a flurry of old memories. I underestimated the power of the internet. The day after the program aired, my phone was besieged. I was bombarded with non-stop calls from unknown numbers. They demanded to know if I was Ellie Reynolds and why I refused to meet Dr. Harrington. To shield my husband and son, I initially denied it: “You have the wrong number. It’s a common name.” But the calls intensified, forcing me to shut off my phone entirely. Art’s phone was also filled with messages of public censure. My small restaurant, Ellie’s Corner, was staked out by influencers desperate to film the ‘first love’ in person. Comments flooded my business pages: “No matter what happened, Professor Harrington dedicated his life to this country. You owe him your forgiveness.” “He only has a year left. Why are you being so heartless?” “Did you turn your back on him first, and that’s why you found a new husband!” Young people pointed their anger at me, as if my refusal to meet Graham made me a wicked monster. Art squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this. If it gets too bad, we can go stay at the lake house for a few days until the heat dies down.” Owen quietly began gathering evidence to sue the online trolls for doxing. He adjusted his hearing aid and said, “Mom, I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise!” Watching them rally to protect me, I made a firm decision. I looked at Owen. “Call the producers of The Echo,” I instructed. “Tell them I agree to meet Graham Harrington.” I would tell the full story, in front of the entire country. Not for the sake of forgiveness, but so that everyone would finally know the truth. Some harm cannot be wiped away by a simple ‘I’m sorry.’

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I secretly kept a cat in my dorm room. Since he was the only male living in a suite full of girls, my roommates jokingly started calling him “Hubby.” Over time, the little guy actually started responding to it. It was funny and cute within our four walls. Until the day he sneaked out, and I found myself running across campus screaming “Hubby!” at the top of my lungs. Chapter 1 I came back from my afternoon lecture to find my three-month-old orange tabby missing. “Girls, Hubby is gone!” I shrieked. The whole suite mobilized, searching every corner of the dorm, but he was nowhere to be found. It was the dead of winter in Boston. All I could think about was my little kitten freezing out there, starving, or worse—getting flattened into a pancake by a shuttle bus. Shame was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I ran around campus, checking every bush and corner, yelling “Hubby!” Students passing by gave me weird looks. I didn’t have time to explain. Then, I looked up and saw a guy holding an orange cat. Tears streaming down my face, I sprinted toward him. “Hubby! I finally found you!” Chapter 2 The guy looked terrified. My roommate, who was trailing behind me, looked like she was watching a reality TV show. “Ethan, is this your… wife?” his friend asked, confused. The guy holding the cat dodged my lunge defensively. “Excuse me? Please calm down.” I frantically waved my hands. “No, no! The cat! The cat is mine. His name is Hubby.” Who names a cat Hubby? Me, apparently. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me.” To prove it, I looked at the cat and called out, “Hubby!” The orange tabby immediately meowed and leaped into my arms, purring. The misunderstanding was cleared up, but Ethan—that was his name—still gave me a stern lecture. “Pets aren’t allowed in the dorms. You’re violating policy, and honestly, it’s irresponsible to the cat.” I knew that. But I had rescued him from a storm and couldn’t find a foster. My roommates fell in love with him, so we kept him. A gust of wind blew cat hair into my eye. My eyes watered instantly, turning red. Seeing my tears, Ethan’s attitude softened. “Don’t cry… just take your… Hubby back.” Chapter 3 Back in the dorm, I recounted the rescue mission. “Do you think he’ll report you to the RA?” asked Lily, my roommate who always assumed the worst. I thought about Ethan’s handsome face. He looked like a stand-up guy. But then I remembered his cold lecture. Maybe he was a stickler for rules. My roommates suggested I buy him dinner—part thank-you, part bribe. That’s when I realized I forgot to ask for his number. “But I remember his face. I can draw him.” Thank you, Mom, for forcing me into art classes. I sketched a quick portrait and handed it to Jess, our suite’s “networker.” She knew everyone in Student Gov and the Greek system. “Ethan Wright. Computer Science grad student. Known as the ‘Ice Prince’ of the Engineering building.” Jess told me half the posts on the campus confession page were about him. Apparently, getting his contact info was harder than getting into Harvard. Well, I didn’t want his number for romance. I just wanted to keep my cat. Unfortunately, trouble came in pairs. I had to see Ethan again very soon. Chapter 4 In the Resident Director’s office, the bald RD looked at me with disappointment. “Ivy, we just had a meeting about campus conduct. Public displays of drama are discouraged!” “You were running around screaming ‘Hubby’? Do you think this is a soap opera?” I didn’t dare admit Hubby was a cat, or I’d get evicted. So I took the blame for being a dramatic girlfriend. “Bring your boyfriend here. We need to have a talk.” “What? No, no, no. That’s not necessary. I’ll tell him myself!” If I brought Ethan, the jig would be up. If the jig was up, my cat would be homeless. Homeless cat equals cat pancake. Seeing my hesitation, the RD got angrier. “Go get him! Now!” I stood outside Ethan’s lab, pacing. Excuse me, Ethan, can you help me take the blame? Ethan, want to lie to administration with me? He’d have to be crazy to agree. But my mouth had a mind of its own. When he walked out, instead of my rehearsed speech, I blurted out: “Ethan, can you be my Hubby?” His eyes widened. “Are you serious?” I quickly explained the RD situation. “So, you want me to pretend to be your boyfriend and get yelled at by administration?” “Do I look stupid?” “No, no! I’m the stupid one! Please, help a stupid girl out?” I clasped my hands together in prayer. Ethan shook his head and walked away. I couldn’t blame him. Who would do that for a stranger? Chapter 5 I had to keep lying to the RD. I said my boyfriend broke up with me over the incident and that I would be a model student from now on. To sell it, I cried my eyes out in the office before leaving. I thought it was over. I slept like a baby. Until Jess shook me awake the next morning. “Ivy! Your Hubby is here!” I shot up from bed. “What? The cat got out again?” “No, the human Hubby.” Ethan was standing downstairs outside our dorm, looking like a solitary pine tree in the snow. Why was he here? Revenge? To turn me in? I went down trembling, telling my roommates to be ready to rescue me. Ethan looked cold, a hint of suppressed anger in his brow. “Ivy, did I offend you in a past life?”

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One month before the SATs, I started seeing my score floating above my head. It was a curse. Every time I completed a practice test, the number dropped by ten points. But for every day I skipped school to party, it went up by ten. I spent an entire month partying. The number above my head climbed to a perfect 1600. But when the actual results came out, I scored a 400. The 1600? That was my younger brother’s score. My parents, furious and humiliated, disowned me and kicked me out to work in a factory. That same night, I was cornered in a dark alley by a group of thugs and beaten to death. As I lay dying in a pool of my own blood, I heard my brother’s voice. “You always thought you were smarter than me, Nathan. But in the end, you were just a fool who believed the number above his head.” That was when I realized: the score I saw was controlled by him. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. It was exactly one month before the SATs. Above my head, the neon number read 1300. “Nathan, let’s do some practice questions tonight,” my brother, Caleb, said with a sweet smile. I looked at him, grabbed the practice sheet in my hand, and lit it on fire with my lighter. “Exams are coming up. I’m done studying.” The number above my head ticked up by 10 points. Caleb feigned disappointment, but the moment I turned around, I saw the smirk curl the corners of his lips. He has no idea. The show I’ve prepared for him is just beginning. Chapter 1 After rejecting Caleb’s invitation, I headed straight for my bedroom. But Caleb wasn’t ready to let me off the hook. He followed me, suggesting we go see a tutor. I slapped his hand away. “Cramming now is useless. Go by yourself if you care so much. I’m going to play video games.” “Nathan, I know you’re smart, but don’t get cocky,” Caleb said, repeating the exact words he used in my past life. He was testing me. He wanted to see if I truly believed the hallucination above my head. I met his gaze and smiled lazily. “Even without studying, I’ll score higher than you.” Caleb looked down, acting hurt, but he couldn’t hide the gleam of triumph in his eyes. Watching his retreating back, I sneered. Caleb, this time, you’re the one who shouldn’t get cocky. Back in my room, the score above my head had jumped to 1350. But the moment I cracked open a textbook, it began to plummet. By the time I finished reviewing the last chapter of calculus, it had dropped to 1200. I pulled up the feed from the micro-camera I had planted on Caleb earlier. On my screen, I saw him pacing his room, looking frantic. “Why is Nathan’s score dropping? I knew that bastard was lying! He says he’s not studying, but he’s grinding behind my back. Why doesn’t he believe the projection?” A distorted voice replied from his phone speaker. “Calm down. If his score drops below 1000, the neural feedback will trigger a migraine so severe it’ll feel like an explosion. If he keeps studying, he’s just torturing himself.” My heart skipped a beat. Neural feedback? Caleb laughed, his face twisting. “Good. If his brain fries, he deserves it for trying to play me.” Watching the score continue to freefall, I frowned. I needed a way to trick the system. I spent the next hour testing variables. No matter what I did in the room, the score dropped. When it hit 1000, the number turned red and started flashing. A sharp pain stabbed at my temples. I panicked. I slammed the book shut, grabbed my keys, and drove straight to a high-end lounge downtown. I booked a private room and ordered a bottle. Only when the score climbed back up to 1400 did the pain subside. Back on the monitor, Caleb noticed the rise. “I knew it. Nathan is an idiot. He fell for it.” “He’s probably out partying right now. He must be so happy seeing that score go up while he does nothing.” “That moron actually thinks he’s getting a 1400. That score belongs to me!” Watching Caleb celebrate my “stupidity,” I poured myself a drink and smirked. He didn’t know I had already figured out the glitch in his little game. Chapter 2 I tossed the chalk onto the floor. I lay back on the velvet sofa of the VIP lounge, admiring the walls. They were covered—floor to ceiling—in complex mathematical formulas. This was what I had actually been doing all night. Because I was in a “leisure environment” and technically “wasting money,” the system didn’t register my mental work. The score above my head remained high. A waiter knocked, reminding me the tab was due. I dialed Caleb. “Bro, I’m stuck at the lounge. Cards are maxed out. Send me some cash, quick.” “A lounge? Nathan, how could you go to a place like that right now?” Caleb’s voice feigned shock and concern. “I needed to blow off steam before the test. Don’t tell Mom and Dad, okay? Just transfer me two grand.” “You should come home and study,” he chided. “Are you my brother or not? If the club calls Dad, I’m dead. I’ll be locked in my room studying for weeks. Just help me out. I need to relax.” Caleb sighed, acting reluctant. “Fine. But you have to promise to study eventually.” I agreed effortlessly and hung up. Caleb transferred me three grand—his entire savings. He wanted me to stay here and rot. I took his money and lived in that lounge for a month. I only returned home the day before the SATs, sporting dark circles under my eyes. Above my head, the neon number blazed: 1600. Caleb smiled, handing me my admission ticket. “You’re finally back. Just in time for the test.” “You useless waste of space!” My mother screamed from the living room. “The biggest exam of your life, and you disappear for a month to party?” “Why did you even come back? You should have died in a gutter!” Her words stung, even though I knew she had always favored Caleb. I tried to force a bitter smile, but my father was faster. He slapped me across the face. “Don’t you dare smirk at me! You degenerate!” “If it weren’t for your grandmother insisting, I wouldn’t even let you sit for the exam!” He grabbed my ear, twisting it violently. When I tried to pull away, he kicked my knee, sending me crashing to the floor. “You spent a month in a club with god knows who? You probably have a drug habit or a pregnant stripper chasing you by now!” He kicked me toward my room. “I should just lock you in here!” Caleb intervened, playing the saint. “Dad, stop! Grandma said Nathan has to take the test. We can’t disobey Grandma.” At the mention of the family matriarch—the one who controlled the trust fund—Dad hesitated. He shoved me toward the door. “Go. It’s a waste of time anyway.” I clutched my burning ear and limped to the car. Caleb and I were driven to the testing center. After the exams were over, Caleb rushed out of the center, beaming at our parents. “I crushed it. I feel like I got everything right. Can we throw the celebration party the day the scores drop?” Mom and Dad looked at him with pure adoration. “If you’re that confident, Caleb, of course. We’ll invite Grandma, too. She needs to see your success.” “Yes! Grandma always favors Nathan, but this time, I’m going to give her a real surprise.” At that moment, the floating number above my head flickered and vanished. I watched Caleb’s confident strut and smiled. Oh, little brother. You’re in for a surprise, alright. Chapter 3 The day after the exam, my parents took Caleb on a luxury graduation trip to Europe. They left me behind. I wasn’t sad; I was relieved. With the house empty, I could finally work. I dialed a number I had memorized by heart. “Professor, I solved the equation you sent me last month.” The voice on the other end gasped. “Nathan? You actually cracked the Riemann hypothesis variant? This is… this is going to change everything for the institute!” The Professor sent a car for me immediately. I spent the next month at the Advanced Research Institute, working on proofs and algorithms. I didn’t leave until the day the SAT scores were released. The Professor’s driver dropped me off at the hotel where my family was holding the “Celebration Banquet.” I walked into the ballroom. My parents and Caleb, tan from their trip, were surrounded by socialites and business partners. “Mr. Xu, you are so blessed. Two bright sons.” “It’s an honor to be associated with the Xu family.” The crowd wasn’t just here for test scores. Grandma, the iron-fisted matriarch of the Xu Corporation, had declared that whoever got into the better university would inherit her controlling shares. Today wasn’t a party. It was a coronation. I took a deep breath and walked straight to Grandma. She smiled, her eyes crinkling. “Confident, Nathan?” I nodded. “I won’t let you down, Grandma.” In my past life, Grandma was the only one who loved me. But after Caleb framed me and my score tanked, she died of a heart attack three days later, heartbroken by my ‘failure.’ I wouldn’t let that happen again. “Nathan, why lie to Grandma?” Caleb’s voice cut through the air. He marched over, phone in hand. “You spent a month getting drunk in a lounge. How could you possibly do well?” He flashed photos of me in the club, surrounded by bottles, to the guests. Dad looked at me with pure disgust. “If I were you, I wouldn’t have shown my face today.” “Caleb is estimating a 1580. You probably didn’t even break 800. After today, the company belongs to your brother. You’ll be begging him for scraps.” “A loser preparing to leach off his brother… pathetic.” The guests whispered and laughed. “I saw him downtown. He had a bottle in one hand and a girl in the other. Living the life.” “A 1580? That’s Ivy League material. Probably Harvard or MIT.” “Caleb has always been the smart, handsome one. The company is safe in his hands.” I scanned the room of sycophants. “The scores aren’t even out yet. You’re all licking his boots a little early, aren’t you?” “Watch your mouth!” Dad snapped. “Bad grades and bad manners.” “Someone’s delusional,” a guest laughed. “If partying got you into Yale, the clubs would be libraries.” My dad slammed his car keys on the table—keys to a McLaren. “If you beat Caleb, this car is yours.” I laughed. “Just a car? I thought you were a big shot, Dad.” “If you trust Caleb so much, why not bet all your properties?” Mom hesitated, but the crowd egged them on. “A 1580 is a lock! Nathan has no chance.” “Exactly. Even if you bet the whole estate, Nathan isn’t taking a dime.” I raised an eyebrow. “So, Dad? All your assets. Let’s see your confidence.” Dad wavered, but Mom whispered, “What are you afraid of? He’s trash.” Caleb nodded. “Trust me, Dad.” Dad puffed out his chest. “Fine! Whichever son gets into the better school gets all my personal assets. Grandma is the witness!” Just then, the online portal for scores opened. Caleb stepped up. “I’ll go first. Let’s verify my estimate.” He typed in his info with a flourish. The screen refreshed. Chapter 4 1580. The room erupted. “1580! It’s real! Caleb is practically the CEO already.” “A young man of such character and intelligence. We are in good hands.” I frowned slightly. The number was high—exactly what he needed. Dad looked at me like I was a cockroach. “Wipe that look off your face. From now on, you serve your brother. Be a good dog, and maybe we won’t starve you.” “If you drag Caleb down, I’ll kill you myself.” I looked at him calmly. “I haven’t checked my score yet. Are you sure I’m the dog in this scenario?” Slap! Mom hit me across the face. “Ungrateful brat! You wish you could serve Caleb!” Caleb looked at me with mock pity, which quickly turned to venom. “Nathan, I don’t know why you hate me. But if your score is lower than mine, I want you to kneel and apologize for disrespecting Dad.” He shoved the laptop toward me. “Check it.” Under the gaze of hundreds, I typed in my info. The screen loaded. I blinked. 400. It happened again. My score and Caleb’s score combined… roughly equaled a perfect score plus the baseline. He had siphoned everything. “400? You get 400 just for signing your name!” “Brain dead. Thank god he’s not the heir.” “All that arrogance for a 400?” Caleb sneered. “Nathan, kneel.” “You’re clearly mentally unstable. As the new CEO, I’ll send you to a specialized facility. I hear the shock therapy does wonders.” “But if you beg nicely, maybe I’ll let you be treated at home.” “Kneel? You’re not worthy,” I said. Caleb kicked the back of my knee. Dad grabbed my shoulder and forced me down. I looked at Grandma. She sighed, her eyes dull. “Nathan… I am so disappointed.” “Grandma, the admissions letters haven’t come out yet!” I shouted. The crowd laughed. “Admissions? With a 400? Maybe community college… if they’re desperate.” “Is he delusional?” “Caleb is too nice. Just kick him out.” Caleb sighed theatrically. “Nathan, you see? You have to kneel, or the investors won’t respect me.” He signaled security. A guard kicked my other knee, forcing me to the ground. I tried to stand, but Caleb stepped on my face, grinding his heel into my cheek. “Nathan,” he whispered, “I want you to watch me get into MIT while you rot. When I leave for college, I’ll have your tendons cut. You’ll be a cripple forever.” He laughed, standing up as the doors opened. The admissions representatives from the top universities had arrived. “Watch this,” Caleb said, walking toward them with open arms. But as he reached them, his smile froze. The show was about to start.

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“The company’s been dissolved.” Mark slid the divorce papers across the table to me. “What?” “We’ve been in the red for three years. We’re three hundred thousand in debt,” he sighed. “I’ve sold the house to cover it. We’ll split whatever’s left.” I just stared at him. Eight years. I was with him from a rented apartment startup to a company valued at over a million dollars. “Last month you told me you landed three huge contracts.” “They fell through.” He offered me a pen. “Just sign it, Leah. It’s better for everyone.” I didn’t take it. “Mark, when was the company dissolved?” “Last week.” I glanced at my phone. It was Monday, 3:00 PM. The state business registry showed the dissolution time: today, at 2:00 PM. An hour ago. 1 I turned my phone screen toward him. “You said last week?” Mark’s eyes flickered for a fraction of a second before he regained his composure. “My mistake. I’ve been swamped lately.” “Busy dissolving the company?” “Leah, what are you getting at?” He frowned. “I didn’t want it to come to this. The business really couldn’t hold on any longer.” I didn’t say a word. Eight years of marriage had taught me everything I needed to know about him. When he lied, his left hand would instinctively twist the wedding band on his finger. Right now, his left hand was hidden under the table. “Where are the debt records?” I asked. “The accountant has them. I’ll have her send them to you.” “Don’t bother,” I said, standing up. “I’ll go get them myself.” “Leah!” He moved to block my way. “What is this? You don’t trust me?” I looked at him, at this face I had known for a decade, loved for eight years. The face of the man who, on one knee, had told me meeting me was the greatest fortune of his life. The man who said we would grow old and gray together. “We’ll see about trust once I’ve seen the books.” I stepped around him and headed for the door. “The company is dissolved! What’s the point of looking at them now?” I stopped. “You’re right.” I turned back. “Once it’s dissolved, the books are meaningless.” He let out a visible sigh of relief. “That’s why I want to see the records from before it was dissolved.” The color drained from his face. “What records?” “Those three big contracts you mentioned last month,” I said, my gaze locked on his. “The agreements, the payment records, the project timelines.” “They all fell through! There’s nothing to see.” “Even failed projects leave a paper trail.” “Leah, what the hell do you want?” he snapped, his voice rising. In all the years I’d known him, he had almost never raised his voice at me. This was a first. “I want the truth.” He froze for a second, then a bitter laugh escaped his lips. “Fine. You want to see them? You’ll see them.” He pulled out his phone and dialed. “Hey, it’s Mark. Could you send my wife the contract files from last month? … Yeah, all of them.” He hung up and looked at me, a smug expression on his face. “Happy now?” I remained silent. Ten minutes later, a file landed in my inbox. Three contracts, totaling over one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. All signed and stamped by the clients. But there was a note attached: Project suspended due to client-side cash flow issues. I looked up at him. He was leaning back in his chair, wearing an I-told-you-so smirk. “Convinced?” “Completely.” I slipped my phone into my purse. “I’m just going to use the restroom.” Inside the stall, I silenced my phone and pulled up the state’s online business database. I typed in the name of the first client company. The search result came back instantly. The company was dissolved three years ago. The second one? Dissolved two years ago. The third? No record of such a company ever existed. I leaned against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, taking a deep, shaky breath. Eight years. I thought I was his wife, his partner. It turns out I was never his wife. Just his piggy bank. 2 When I walked out of the restroom, my expression was a perfect mask of neutrality. Mark was still sitting there. “All good?” “All good.” “Then let’s get this signed.” He pushed the pen toward me again. “The sooner we’re done, the better.” I sat down and picked up the agreement. Four pages. I read through them one by one. The house would be sold by him to cover the debts. The car was his. Our savings would be divided based on whose name they were under. I would get custody of our son, Leo, and he would pay two hundred dollars a month in child support. “Two hundred dollars?” “I don’t have an income right now,” he said with a practiced sigh. “I’ll raise it once I’m back on my feet.” “How much do you have in your personal savings?” “Less than five thousand.” I met his gaze. “We’ve been married for eight years, and you only have five thousand dollars to your name?” “Company finances and personal finances are separate, Leah, you know that,” he said, his tone perfectly calm. “When the company went under, all the money went to pay off creditors.” I nodded slowly. “What about the house?” “There’s still a hundred and seventy thousand left on the mortgage. After we sell it and pay that off, there won’t be enough to cover the rest of the business debt.” “And the car?” “It’s a five-year-old sedan. It’s not worth much.” I set the papers down. “So, what you’re saying is, after eight years of marriage, I walk away with nothing?” “It’s not that you get nothing, Leah, it’s that there is nothing,” he said, his eyes pleading. “I hate this as much as you do, but this is our reality now.” I studied his face. He looked so sincere. So wounded. So utterly helpless. If I hadn’t known those contracts were fake, I might have actually believed him. “I need some time to think.” “Think about what?” he frowned. “Is this about not trusting me again?” “I need to see the complete financial records.” “They’re with the accountant! I told you, I can have her send them over.” “Not those,” I said, standing and grabbing my purse. “I want to see every single financial transaction from the day the company was founded until the day it was dissolved.” His expression hardened. “Leah, what is the meaning of this?” “It means nothing,” I said, walking toward the door. “I’ll sign the papers, but not before every penny is accounted for.” “The books are clean!” he shouted after me. I paused at the doorway. “Then what are you so afraid of?” He had no answer. I walked out of the room, hearing his voice call after me. “Leah, you better think carefully!” I didn’t turn back. “About what?” “About what kind of outcome you really want.” This time, I turned. His face was no longer a mask of wounded pride. It was cold, hard, and utterly unfamiliar. “The outcome I want,” I said, “is the truth.” He laughed, a short, ugly sound. “The truth?” “Yes. The truth.” “Leah,” he said, rising and walking toward me until he stood just inches away. “Some truths are more than you can handle.” I looked him straight in the eye. “You really don’t know me at all, do you?” Then I turned and left. As soon as the law firm’s doors closed behind me, my hands started to shake. It wasn’t fear. It was pure, unadulterated rage. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. “Chloe? Are you still at the office?” “Yeah, I am. What’s up?” “I need you to run a check on someone for me.” “Who?” “Mark.” There was a two-second pause on the other end. “Your Mark?” “Yes.” “Leah, what’s going on?” I took a deep breath, the city air feeling thin in my lungs. “He dissolved his company an hour before asking me for a divorce.” Chloe was silent. “I need to know where his money went for the past eight years.” “Okay,” Chloe’s voice turned sharp and professional. “Send me his social security number.” “And one more thing,” I added. “Check for any signs of hidden debts or asset transfers.” “You got it.” After hanging up, I stood on the sidewalk, watching the river of people flow past. Not a single person knew that in an office just above them, my marriage had just died. It was a quiet death. But I wasn’t going to let it be a mysterious one. 3 When I got home, our son Leo was building a tower of blocks in the living room. Mark’s mother was watching him from the sofa. “You’re back!” she said, standing up and taking my purse with a warm smile. “Have you eaten?” “I have.” “Well, have a glass of water. I just made some chamomile tea.” I looked at her. For the past few months, my mother-in-law had been unusually kind. She used to visit once a month, staying for a couple of days at most. But she’d been living with us for nearly two months now. She said she wanted to spend more time with her grandson. It seemed normal then. Now, it felt all wrong. “Mom, how has Mark’s company been doing lately?” Her hand paused mid-air. She recovered quickly. “Not too well, I don’t think. He doesn’t tell me much.” “So you didn’t know the company was dissolved?” She blinked. “Dissolved?” Her expression was one of perfect surprise. Her eyes, however, were not. “It was dissolved today,” I said, watching her closely. “He didn’t tell you?” “He… he didn’t say a word,” she sighed. “That boy, he never tells me anything.” I offered a thin smile and said nothing more. Leo ran over and hugged my leg. “Mommy, why are you home so early?” “Because Mommy missed you.” I scooped him into my arms. A five-year-old boy, so blissfully unaware. He had no idea that his own father was likely orchestrating a grand deception to strip his mother of everything she had. Mark didn’t come home that night. He sent a text: Out with friends tonight, don’t wait up. I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened my laptop and started piecing together the last eight years. My bank statements, my credit card bills, my transfer histories. My salary account had received just over $200,000 in eight years. I’d spent about $130,000 on household expenses: groceries, Leo’s formula and diapers, preschool tuition, gifts for both our parents. The remaining $70,000 was mostly in my savings account. Mark never touched the household finances. He always said he was in charge of making money, and I was in charge of spending it. I thought it was a sign of trust. Looking back, it was probably part of a much darker strategy. I opened the old profit-and-loss statements he’d shown me before. 2021: Profit $350,000. 2022: Profit $250,000. 2023: Profit $220,000. That was over $800,000 in profit in just three years. Where did it all go? My phone buzzed. A message from Chloe. Found a few things. Let’s meet tomorrow. Okay, I replied. Lying in bed that night, my eyes wide open in the dark, I couldn’t sleep. By the time the sun rose, one thing had become terrifyingly clear. This divorce wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was a carefully planned hunt. And I was the prey. 4 The next day, I met Chloe at a café. She pushed a file across the table. “Start with this.” It was a share transfer agreement. I opened it. The date was from six months ago. Mark had transferred 45% of his company shares to someone named Tina Miller, for the price of one dollar. “Who is Tina Miller?” “I checked her out. Her ID lists an address in Florida,” Chloe said, watching me. “But she owns a condo here. In the city.” “When did she buy it?” “Last August.” Last August. We hadn’t even been talking about divorce. “How much was the condo?” “Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Paid in cash.” I took a sharp breath. Chloe produced another sheet of paper. “And then there’s this.” It was a bank transfer record. Over the past two years, Mark’s company account had wired a total of $600,000 to a company called “Apex Trading.” The memo for each transfer was “Project Fees.” “Did you look into this company?” “I did,” Chloe said, her expression grim. “The legal representative is a man named George Miller. Tina Miller’s father.” I said nothing. Chloe continued. “Apex Trading is a shell corporation. It has no actual business operations. Most of the money it received was funneled directly into Tina Miller’s personal account.” My hand, wrapped around my coffee cup, began to tremble. Six hundred thousand dollars. In two years. Plus the four-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar condo. Over a million dollars. “There’s more,” Chloe said, sliding one last document toward me. “This one was harder to get. I had to call in a favor.”

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My mother was the “vicious female antagonist” everyone despised. Three months after her death, the male lead finally married his “white moonlight,” his true love. Everyone praised their shining love story, but no one cared that my mother’s body was barely cold in her grave. Upon hearing the news, the villain swallowed half a bottle of sleeping pills, slashed his wrist, and lay quietly in a bathtub. As his body slowly turned cold. I, carrying my little backpack, knocked on his door and asked in a milky voice, “Uncle, hello. Are you my daddy?” 1 Julian Thorne’s face was deathly pale, and he was alarmingly thin. He stared at me, brows furrowing. “Whose kid are you?” I blinked. “My name is Kiki. My mom is Seraphina. Are you Mr. Julian Thorne?” Julian raised an eyebrow. “I am.” My eyes turned red, and I rushed into his arms, sobbing. “Daddy, I finally found you!” Julian’s mouth twitched. It took him several attempts to pry me off. “Sorry, I don’t know you, and I certainly don’t know your mother.” His shirt was already soaked with my tears. He glanced at it with disdain. I pouted, heartbroken. “Daddy, why don’t you want to acknowledge me?” Julian: “…” He shut the door. “Go home. I don’t have time to play games.” Two minutes later, I rang the doorbell again. Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! When Julian opened the door again, he was dripping wet. His wrist was hastily bandaged, and he looked terrible. Seeing it was me again, he snapped, “What now?” I stood on my tiptoes, peering inside, twisting my fingers nervously. “Daddy, can I come in and eat something? I’m so hungry.” Julian gritted his teeth. “…How many times do I have to say it? I am not your father.” I looked innocent. “But Mom said you are.” He… “I don’t know your mom.” “Then how did she have me with you?” Julian closed his eyes, turning back into the house. Just as I was about to follow, he grabbed some bread and milk from the fridge, shoved them into my arms, and said ominously, “Don’t let me hear you ring that bell again.” Slam! The door shut. I stood there blankly for a while. Sitting on the porch steps, I looked at the bread in my hand and slowly stuffed it into my mouth. It was dry, so I gulped down some milk. The wind was chilly, making me shrink into my collar. So cold. And I needed to pee. Helpless, I stood before the door again. He said not to ring the bell, so I knocked. Knock, knock, knock! Knock, knock, knock! I knocked for so long that the neighbor across the street peeked out. Julian couldn’t take it anymore and opened the door. I sneezed, eyes watery. “Daddy, I’m sorry, but I can’t hold it. I need to pee.” The beautiful neighbor lady came out, covering her mouth in surprise. “Mr. Thorne, is this your daughter? I’ve never seen her before.” Julian’s face went completely black. Seeing me shivering in the cold wind, he took a deep breath and stepped aside. “Come in.” 2 Before I entered the bathroom, Julian said, “Wait.” He closed the door, and I heard the bathtub draining. “Okay, go ahead.” After I finished, I noticed faint bloodstains on the edge of the tub and a knife on the floor. When I came out, I was worried. “Daddy, are you hurt?” Julian’s lips tightened. “No.” “That’s good.” I sighed in relief and cheered up. “Daddy, your house is huge.” “As big and pretty as Daddy Liam’s house.” “Mom said you were amazing, even more amazing than Daddy Liam. She didn’t lie.” Julian asked, “You have another dad?” I nodded. “Mom was with Daddy Liam, but he was mean to her. After Mom got sick and died, he married another lady.” “Your mom passed away?” “Mm-hm.” Mentioning Mom, I wiped my eyes sadly. Julian frowned. “What’s your Daddy Liam’s name?” “Liam Carter.” He froze. “And your mom?” “Seraphina.” “Do you have a photo?” Right! I pulled Mom’s only photo from my backpack and handed it to him. Julian stared at the photo, his gaze sharpening instantly. His expression was complex, as if lost in memories. Though he tried to suppress his emotions, his hand holding the frame trembled slightly. After a long while, he curled his lip, tone mocking. “Your mom is Seraphina Vance?” Mom once said her real name was Seraphina. Seraphina Vance was the name she got after coming to this world. Only Daddy and I knew this. But it seemed Daddy didn’t know yet. So I nodded. “Yes.” Julian squatted down, scanning my face, as if looking for traces of himself. “How old… are you?” His voice was hoarse. I answered softly, “Six.” The hope in his eyes vanished instantly. He stood up, voice self-mocking. “It wasn’t enough for her to lie to me; she sent you to lie to me too?” 3 What is Daddy saying? I was stunned. “I didn’t…” Julian slammed the photo frame onto the table, his tone cold again. “Go back to the Carter family. You can’t be my child, and I’m not your father.” “But Mom said you are my father.” “Impossible.” He closed his eyes. “I broke up with your mother eight years ago. You’re only six. You can only be Liam Carter’s daughter.” I counted on my fingers for a long time and realized he seemed right. Am I really Liam Carter’s daughter? But Mom wouldn’t lie to me. There must be a misunderstanding! “Daddy, we can do a DNA test! I really am your daughter!” I plucked a hair from my head, wincing, and looked at him with expectation and nervousness. Julian looked at me, brows furrowed. “Achoo!” I sneezed again. Julian looked at the dark night outside, then at thin, frail me. “You can stay, but only for tonight. “Tomorrow, I’ll have the police take you home.” Yay! Daddy isn’t chasing me away. Julian went upstairs to prepare a room for me. I trotted behind him. “Daddy, what kind of person was Mom to you?” Julian sneered. “Heartless, greedy, lustful, fake.” Four words, I only understood the middle two. “Daddy, was Mom a pervert?” “…Kids shouldn’t ask so much.” I slowed down, feeling sad. I knew since I was little that Mom was the “vicious female antagonist.” Because she was the villainess, no one liked her. Mom said in her original world, her name was Seraphina, and she had brain cancer. Before she died, a System approached her, asking if she wanted to transmigrate into a book as the villainess. If she successfully made the male lead fall in love with her, she would get a healthy body. Mom agreed. She became Seraphina Vance. The lost true heiress of the Vance family, and Liam Carter’s real fiancée. Claire Vance was her sister, the “group favorite” heroine of this story. Raised with love, the parents couldn’t bear to send Claire back to poverty, so she stayed. Mom didn’t know what she did wrong. But if Claire was unhappy, it was Mom’s fault. Everyone looked at her with condemnation and disdain. Though related by blood, Mom was thin, unpolished, lacking the grace of a wealthy lady. Her parents favored the heroine. Liam Carter hated Mom too. After reuniting with the Vance family, it seemed only Grandpa truly welcomed her. Mom was an orphan in her original world and craved family love. Whether it was her adoptive parents before or the Vance parents now, she cherished them all. Even though she tried her best to please everyone, the plot’s force was immovable. Mom had no choice. If she didn’t win Liam over, she would die. Later, the Carter Corporation faced a financial crisis. Liam chose to break up with Claire then. Claire cried and went abroad to heal under the protection of the devoted second male lead. At that time, Mom’s company, ClearSky Tech, was booming, nearing Series B funding, but she sold it cheaply. She used that money and Grandpa’s inheritance to buy the position of Liam’s wife. Although Liam was forced to marry her, his heart remained with Claire. He partied every night, indulging in women who resembled Claire. But the one who looked most like her was Mom. Liam often kissed Mom with malice, calling out Claire’s name. He even brought women home to their marital bed. It seemed only by seeing Mom suffer could his hatred find an outlet. Even when I was born, he never cared. Mom’s reaction to this was: “Let whoever wants the rotten cucumber have it.” Although I didn’t understand, I admired Mom’s attitude. On my sixth birthday, the System announced time was up. The male lead still didn’t love Mom. Mission failed. The punishment was erasure. Simultaneously, the hospital results came back: terminal brain cancer. The System gave Mom three days. I still remember Mom’s expression: confusion, loss, pain. And the deep sorrow and reluctance when she looked at me. She didn’t beg Liam anymore. She decided to find Daddy. She asked to meet Daddy many times, but he refused. Her messages sank into the ocean without a ripple. On the last day. She waited downstairs at his company building for a long time, until the light faded inch by inch, and her life came to an end. He never showed up. 3 “Mom wasn’t that kind of woman.” I clenched my fists, looking seriously at Julian’s face. “Mom loved Daddy very much. Mom never forgot Daddy.” Julian paused, his smile growing more mocking. “Did she teach you to say that?” I shook my head. “No…” “No one knows Seraphina Vance better than I do.” His expression was almost cold. “Except for Liam Carter, she never truly loved anyone.” My face turned red holding it in. I couldn’t say Mom was a “strategy player” who was with Daddy Liam just to survive. How could I make Daddy believe Mom truly loved him? With a heavy heart, I climbed into bed. Julian tucked me in. “I’m right next door. Knock if you need anything, okay?” “Okay.” Blood was seeping through the bandage on his wrist. The wound hadn’t healed. Is Daddy hurt? I worried. Ten minutes later, I stood at the master bedroom door. Knock, knock, knock. Julian opened the door, eyes red, face tense. “What is it?” “Daddy, can I sleep with you?” “No.” I clasped my hands together, pleading. “Please, you know I left my mom since I was little…” “…Come in.” He made a pallet on the floor, letting me sleep in the bed alone. To prevent me from falling, he left a nightlight on. “Daddy, aren’t you sleeping with me?” “Girls grow up and avoid their fathers.” I sat up in surprise. “You admit you’re my dad?” Julian closed his eyes, not looking at me. “Strange men are even more forbidden.” I lay back down disappointed, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw a photo frame face down on the nightstand. It was Mom’s photo. “Daddy, you miss Mom too, don’t you?” Julian paused, answering stiffly. “…No.” Really? Then why, after Mom died, did you lose all will to live? 4 The next morning after breakfast, Julian wanted to take me to the police station. I hugged his leg, wailing. “Daddy, I don’t want to go! I can’t leave Daddy…” The beautiful neighbor lady happened to come out. Seeing this, she ran over, hugging me distressedly. “What’s wrong, baby? What happened?” I cried breathlessly. “Da… Daddy wants to send… me to the police station…” The neighbor lady was indignant. “Mr. Thorne, you can’t scare a child like that. It’ll cause trauma.” “Daddy, Daddy…” Seeing me convulsing with sobs, the neighbor lady held me, patting my back. “Don’t cry, baby. Auntie is here. I won’t let your dad send you away.” Julian: “…” He tried to explain. “Mr. Thorne, your daughter looks so much like you.” The neighbor lady pinched my cheek, sighing. “Eyes and nose are identical. No wonder she’s so pretty, inheriting the best traits from both parents?” Julian frowned. He looked at me, a moment of daze in his eyes. He didn’t make me leave. Through the slightly open study door, I heard him talking to a friend. “Greg, I need you to do a paternity test for me.” “Huh? Since when do you have a kid? Who gave birth to it?” “Seraphina Vance.” “Eh? Her?” The friend sighed. “How did you get tangled up with her again? She turned her back on you so fast back then, used you and tossed you, and now a kid pops up?” “Is hair with follicles okay?” “Yes, but Julian, don’t get your hopes up. Seraphina has been married for seven or eight years, her kid is probably big now. She was so devoted to Liam Carter, why would she have your kid?” “Seraphina is dead.” “What? Dead?” The other side sounded shocked, silent for a long time before speaking. “Okay, send the sample over. I’ll expedite it. Results in six hours max.” When Julian came out of the study, the neighbor lady was feeding me cherry tomatoes. I shook my head. “Sorry Auntie, I can’t eat tomatoes. I get itchy all over and get bumps.” “Is that so?” She looked regretful. Seeing Julian, she smiled. “Mr. Thorne, want to try? My mom picked them from our garden this morning, very fresh.” Julian looked complicated. “I’m allergic to tomatoes too.” He squatted in front of me, touching my face, eyes unreadable. “Are you… really my daughter?”

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My husband, Adrian, and I are known for our mutual hatred. I just suggested we sleep in separate rooms, but then I saw a row of comments floating in the air. [Is the female side character stupid? Bringing up separate rooms out of the blue is suspicious.] [Over a hundred chapters in and still sleeping separately? This story is meaningless without some action.] [Don’t worry, sis. After the male lead agrees, the side character tries to elope with her boy toy. The male lead goes dark, and they’ll be doing it non-stop.] [But the male lead has such long fingers… I’m afraid she won’t be able to handle it.] Terrified, I scrambled back under the covers and quickly changed my tune: “Actually, let’s keep sleeping together. I think I kinda like you.” Hearing my insincere words, Adrian chuckled in disbelief. “Playing with me again?” 1 “Don’t you like it when I play with you?” My fingertips traced down his collarbone. Adrian’s abs tensed up immediately, his breathing growing heavy. “Ha, I’m not one of the fish in your pond. You think I’ll take the bait that easily?” The comments in front of me scrolled frantically. [Male lead, keep being stubborn. Every time she teases you, you kiss her.] [Honestly, the male lead’s body is nosebleed-worthy. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. I’d trade souls with her just for the free luxury cars and mansions.] [Why are you so greedy upstairs?] [Ahhh, don’t stop! Look at the veins popping on his abs! He’s losing control!] I yanked my hand back, cheeks burning. My flustered expression didn’t escape Adrian. He chuckled, leaning in to lock eyes with me. Those bottomless eyes seemed to see right through me. “Scarlett, didn’t you want to kill me before?” “Why so forward all of a sudden?” 2 Adrian was right; I did want to kill him before. We were the famous “hate couple” of high society. After a wild night, we were forced to get married. Post-marriage, we were at each other’s throats, exploiting every weakness. He cut off my numerous romantic prospects; I embarrassed him publicly multiple times. But everyone gets tired of fighting eventually. I didn’t want to battle Adrian anymore, so I planned to elope with a college student under the cover of night. After all, he was a 20-year-old innocent college boy. Until a few minutes ago, when I saw the comments. To avoid being investigated, I tearfully abandoned my elopement plan. Seeing my silence, Adrian’s aggressively handsome face suddenly leaned in, millimeters from my lips. The air was thick with tension. I snapped back to reality, blushing as I spouted nonsense: “I just recently realized you’re actually pretty great. Handsome, fit, and willing to spend money on me.” “Compared to those flowers outside?” “No exaggeration, those mediocre guys don’t compare to one ten-thousandth of you.” Adrian stared at me, a fake smile on his face. “Is that so? Then delete all those male models from your WeChat.” I froze. Adrian really had to say things that made me want to die in the most ambiguous moments. Under his murderous gaze, I deleted over a dozen male models. Adrian raised an eyebrow. “Not deleting the college boy? Saving him for your elopement tonight?” My hand trembled. Adrian really knew everything. I secretly thanked my lucky stars that I saw those comments before eloping. I painfully deleted the college boy’s contact. The corner of Adrian’s mouth lifted slightly as he ruffled my hair. “Good girl.” I ignored him. I just buried my face in his massive chest muscles and secretly wiped my tears. 3 While Adrian took a cold shower, I quietly opened another chat app. I messaged X: [Hey, it’s night… the photo…] X was the white moonlight I’d been longing for over seven years, my first love. Although it was just an online relationship, he saved me time and again. When my stepmother beat me within an inch of my life, he called the police, saving me. When I couldn’t afford surgery and was desperate, he paid for it. If not for that night with Adrian, maybe X and I… A notification pulled me back. X: [I’ll take it in a bit.] He suddenly asked: [Scarlett, who do you like more, me or him?] I knew “him” meant Adrian. I didn’t hesitate: [Do you even need to ask? I like you, not Adrian. No matter how good he is, I’ll never like him.] Read, no reply. I said I liked him, why is he mad again? Men are so hard to understand. The comments scrolled. [Tsk tsk, X is jealous even of this?] [I always look forward to X’s thirst traps. Is he not sending one today because he’s mad? I’m gonna cry.] *[I ship the side character with the male lead, but her and X are cute too. Whatever, I’ll ship anything. Besides, the male lead and X are both ***.] [Another spoiler alert taken away. RIP sister.] Based on my extensive reading experience, the censored words were probably… sexual. My brain spun. Well-endowed? Good in bed? Or… My cheeks burned, and I couldn’t stop smiling. Oh my, what could it be? So hard to guess. Since X wasn’t replying, I watched the comments to pass the time. From the comments, I pieced together the plot of the novel. I was in a melodramatic romance novel. Adrian was the male lead, Sophia was the female lead, and I was just cannon fodder to push their relationship forward. After the female lead returned from abroad, my hate turned to love for the male lead, and I tried everything to stop them from being together. I humiliated the female lead, framed her for stealing company secrets, causing misunderstandings. Eventually, the male lead discovered my evil deeds and had an epiphany. His last bit of affection for me vanished, realizing he truly loved the female lead. He sent me to prison, where I couldn’t handle life and bashed my head against the wall, dying. I stared at my death description for a few seconds. This side character’s fate was too pathetic, wasn’t it? [Side character, stop daydreaming! Look at your phone, X sent the photo.] I snapped back and opened the photo. My face went red instantly. The photo was taken in a bathroom. The man wore only a loose towel around his waist. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, pecs and abs on full display. The veins on his lower abdomen were faintly visible in the mist, making my heart race. The comments exploded. [As expected of X, quality is always top-tier. Pant pant, licking the screen.] [Bro, sorry for what I did to your photo.] [The side character is eating good tonight!] [Thank you, side character. Just say the word, and we’ll vote you as the new female lead.] [No need. With all the evil things she does later, making her the lead would be disgusting.] [But she’s not following the plot now, is she?] 4 Early the next morning, the phone rang, waking me up. It was the college boy. I hung up in a panic. “Who was that?” Startled, I turned to look at Adrian. He was in a black suit, tall and slender. Behind gold-rimmed glasses, his peach blossom eyes were lazy yet sharp—full “refined scum” vibes. I lied: “Spam call.” Adrian frowned. The comments scrolled. [Oh no, male lead’s darkness level is rising.] [Better flirt a little to survive.] I grabbed Adrian’s tie, forcing him to bend down to eye level, and stared straight at him. “What? You think another man called?” “Jealous?” A blush crept up Adrian’s ears, and his breathing grew heavy. He looked down, avoiding my gaze, voice icy: “Ha, only you could come up with such a clumsy seduction.” Despite his words, he let me pull his tie like a leash. I traced circles on his chest with my fingertip, feigning frustration. “Oh well, I’m definitely not as smart as you. “So, Adrian. “Do you like clumsy seductions or not?” Adrian froze. He was silent for a moment, but seeing my expectant gaze, he rasped: “I like it.” The comments went wild. [What has she turned the male lead into?] [Suddenly reminded of a fitting line: As long as I can stay by the young miss’s side, I’ll do anything, even be her dog.] [Forget the male lead, I’m falling for the side character. Who doesn’t love a beautiful, flirtatious bad girl?] I leaned in close, millimeters from his lips, teasing him. Adrian’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his heartbeat audible. Just as he closed his eyes, I held up my phone: “Adrian, it’s 8:30.” Implying he needed to go to work. Adrian laughed angrily, desire still burning in his eyes. “Playing me?” I shrugged nonchalantly: “Not the first time.” Adrian adjusted his tie. “I’ll be back at six. You can play however you want then.” The comments were full of innuendo. [Is this “play” innocent? Sounds dirty to me.] [But the male lead’s fingers are so long, I feel like she won’t be able to handle tonight.] [Who said long fingers are bad? They’re amazing.]

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