Category: English

With only four hours left to submit my final college commitment, I discovered that Chloe, my parents’ adopted daughter, had hacked into my account. She had changed my acceptance from the local university to a school thousands of miles away in the freezing North. Furious, I confronted her in the living room. “Why would you do that?” Before Chloe could even open her mouth to spin a lie, my brother, Liam—who had always doted on her—stepped in front of her like a shield. “Relax, Harper. It was just a harmless prank,” Liam scoffed. “Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” “Just log back in and change it back to the local state college. Problem solved.” My parents, who had always favored her, checked their watches impatiently. “Honestly, Harper, do you have to be so loud over something so small? Look, you’ve scared Chloe.” “Alright, move aside. We’re running late.” My mother adjusted her pearls. “You know we promised to take Chloe shopping for her birthday. If you keep blocking the door, how are we supposed to go buy her gifts?” They pushed past me, ushering a smirking Chloe out the door. I stood in the silent hallway for a long time, foolishly hoping they might turn around. I waited until evening. They didn’t come back. Finally, I saw a notification pop up on my phone. Chloe had posted a photo on Instagram. It was a perfect family portrait: Mom, Dad, and Liam, all surrounding her with a mountain of presents. The caption read: [Mom, Dad, and my big brother said that birthdays only count when you spend them with the people you love most. ❤️] I stared at the screen. It hit me then. I had never been loved by them. Not even for a second. I walked back to my computer. I didn’t change the commitment back to the local school. I closed the browser, confirmed the enrollment to the university in the North, and silently began to pack my bags. Just as Chloe wished, I would go thousands of miles away. I just hope that later, when I’m gone, the family that favored her so much won’t regret it. 1 This wasn’t Chloe’s first “prank.” And this wasn’t the first time Mom, Dad, and Liam had broken a promise to me. Ever since they found me and brought me back home when I was thirteen, they had never celebrated my birthday. Not once. They bought Chloe designer dresses. They ordered three-tier custom cakes for her. They took her on VIP trips to Disney World. They conveniently forgot that her birthday was the same day as mine. I used to hope, with a pathetic sort of desperation, that maybe they would celebrate me too. Just a little. It would have been proof that I mattered. Finally, today—the day I graduated high school and turned eighteen—I had worked up the courage to ask for one thing. I asked if we could celebrate my birthday together. A real birthday. For me. Not just me standing in the corner eating a leftover slice of Chloe’s cake. When I made the request, Dad looked genuinely confused. He looked at Mom and asked, “Have we really never celebrated Harper’s birthday?” Mom’s face went pale as she tried to recall a single instance. She couldn’t. Because it was true. I had been back for five years, sharing a birthday with their beloved adopted daughter, and they had never once remembered me. Liam actually looked guilty for a second. “Sorry, Harper. We messed up,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But you know how it is. Chloe is different. She doesn’t have any blood relatives besides us.” “We naturally worry about her more. We just overlooked you.” “Tell you what,” he promised. “This time, we’ll buy you tons of gifts. We’ll make up for all the years we missed, okay?” Chloe was adopted from the orphanage after I was kidnapped as a toddler. Technically, they were her only family. I didn’t mind Chloe. Before I was found, I even thought having a sister would be nice. But on my first day back in this mansion, Chloe got sick. She had a fever and “convulsions.” It lasted three days. My bio-parents and Liam were terrified. The doctor said it was “stress-induced” and caused by “excessive worry.” From that day on, the Carters withdrew any affection they might have had for me. They poured it all into her. Even though Chloe and I went to the same high school, they never came to my parent-teacher conferences. They said they had always gone to Chloe’s, and if they suddenly went to mine, Chloe might overthink it and get sick again. So, the rumor that I was an orphan spread through the school. When my grades were bad, people whispered, “Well, she’s an orphan, no one raises her right.” When my grades were top-tier, they sneered, “Poor thing, grades are all she has.” Those rumors clung to me for years, like damp clothes on a rainy day—cold, heavy, and impossible to shake off. But I thought I was finally going to shake them off today. My family was supposed to give me their sincere blessings on my eighteenth birthday. I had planned to post a photo of us, happy and smiling, to shut down everyone who called me a charity case. I wanted to show them I had a family. That I was cared for. But now… They had bailed on me. Again. 2 I stared at Chloe’s Instagram post for a long time. Suddenly, the question I had wanted to scream for five years—Why? Why her and not me?—had an answer. I was their blood. I was their daughter. But they only cared about Chloe. The answer was in her caption: Birthdays only count when you spend them with the people you love. They simply loved her. Love has nothing to do with DNA. It has nothing to do with wealth. It only exists where people choose to put it. So, it was time for me to go find the people I truly loved. 3 I logged back into the college portal. I didn’t just accept the school in the North that Chloe had picked to get rid of me. I declined the generic state school she had selected and instead committed to MIT—the prestigious university in Boston I had secretly been accepted to. My grades had always been excellent. My homeroom teacher had begged me to aim for the Ivy Leagues. I had turned her down originally. Mom had said she wanted both Chloe and me to stay local for college. She said she couldn’t bear for us to be far away. Now I realized she just couldn’t bear for Chloe to be far away. She only said it to me because I happened to be standing in the room. After confirming my enrollment, I used the money I had saved from academic scholarships to buy a train ticket. Destination: A small town in the Midwest. Chloe was right about one thing. Birthdays should be spent with the people you love. And life should be spent with them, too. I spent five years trying to fit into the Carter family. I broke my habit of sleeping in. I woke up early to make breakfast. The Carters didn’t like “peasant food,” so I learned to bake sourdough and make artisanal sandwiches. But every time I cooked, Chloe claimed she got food poisoning. I learned to brew their fancy coffee just the way Chloe did. But one time, I slipped, and a drop of hot water hit Chloe’s hand. It was barely red. But Liam lost his mind. He slapped me across the face. The look in his eyes wasn’t that of a brother. It was the look of an enemy. “Harper, are you done being a psycho?” he yelled. “You can’t even brew coffee right? You clumsy, country bumpkin. And your food? It’s disgusting. You make Chloe sick every time.” He pulled Chloe into his arms, soothing her. “Don’t worry, Chloe. We won’t eat anything she touches ever again.” “It’s filthy.” 4 I had opened my mouth to defend myself, but no words came out. I lived in the country, yes. But my Mom and Dad—my foster parents—were hardworking, fastidious people. Our plates weren’t fine china, but Mom scrubbed them until they shined. I didn’t have many clothes, but they always smelled like fresh soap and sunshine. When I was little, the neighbors loved having me over. They said I was the cleanest, sweetest kid on the block. I wasn’t dirty. But my biological parents’ words nailed me to a cross of shame. They looked at me with cold, judging eyes. “Harper, your brother is right.” “You just came back from that backwater town. You have bad habits. But you’re a Carter now. For God’s sake, learn some hygiene.” “Look at how sick you made your sister.” “We don’t expect you to be elegant, but try not to be so… embarrassing.” Their words were daggers. I stood there, frozen. So, I was embarrassing. I was a “hick.” I was… dirty. I don’t remember how that day ended. I just remember apologizing to Chloe. I promised never to enter the kitchen again, never to “contaminate” their food. Later, they took Chloe out to a Michelin-star restaurant to cheer her up. I stayed in the empty mansion, alone. I sat at the kitchen island and ate the sandwiches I had made. Every single one. As I stared at the empty plate, I finally understood. Some homes you can never fit into. And true family isn’t something you have to beg for. My foster parents, Mom and Dad Miller. And my older brother, Ben. They loved me naturally. They never thought my cooking was dirty. They loved the tea I brewed. They loved me. And I loved them.

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1 I am the shame of the entire journalistic world. Chasing a “thrill,” I ended up starring in sleazy indie films that bordered on porn, and I picked up a drug habit to match. My ex-wife, Chief Medical Examiner Beth Williams, was disgusted by the man I’d become—a man who’d bare anything for a buck. She was the one who personally threw me out. Eventually, just as she wanted, I vanished completely. Five years later, Beth got a call from the police department, asking her to come identify a “lost child.” “Ma’am, can you help me find my daddy? He was sleeping in a red suitcase, and someone carried him away.” My daughter’s words sent a ripple of laughter through the station. To them, I was just another junkie, probably high out of my mind and off on a bender, abandoning his own kid. Beth’s face was a thundercloud. “Where is that bastard Ethan hiding now?” she demanded. “Did he run out of cash for his next fix and send you to beg for it?” Floating in the air, I watched my daughter, Sweetie, hold up a cloth doll stained with red specks. “Daddy said,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “this is a present for the hero lady. It has the bad guys’ secrets inside.” … I hovered in the air, a weightless ghost, watching my little Sweetie. She sat on a hard bench in the police station, her tiny body caked in filth, clutching that blood-stained doll as if it were her lifeline. Her face was so smudged with grime you could barely see the sweet girl underneath, her hair a tangled mess of knots. A nearby officer shot her a look of pure contempt before dialing a number. “Dr. Williams? It’s about your ex-husband. He’s done a runner again, dumped his kid at the station.” The officer’s voice dripped with scorn. “A junkie’s a junkie. They don’t give a damn about anyone when they need a fix.” I’d grown numb to the venomous words, the casual cruelty. But I couldn’t bear for Sweetie to hear them. I tried desperately to cover her ears, but my ghostly hands passed right through her small frame, useless. Over the phone, Beth’s voice was sharp and clear. “I’m on my way.” Thirty minutes later, she strode into the station. The biting scent of disinfectant and formaldehyde clung to her, her white lab coat still on, her brow furrowed in a deep, impatient line. She completely ignored Sweetie, her eyes locking onto the officer. “Where’s Ethan?” The officer shrugged. “Can’t reach him. Phone’s off, and he’s not at his place.” A cold, bitter laugh escaped Beth’s lips. “He probably OD’d in some filthy ditch. Good riddance. One less piece of trash for society to clean up.” At the sound of her voice, Sweetie looked up, her small face hopeful. “Ma’am, are you my mommy? Daddy said my mommy is a hero.” Beth recoiled as if struck, taking a sharp step back from Sweetie’s outstretched, grimy hand. “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “I don’t have some druggie’s brat for a daughter.” Sweetie froze, her eyes instantly welling with tears. She hurriedly lifted the doll toward Beth. “Daddy said… if I give this to the hero lady, she’ll give me food.” Beth slapped the doll from her hand. “Get that filthy thing away from me!” Sweetie tumbled to the floor. She scrambled to pick up her doll, her small hands gently brushing the dust from its fabric as sobs shook her body. Beth crouched down, her eyes boring into Sweetie. “Where is your father?” “A bad lady put Daddy in a box,” Sweetie choked out between sobs, hugging the doll tighter. “The box was leaking… so much red water. Daddy told me to run, to give the doll to the lady…” The surrounding officers burst into laughter. “A red suitcase? Sounds like the kid inherited her dad’s psychosis.” “Probably just Ethan tripping, and the kid’s making up stories to match.” “Or maybe his dealers finally caught up with him. He skipped out on his debts and fed the kid some story about a red suitcase to get her off his back.” Beth’s face hardened as she listened to their crude jokes. She grabbed Sweetie’s arm and dragged her toward the exit. “You’re coming with me. We’ll see when your deadbeat father finally decides to show his face.” As she unlocked her car, the sudden flash of the headlights illuminated Sweetie’s bare arms. They were a horrifying mosaic of bruises and tiny pinpricks. Beth’s expression shifted from anger to pure fury. “That son of a bitch,” she seethed. “He’s actually shooting up a kid this small?” No! I screamed, my voice lost to the wind. That’s from the hospital! From the blood tests for her illness! But Beth couldn’t hear me. In her eyes, I was a monster who had sunk so low as to turn his own daughter into an addict. Sweetie, oblivious to the storm raging inside the woman before her, clutched her rumbling stomach. “Ma’am,” she whispered, “I’m hungry. I want some white powder.” Beth thought she was jonesing for a fix. The fury in her eyes blazed hotter. “You want drugs at your age? Go find your junkie mother for that!” Sweetie trembled, terrified. “No, not that… baby formula. Daddy said the white powder is formula.” “Still lying!” Beth wrenched open the back door and tossed Sweetie inside. “He’s even passed his addiction on to his child. Ethan, you deserve to rot in hell!” The car door slammed shut. Huddled in the back, Sweetie hugged her doll, her voice a tiny, heartbroken whisper. “Daddy… Daddy, are you coming back?” Beth heard her. “I hope he never comes back,” she spat, her voice laced with ice. I pressed my spectral face against the window, watching my daughter curled up in the darkness and the cold, unyielding woman in the driver’s seat. Silent tears streamed down my face. 2 Beth brought Sweetie back to her villa. I recognized the pristine interior instantly. It was our marital home. Everything was still spotless, but every trace of my existence had been scrubbed clean, erased as if I’d never been there at all. Sweetie stood frozen at the doorway, staring at the polished floors. Afraid to dirty them, she quietly slipped off her tattered shoes and stood barefoot in the entryway. “Beth, you’re back.” A man in silk pajamas emerged from the master bedroom. It was Leo, the boy my mother had taken in after my own father died. After I fell from grace and left home, he had seamlessly slipped into the void I left behind, taking my place beside my mother and Beth. He stopped short when he saw Sweetie. “And who is this…?” “That bastard Ethan’s,” Beth said, shrugging off her coat with a weary sigh. “He dumped her and ran off again.” Leo approached Sweetie and knelt down. “What’s your name, little one?” Sweetie clutched her doll, shrinking away from him. “Sweetie.” “What a lovely name.” Leo smiled, reaching out to pat her head, but she flinched away. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second before returning, warmer than before. “She’s filthy. Why don’t I give her a bath?” Beth nodded, and Leo took Sweetie’s hand, leading her to the bathroom. A sense of dread washed over me, and I rushed to follow them. The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, the gentle mask fell from Leo’s face. He turned the water on, deliberately making it scalding hot. Sweetie shrieked in pain, but Leo pretended not to hear, scrubbing viciously at the cuts and bruises on her small body. “Shut up,” he hissed. “You’re a junkie’s daughter. You don’t have the right to cry.” I lunged at him, a phantom screaming in fury, but my hands passed through him, completely useless. I could only watch in horror as he tormented my child. After the bath, Leo led Sweetie out, a look of deep concern etched on his face. “Beth, look at this,” he said, his voice a low, troubled murmur. “The poor girl is covered in injuries. It seems Ethan’s life on the streets… has been rough. I can’t imagine what this child has been through with him.” Beth’s expression grew even darker. “What else would you expect from a junkie?” “Don’t be angry, Beth,” Leo soothed. “You’ve done more than enough for him.” Sweetie’s eyes lit up at the sight of bread on the kitchen counter, but she didn’t dare move toward it. Beth grabbed a slice and tossed it at her feet, as if feeding a stray. Starving, Sweetie ignored the humiliation, snatched the bread, and began to devour it, nearly choking in her haste. But she only ate half. Carefully, she wrapped the remaining piece and tucked it deep inside her pocket. Beth’s brow furrowed. “Why did you stop eating?” Frightened by her harsh tone, Sweetie stammered, “For… for Daddy. Daddy’s in the box. He doesn’t have any food.” “He’s probably off selling his body for drug money,” Beth sneered. “I doubt he’s starving.” Sweetie didn’t seem to understand. She pulled a crumpled bill from her pocket, smoothed it out carefully, and held it out to Beth. “Ma’am, Daddy said I can’t take things from people for free. This is all the money I have.” It was the last ten-dollar bill I had, earned from selling my blood to pay for Sweetie’s medicine. A faint, dark stain still marked the corner. My blood. Beth slapped the money out of her hand. “Save it,” she said cruelly. “You can use it to buy him a coffin.” The bill fluttered to the floor. Sweetie crawled over, picked it up, folded it neatly, and placed it back in her pocket. “Daddy said if I’m a good girl, he’ll come back.” “You actually believe a junkie’s promises?” Beth lit a cigarette. “He can’t even take care of himself. What makes you think he’s coming back for you?” Sweetie shook her head, her voice firm. “Daddy really is in the red suitcase. I saw him.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “I saw the bad lady hit Daddy, and lots of red water came out… The doll got red water on it too. Daddy said it has the bad guys’ secrets inside…” “ENOUGH!” Beth shot to her feet, her voice cracking like a whip. “Did that bastard teach you to lie at such a young age? What red suitcase? What bad guys? It’s all just a pathetic act he cooked up!” Terrified, Sweetie collapsed to the floor, sobbing. My heart shattered. I reached for her, desperate to hold my daughter, but my arms passed right through her trembling, little body. I’m so sorry, Sweetie. Daddy is so useless. Leo stepped forward and placed a calming hand on Beth’s arm. “Don’t be upset, Beth. It’s normal for a child to pick up bad habits from someone like that. We can teach her better.” He turned to Sweetie. “Honey, what your daddy did was very wrong. But your aunt and I will teach you how to be a good girl.” I stared at Leo, my spectral form shaking with a rage so profound it felt like it could tear the world apart. I wanted to rip that hypocritical mask from his face. 3 Before Leo could finish his sentence, my mother burst into the villa. Sweetie was still on the floor, her small body wracked with gut-wrenching sobs as she clutched her doll. The sight of her sent my mother into a blind rage. “Is that Ethan’s bastard child from the streets?!” Sweetie flinched and scrambled backward, pulling the doll in close. “Grandma…” she whispered. “Who are you calling Grandma?!” my mother shrieked, lunging forward and shoving Sweetie hard. “The Hayes family has no room for filthy trash like you!” Sweetie fell, her head cracking against the sharp corner of the glass coffee table. Blood instantly welled from the gash, streaming down her face. “NO! Mom! She’s not a bastard!” I screamed, throwing myself in front of Sweetie, my ghostly fingers trembling with fear and rage. But no one could see me. “Mom!” Beth cried, rushing to help Sweetie. “Don’t you dare touch her!” my mother snarled, pointing a shaking finger at Beth. “Who knows what whore Ethan knocked up to have this thing! What were you thinking, bringing her here?!” I watched, paralyzed, as my daughter’s blood pooled on the pristine floor. I wanted to hold her, to wipe away the blood, but I could do nothing. How I wished I were still alive, just so I could protect my little girl. “Daddy…” Sweetie cried as she struggled to sit up, blood dripping into her eyes. “It hurts, Daddy…” “I hope it hurts you to death!” my mother sneered. “Your father is a degenerate animal who sold his body for porn and drugs until he was less than human. You’re no better!” “My daddy is not a bad man!” Sweetie suddenly shouted, her voice ringing with conviction. “My daddy is a hero!” “A hero?” My mother laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “A junkie who gets naked for cameras is a hero? Is that what they call heroes now?” She turned her fury on Beth. “I’m giving you two choices. Either you send this little mongrel to a group home, or I’ll drop dead right here. You decide!” Leo quickly moved to support my mother as she swayed. “Mom, please, don’t get worked up. Think about your health.” “How can I not be worked up?” she gasped, clutching her chest. “That bastard Ethan has dragged the Hayes family name through the mud! And now he expects us to raise his bastard child? In his dreams!” Beth stood frozen, her face a mask of pale exhaustion. She looked from the bleeding child on the floor to her furious, trembling mother-in-law. “I’ll contact social services,” she finally said, closing her eyes. Her voice was hollow. “As soon as I’m done with my current case, I’ll take her.” “No…” Sweetie sobbed, crawling to Beth’s feet. “I’ll be good, I promise. I don’t want anything. I just want to find my daddy…” “Your daddy abandoned you!” Beth kicked her away. “And stop telling those ridiculous lies!” Just then, Beth’s phone rang. “Dr. Williams, we’ve got a development in the Blackwood River dismemberment case. We found a complete red suitcase at the scene. We need you down here immediately.” Beth hung up and glanced at the sobbing child on the floor. “She’s coming with me.” “Beth…” Leo began softly. “Maybe it’s better if she stays here.” “Just take care of Mom,” Beth replied, her tone final. My mother snorted. “Good. Leave her at a crime scene. Maybe she’ll get lost and die there. At least I won’t have to look at her.” Leo helped my mother to the couch, murmuring comforting words. “Mom, don’t be angry. Let me get you some water.” As he turned toward the kitchen, I saw it clearly: a subtle, cruel curve of his lips. I knew he was the one who had tipped off my mother, but there was nothing I could do to expose his treachery. I could only watch as Beth picked Sweetie up like a sack of garbage and threw her into the car. The car sped through the night. Sweetie was curled in the back, the blood on her forehead now a dark, sticky crust. She hugged her doll and whispered into the darkness. “Daddy, I found the lady, but she doesn’t believe me…” “Daddy, I’m so scared…” “Daddy, are you cold in the box? Please come get me…” My heart felt like it was being shredded. I floated as close to her as I could, praying she might feel even a flicker of my presence, a whisper of warmth. I’m so sorry, Sweetie. Daddy is so useless. I couldn’t even make sure you’d be safe. 4 The car screeched to a halt by the Blackwood River. Yellow police tape cordoned off the area, but a crowd of onlookers had already gathered. Beth pulled on a pair of latex gloves and knelt by the riverbank without a word. “Daddy! Daddy!” From inside the car, Sweetie saw the red suitcase and began pounding on the window. Police Captain Miller frowned. “Dr. Williams, what’s the kid doing here?” “Ethan’s bastard,” Beth said without looking up. “She’s going to a group home after this.” Miller sighed. “Poor kid. Having a father like Ethan is a tough break.” “Poor?” Beth scoffed. “She’s five years old and already knows how to lie to get what she wants.” I watched my daughter, her cries growing hoarse until she could barely breathe, and my soul ached. I looked at the woman she had become—this cold, bitter stranger—and remembered a day seven years ago. She had been shielding me from an attacker, her arm sliced open to the bone, but her eyes were fierce and unwavering. “No matter what happens,” she had promised me, “I will always believe you.” Who could have imagined it would come to this? The sound of the suitcase zipper was unnaturally loud in the night air. A foul stench billowed out, so overpowering that several younger officers gagged and ran to the side to vomit. Inside the suitcase was what was left of me. My face was an unrecognizable ruin, destroyed by acid. My head was shaved. My body was contorted into a grotesque, unnatural position. Beth used a pair of forceps to examine the corpse’s arm. “Victim has extensive track marks,” she reported to Miller, her voice clinical. “A long-term intravenous drug user. Cause of death appears to be exsanguination. The killer’s technique is professional. Looks more like a targeted hit.” She stood and stripped off her gloves. “Send him to the morgue for a full autopsy.” When Beth returned to the car, Sweetie was still frantically pounding on the glass, her voice raw. “Daddy… don’t go…” Beth glanced at her in the rearview mirror, her voice like ice. “Be quiet. That’s not your father! A man like him is probably shacked up in some whore’s bed right now!” Her voice cracked with menace. “If you make another sound, I’ll throw you to the dogs.” Sweetie’s small body flinched. She fell silent, but tears continued to stream down her face. In the morgue, Beth changed into blue scrubs and stood impassively before the autopsy table. “A classic junkie,” she said to her assistant, gesturing with disgust at the dense cluster of needle marks on my inner arm. “These people will do anything for money. He deserved to die.” I floated beside her, staring at those marks. They weren’t my choice, I wanted to scream. The traffickers shot me up every day to keep me compliant… But she would never know. As Beth’s examination moved to the ankles, her hand suddenly froze. There, on my left ankle, was a hideous, puckered scar, the flesh melted and mangled from a burn. “This scar…” Her assistant leaned in. “Given the shape and depth, it’s likely self-inflicted. It’s common for individuals in these marginalized groups to have severe psychological issues.” Beth didn’t respond. She just stared at the scar for a long, long time. So long that I almost believed she remembered. I would never forget that day. She had pointed at the fresh butterfly tattoo on my ankle, her face a mask of cold fury. “Ethan, have you no shame?” she’d spat. “Getting something so garish tattooed on you. Is it to make yourself more appealing when you’re out selling yourself?!” I offered no explanation. Instead, right there in front of her, I took a lit cigarette and pressed it into my own skin, again and again. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and a pain so intense it made my entire body tremble seized me. But I clenched my jaw and refused to shed a single tear. “Are you satisfied now?” I had asked. She stared at me, her expression shifting from shock to confusion, and finally, to complete and utter revulsion. “If you’re so determined to destroy yourself,” she had said, her voice dripping with contempt, “then don’t be surprised when everyone in the world looks down on you, Ethan!” That was the last time we ever saw each other. … Beth’s hand, holding the scalpel, remained suspended in mid-air. After a long moment, she seemed to snap back to reality, resuming the autopsy with a renewed, almost brutal, efficiency. It wasn’t until her assistant opened my stomach that he let out a sharp gasp. “Dr. Williams, wait! There’s… there’s something hard in here!” He carefully extracted the object with a pair of tweezers and carried it to the sink to rinse it clean. As layers of grime washed away, a tiny inscription on the inside of a ring was gradually revealed. EH ❤ BW 05.20.2019

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On a variety show, I drew a question left by my ex-husband, a famous actor, from two years ago. “Did you end up with your first love?” I smiled and answered, “Yes, we’re getting married next month.” On stage, my ex-husband jerked his head up, staring at me in shock. He only just realized. He wasn’t my first love. 1 It’s been two years since the divorce, and this is the first time I’ve shared a stage with Lucas. We had a secret marriage. Even our divorce was quiet. On the livestream, comments were flooding in, shipping Lucas and his “first love,” Bella, hoping for a rekindled romance. The host, holding a microphone, teased them, “Can you tell us how your first love made you feel?” The camera deliberately focused on Bella. Lucas glanced at her tenderly, his voice slightly husky, “First love is… the moment she appears, everyone else fades away.” As soon as he finished speaking. The camera accidentally swept over my face. Lucas froze, his eyes darkening. I looked away, digging my nails into my palm until it hurt. In the next interactive segment, the host asked us to draw notes left by past guests from a box and answer the questions. I unfolded the note. The handwriting was very familiar. While I was dazed, the host read the question for me, “Did you end up with your first love?” Seeing the signature, she exclaimed excitedly, “Wow, what a coincidence! It’s a note left by Lucas two years ago.” Two years ago. When we hadn’t divorced yet. Knowing Bella was returning to the country, Lucas was lost in thought. Even on the show, he instinctively asked a question related to her. First love, again. Those two words pierced my heart like a knife. Hiding the emotions in my eyes, I answered calmly, “Yes, we’re getting married next month.” The cup near Lucas’s hand suddenly crashed to the floor. He looked up sharply, staring at me, his face slightly pale. I smiled and added, “He was my first love when I was seventeen. We love each other very much.” Blessings and congratulations erupted on set. The next second, the camera turned away. My gaze froze. My blood stopped flowing. Only my heart pounded wildly in my chest. The first love I mentioned was sitting not far away. He listened quietly to this lie. Suddenly, he stood up and walked over slowly. Under the spotlight, the cold beauty mark on the side of his nose was vivid and clear. The host introduced him cooperatively, “Let’s welcome our next guest—” All sounds gradually faded from my ears. He extended his hand to me, strange yet familiar. “Hello, I’m Ethan.” I shook his warm hand. A brief touch, then separation. 2 In the lounge, I sat on the sofa, dazed for a long time. My manager, Vivian, poked my forehead angrily, “Fabricating marriage news all of a sudden, are you crazy?!” She anxiously checked the trending topics, “I’ll handle the PR. You’re competing for Best Actress next month, consider this pre-hype.” I coughed violently, swallowing the pills in my palm. Bitter enough to make me frown. Vivian handed me water with a pained expression, “This injury is all Bella’s fault. What bad luck. If I knew, we wouldn’t have taken this job.” I calmed my breathing and lowered my eyes, “It’s okay. This show has great traffic, we can’t miss it.” When I first entered the industry, I wasn’t famous. Later, there was a scene where Bella couldn’t ride a horse. The director saw that I looked somewhat like her, so he made me her stunt double. I filmed under the scorching sun for days. My inner thighs were rubbed raw and bloody, so painful I trembled when walking. On the day we finished shooting, Bella stared at me with malice, “Don’t covet things that don’t belong to you, understand?” She whipped the horse when no one was looking. I fell off instantly, sustaining a permanent back injury. I was in a coma for three days. Back then, I thought she meant the role. Until I found the letters Lucas wrote to her in the study. A thick stack. Each one filled with passionate love. [If the person I marry isn’t you, then it doesn’t matter who it is. I might as well pick someone who looks like you.] The more I read, the paler I became. The scripts I was offered, the roles I auditioned for and won, the endorsements I negotiated… The reason they were conveniently snatched by Bella time and time again was because Lucas was pulling strings for her. During the three days I was in a coma from the fall. He was begging the director to change the script so Bella could continue acting. I didn’t even get paid. The worst part was, all my scenes were cut. In showbiz, if you’re a nobody, you get bullied. But I wasn’t resigned. So that day, holding back tears, I fought with him. Lucas was furious, “Who allowed you to touch those letters? Bella is my first love. If I don’t give those resources to her, should I give them to you? Do you deserve them?” He flipped the table. Dishes shattered all over the floor. A mess, nothing spared. Just like our marriage that had come to an end. 3 Vivian went out to take a call and didn’t return for a long time. There was a knock on the lounge door. I stood up, the smile freezing on my lips. Lucas stood outside, his face dark, “Let’s talk.” Without waiting for my answer, he walked straight in, sat on the sofa, and stared at me coldly. “I advise you to behave yourself.” I turned my head in surprise. He continued on his own, “Fabricating a nonexistent first love just to anger me? Jane, you’re quite the actress.” Lucas always thought he was my first love. After we got married, one night sitting by the sea. He suddenly leaned in to kiss me. Amidst the sound of waves, I gripped the hem of his shirt, my body stiff. Lucas looked down at my inexperienced reaction, “Jane, have you never dated? Never kissed anyone?” I closed my eyes, “No.” He chuckled softly, “Then I’m your first love.” Lucas didn’t know. That day when I closed my eyes, my heart was filled with scenes of kissing Ethan. On the day of my first kiss, snow was falling on the Christmas streets of London. Ethan lifted me onto the windowsill with one arm and kissed me almost frantically. Deep, yet gentle. My eyelashes fluttered, and when I looked up, I saw it. A bunch of mistletoe hung above our heads. Every day after that. Whenever I saw mistletoe, like Pavlov’s dog, I would fall into the memory of that confusing, passionate kiss. 4 Thinking of Ethan, I zoned out again. Lucas was still rambling, “Still not over me after so long since the divorce? Can you not be so pathetic?” He was getting more and more out of line. I wasn’t angry, just said calmly, “Isn’t it more pathetic to fantasize that your ex-wife is still pining for you after so long?” These years, he’s been praised too much, his ego inflated. He stood up angrily and grabbed my wrist, “Jane, if you want to win me back, this isn’t a smart way.” I raised my hand to break free, but he held on tighter. The next second. Two crisp knocks interrupted the standoff. I hadn’t closed the door just now. Ethan was leaning there, unknown how long he’d been listening. The black hoodie highlighted his shoulders, making him look fresh and cool. He looked over. His eyes brewed with dark, intense emotions. “Excuse me, the crew is looking for Ms. Jane.” Lucas reluctantly let go of my hand. He put on a gentle facade and left. Ethan and I walked through the corridor, side by side toward the exit. The empty corridor was coincidentally quiet. A button that had come loose during the struggle suddenly rolled off my cuff. Bouncing, spinning on the floor. The crisp sound broke the silence. Like a drop of water falling into a calm lake. Rippling slightly. I bent down to pick it up, my fingertips touching Ethan’s. He instinctively grabbed my hand and returned the button. Our eyes met, I wanted to hide but lacked the strength. Ethan’s eyelashes trembled, “Jane.” Word by word, he chewed my name between his teeth. “This is the seventh year since you left.” 5 This is a lifestyle reality show. All guests have to stay in a house arranged by the program. Room allocation on the first night depends on a game. Lucas had been on the show two years ago. He knew the rules well and got the best room. But he immediately gave it to Bella, “She’s in poor health and can’t handle the cold. I’ll switch with her.” Bella turned to look at me triumphantly, “Ms. Jane, you won’t mind if I take the good room, right? Or maybe I should let you have it…” Without thinking, I knew the comments would praise her for being kind and beautiful. I refused crisply, “No need.” She grew even more smug, smiling provocatively at me, “Mr. Lucas is such a gentleman, but he didn’t consider that you’re injured too.” Ethan suddenly reached out and took my key. “Ms. Jane has a bad back, I’ll switch with you.” My mind went blank for several seconds. I mumbled a thank you. Ethan’s room had a very comfortable mattress. I lay down and stretched. Bella followed unceremoniously, pushing the door open. There were no cameras in the room, and I had already taken off my mic. She stopped pretending, her expression disdainful, “You really haunt us like a ghost, coming here just to disgust us.” “What was that look you gave Ethan just now? You don’t really think he’d be interested in you, do you?” “He’s a big investor, he wouldn’t pick up a divorced woman like you.” I listened quietly. Then mocked her indifferently, “Certainly not like you, picking up a divorced man.” Bella turned pale with anger and left the room sobbing. When others asked with concern, she wiped her tears aggrievedly, “Don’t blame Ms. Jane, she’s just in a bad mood.” Everyone in the industry is shrewd. Following the principle of not offending anyone, they offered vague comforts. Only Lucas came to interrogate me shortly after, “What did you say to her? Bella is crying now, come out and apologize!” I tried to control my expression, not letting the facial mask wrinkle. I replied indifferently, “No time to listen to dogs barking.” Then slammed the door shut.

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I got a call from a coworker in the middle of the night. Her mom was in critical condition and needed O-negative blood. I have O-negative blood. I went. I donated a pint. Her family didn’t say thank you. They didn’t even offer me a glass of water. Six months later, the phone rang again. “The blood from last time wasn’t enough. We need to trouble you again.” I spoke into the receiver, enunciating every word of my quote: “Venous blood draw, one pint. Nutrition fee, lost wages fee, emotional distress fee. Total: twenty thousand dollars.” “Transfer the money directly. Once it clears, I’ll go.” 1 The line went dead silent on the other end, as if the signal had been cut. Three seconds later, Sarah’s voice exploded like a volcano. “Are you insane, Jake?! This is extortion! My mom is lying in a hospital bed, and you’re asking me for money?” I pulled the phone away from my ear to dodge the screeching, looking out at the pitch-black night. The darkness tonight was thick and suffocating, just like that night six months ago. My voice remained calm. “That’s my quote. Accept it and transfer the money, or find someone else.” “Do you have a conscience?! It’s a human life! How can you just stand by and do nothing?” Sarah screamed, every word a moral spike trying to pin me to a cross of shame. Conscience? My mind flashed back to six months ago. 2:00 AM at the City Hospital blood donation center. The needle slid out of my vein. A pint of dark red blood had flowed into the bag. The nurse told me to hold the cotton ball and rest. Dizzy and pale as a sheet, I sat alone on the cold plastic chairs in the hallway. Not far away, Sarah and her father, Mr. Miller, were surrounding the doctor who had just come out of the ER, gushing with gratitude. “Thank you, Doctor! You saved our family!” “Doctor, you’ve worked so hard, please have some water!” From start to finish, not one of them looked in my direction. I was like an extra chair in the hallway—used and then ignored. The heat lost from my body was nothing compared to the chill in my heart. I sat there alone until the dizziness passed, then leaned against the wall and slowly walked out of the hospital. The cold morning wind bit through my thin shirt. I wrapped my jacket tighter and called a cab. When the car passed Sarah’s apartment, I could smell rich chicken soup wafting from her kitchen window. Likely made to nourish Mr. Miller after his “exhausting” night. And I, the person who had just given a pint of life-saving blood, didn’t even get a sip of hot water. The memory was a needle in my heart, waking up the humiliation and coldness I had suppressed. I chuckled into the phone. “I’ll say it again. Twenty thousand. Money first, then blood.” I hung up. Without hesitation, I blocked Sarah’s number. Then I blocked her on social media. My world was instantly quiet. But soon, my screen lit up again. Unknown number. I didn’t answer. I let it ring. Then the texts flooded in. “Jake, you bastard! Karma will get you!” “If anything happens to my mom, I’ll haunt you from the grave!” “Please, Jake, I’m begging you. Consider it a loan? Just save her first!” “You heartless monster, go to hell!” The content shifted rapidly from begging to cursing, perfectly displaying Sarah’s selfish nature. Expressionless, I screenshotted every message and saved them in a folder named “Evidence.” Then I turned on airplane mode. The buzzing world finally fell silent. I knew this was just the beginning. They were used to my “kindness,” my “agreeability.” When kindness comes with a price tag, they only see betrayal. If they won’t talk feelings, I’ll talk prices. 2 The next day, I walked into the office and felt the drop in atmospheric pressure. Colleagues huddled in groups, whispering, looking at me with a mix of curiosity and disdain. I knew Sarah’s smear campaign had begun. Sure enough, as soon as I sat down, my desk phone rang. It was the receptionist transferring a call. I picked up, and Mr. Miller’s piercing voice exploded in my ear. “You heartless little animal! You still have the nerve to show up for work?!” His voice was high and shrill. I frowned and held the receiver away. My neighbor in the next cubicle pricked up her ears, pretending to organize files while watching me from the corner of her eye. “Our Sarah is so honest, she treated you like a best friend, and this is how you repay her? Extortion! What is wrong with your heart?!” Mr. Miller started wailing, his voice thick with nasal congestion, acting the victim perfectly. “My wife is still in the hospital, the doctor says she’s in danger anytime, and you refuse to save her over twenty thousand dollars! Can you sleep at night? Is your blood made of gold?” His words cut like a dull knife. especially that line, “Is your blood made of gold?” It was identical to Sarah’s accusation last night. No, my blood isn’t gold. It’s part of my body. It keeps me alive. Why should I give it freely just because you demand it? I turned sideways, blocking the prying eyes, and pressed the record button on my cell phone. “Sir, state your business. Insults won’t solve anything.” My tone was as calm as discussing the weather. My calmness seemed to enrage him further. “Solve? Twenty thousand! Why don’t you just rob a bank? You’re trying to kill us!” “Asking you to donate blood was an honor! An opportunity to do good! You ungrateful brat!” That sentence ignited the anger I had suppressed all night. An honor? So in their eyes, my sacrifice was a favor they granted me? I cut him off coldly. “Donating blood before was a favor, not an obligation. You didn’t even say thank you. What face do you have to ask me now?” Mr. Miller paused, then switched to tantrum mode. “I don’t care! You have to go to the hospital today! If you don’t, I’ll come to your office and make a scene! I’ll let everyone see what kind of person you are! A cold-blooded monster who cares more about money than life!” “Just wait! I’m coming right now! I’ll make sure you can’t work there anymore! I’ll ruin your reputation!” He screamed threats, his voice getting shriller. I gripped the phone and replied word by word. “Welcome. Let everyone judge who is truly cold-blooded: the person who ignored me for six months and only remembered me when they needed blood, or me.” “Also, every word you just said, including the insults and threats, has been recorded.” “If necessary, I will hand this recording to my lawyer as evidence.” The line went dead silent, save for Mr. Miller’s heavy, angry breathing. I didn’t give him a chance to speak again. I hung up. I renamed the recording “Miller’s Threat” and uploaded it to the cloud. I knew a bigger storm was brewing. They wouldn’t let this go. And I was ready to fight to the end. 3 The office was quiet. Everyone pretended to work, but countless invisible threads of judgment wrapped around me, suffocating. Sarah wore a faded T-shirt today, hair messy, eyes red with dark circles. She wasn’t at her desk but in the breakroom, “venting” to different colleagues. I went to get water and clearly heard her suppressed sobs. “…Mom is still in the ICU, the doctor says it’s bad, she needs blood urgently… I really have no choice…” “I treated Jake like my best friend. Last time he helped without hesitation, I thought this time would be the same…” She paused perfectly, sighing heavily, sounding helpless and disappointed. “Who knew… he asked for twenty thousand. Said not a penny less. My mom’s life is worth twenty thousand to him…” A male colleague patted her shoulder indignantly. “That’s inhumane! Taking advantage of a crisis!” A female colleague added, “Yeah, Jake looks so quiet usually, didn’t know he was so cruel. That’s a human life!” Sarah looked at them with bloodshot eyes, grateful, then shot a venomous, aggrieved glare at me from afar. She successfully painted herself as a desperate, betrayed daughter. And I was the villain—greedy, cold-blooded. I returned to my seat with my water, feeling the stares sticking to my back. A female colleague I used to get along with walked by carrying a stack of files. She huffed loudly. Then, as if she stumbled, half the files slid onto my desk, knocking over my water cup. Warm water soaked my keyboard and mousepad. “Oops, sorry,” she said without a hint of apology, slowly picking up the papers without looking at me. I silently wiped the water with tissues, saying nothing. I was completely isolated. Just then, the department manager, Mr. Wang, called my extension and asked me to his office. I walked in. Mr. Wang gestured for me to sit, wearing a look of deep concern. “Jake, I heard about Sarah’s family.” He interlaced his fingers on the desk, leaning forward as if to “help” me. “We’re all colleagues. She’s in a tough spot, we should help if we can. It’s not just helping Sarah, it’s maintaining the unity of our department.” I tried to explain. “Mr. Wang, it’s not like that. I donated blood six months ago, and they…” He waved his hand, cutting me off. He looked impatient. He didn’t care about the truth. “Regardless, a life is at stake. Asking for money like that reflects badly on the company. What will people think of us? That we’re heartless?” His words were soft knives. He didn’t care about facts or my feelings, only “company image” and “unity.” “Jake, I hope you can look at the big picture and handle this well. Don’t let personal emotions affect your work or your future.” The threat was clear. If I didn’t handle this “well,” my year-end review and promotion were gone. This was workplace coercion. Walking out of his office, I felt walls closing in from all sides. Rumors, judgmental stares, pressure from above. I sat at my desk, drained. Frustration, anger, helplessness… they swirled inside me. But I didn’t cry. Tears are the cheapest thing in the world. They don’t buy sympathy; they only invite more contempt. I opened my browser, ignoring the blinking work chats. I typed into the search bar: “Rh-null blood,” “paid donation,” “laws,” “legal precedents.” They thought isolating and pressuring me would make me fold. They were wrong. The more they pushed, the harder I became. Since no one stood by me, I would be my own armor and weapon. 4 The weekend came. I just wanted to lock myself away from the noise. But the tree wants peace, while the wind won’t stop blowing. Around 2 PM, my doorbell rang violently. Then came Mr. Miller’s frantic screaming. “Jake! Open the door! You murderer! Get out here!” I looked through the peephole. He was pounding on my door like a madman, hair wild, face twisted. Neighbors were peeking out. I didn’t open the door. My silence only fueled his madness. He started rolling on the floor, pounding the ground and wailing. “Everyone come look! This young man has a heart blacker than ink!” “My daughter treated him like a friend, and he’s extorting us for twenty thousand dollars while my wife is dying!” “Leaving someone to die! It’s a crime against heaven! If my wife dies, I’ll haunt him!” His voice was piercing. More neighbors gathered. Whispers leaked through the door. “He looks so polite, how can he be so cruel?” “Yeah, asking for twenty thousand? That’s basically murder.” Each word was an invisible knife. I couldn’t stand the public trial anymore. I yanked the door open. I just wanted him to shut up. Seeing the door open, his eyes lit up with malicious glee. He lunged at me like a starving wolf. He grabbed my arm, digging his nails in, trying to drag me out. “Come to the hospital! You’re donating today whether you like it or not!” He was surprisingly strong. I struggled, but he held on tight. In the chaos, Mr. Miller raised his hand and slapped me across the face with all his might. Slap! The sound echoed in the hallway. My left cheek burned with pain. My ears rang. I was stunned. Stunned, but also awake. In that moment, all the grievance and anger turned into cold fire. I used all my strength to shove him away. He stumbled back and fell on his butt. I retreated inside, locked the door, and leaned against it, heart pounding. Without hesitation, I dialed 911. The police arrived quickly. Seeing the uniforms, Mr. Miller sat on the floor and wailed louder, accusing me of assault. Then, rushing footsteps. Sarah arrived. She ran to the officers, face full of grief and indignation. She pointed at me and screamed: “Officer, that’s him! That’s Jake!” “My mom is waiting for blood, and he blackmailed us for twenty thousand dollars!” She pulled out her phone, playing a recording with a triumphant sneer. “I have proof! He admitted it! Officer, this isn’t extortion, it’s attempted murder!”

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I woke up from a nap in Alec Chase’s office to find several large words stamped on my face. “PORK QUALITY, GRADE A.” Alec’s assistant, Ivy Jiang, stood over me holding a meat stamper, a smirk playing on her lips. “Little heiresses like you should just stay home and be pretty. Stop coming to the office and bothering the rest of us while we’re trying to work.” I hurled my teacup at the wall. Shards of porcelain sprayed towards her like shrapnel. In the next instant, Alec practically flew into the room, pulling her into a protective embrace. He shot me a frown, his voice tight with irritation. “Ivy’s young, Seraphina. It was just a joke. Do you really have to get this worked up?” My eyes were fixed on the open collar of his shirt. There, just above his collarbone, was a faint red mark. He’d been working late for three straight nights. Ivy peeked out from behind his shoulder, sticking her tongue out playfully. Her voice was deceptively innocent. “Alec was worried I’d get bored, so he had a bunch of these fun stamps made for me to pass the time.” “I was just messing with you, Sera. You’re not going to be that petty, are you?” 1 My attention remained on the mark on his collarbone. I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice. I opened my mouth, but my throat was dust-dry. “Alec. What is that?” He froze, his gaze following mine. The color drained from his face. He took a half-step towards me, his lips parting as if to speak. “I did that,” Ivy’s voice cut in, sharp and sweet, with a hint of a playful pout. Alec’s advance halted. His eyes, however, stayed locked on mine as Ivy continued, a smug little smile in her voice. “Last time, Alec was in a meeting for four hours, and I was so bored waiting. I figured I’d give him a little stamp of his own. As a punishment, you know?” For some reason, this made Alec laugh. He reached out and ruffled Ivy’s hair, his tone one of fond exasperation. “You’ve got a lot of nerve. You did that in front of the entire board of directors. I’ve never been so embarrassed.” The office fell silent. All I could hear was a low ringing in my ears. Alec had always been devoted to me, yielding on almost everything. But there was one thing he never compromised on: his work. He was meticulous, almost severe about it, and never allowed anyone to disturb him. But now, it seemed he had learned to bend his own rules to keep another girl happy. A bitter, acidic feeling crept up from my chest into my throat. Before I could speak, I heard the hushed whispers of a few young women from the hallway. “They said Mr. Chase’s wife is in his office. I’d love to see what she looks like!” “I heard that when he proposed, there was a sea of flowers, and five hundred drones created a meteor shower that spelled out her name in the sky.” “I’m so jealous. He’s been so good to her for ten years straight. I have to deliver these files to him, maybe I can sneak a peek!” The girls reached the doorway and stopped, surprised to find it ajar. Then they looked up and saw my face. The meticulous makeup I had applied that morning was completely obscured by the humiliating, bold letters. Their chatter died instantly. The smiles froze on their faces, their eyes wide with shock. The silence in the room became heavy, suffocating. Only Ivy let out a soft little laugh. Alec’s brow furrowed, as if only now realizing how insulting the words on my face truly were. He instinctively moved to stand in front of Ivy. “Ivy, apologize.” Ivy’s eyes immediately turned red. Her voice rose, thick with tears. “Why should I have to apologize?” “You’re the one who had these stamps made for me because you were worried I’d be bored!” “You said I could stamp whatever I wanted, that it was just for fun! And now you’re going to let her humiliate me like this? Force me to apologize?” Alec grabbed her wrist, his frown deepening. “Ivy!” She yanked her arm away, her body trembling with sobs. “Don’t touch me!” “You’re both ganging up on me! You just look down on me, don’t you? I make one little joke and suddenly it’s all my fault!” She was crying so hard her words came out in hiccupping gasps. “Fine! It’s my fault! A normal person like me isn’t worthy of joking with important people like you! I’ll just leave, okay?” She turned and made a dash for the door. “Ivy!” Alec’s voice was stern now. He caught up to her in two strides, grabbing her arm. He looked at her tear-streaked face, his expression complex, and finally let out a sigh. His tone softened. “Stop making a scene. It’s not a big deal. Look at you.” He turned back to me, his brow still knitted, his voice weary. “Ivy’s just a kid. She doesn’t know any better. I’ll apologize to you on her behalf.” “Seraphina, can you just let it go, please?” 2 A bitter smirk twisted my lips. The blue ink felt like it was seeping into my skin, a hot, chemical burn of shame on my cheeks. Alec let go of Ivy and walked toward me. He pulled a few tissues from the box on his desk, his voice softening a fraction. “Alright, don’t be angry. Weren’t you the one who asked me to take care of Ivy in the first place?” “She’s just immature. She likes to play around.” My nails dug into my palms. The sting was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. He was right. I was the one who had taken pity on Ivy. When she’d come to me in tears, begging me to sponsor her education, my heart had softened. I brought her out of that small, dead-end town where boys were valued and girls were afterthoughts. I not only paid for her schooling but also arranged for her to intern at Alec’s company. In those early days, Alec complained to me constantly. He said Ivy couldn’t figure out the copy machine, spilled coffee every time she made it, and delivered files to the wrong floor. He’d rub his temples and whine playfully. “Seraphina, you’ve really saddled me with a project. I spend half my day cleaning up her messes.” I had laughed at him then, told him he was being impatient and too harsh on a newcomer. I always believed that giving someone a helping hand was a good deed. I just never imagined that the person I had personally pulled out of the mud would one day use my face as a stepping stone to reach for things she could never have grasped on her own. Alec sighed and stepped in front of me, raising a hand to wipe the words from my face. But the blue ink was oil-based; rubbing it only made it worse. It smeared into a massive blue-black smudge, spreading from my cheek to my chin, even getting into my hair and the corner of my mouth. I could only imagine what I looked like. My carefully styled hair was a mess, my face a grotesque swirl of ink and ruined makeup. A clown. Ivy clapped a hand over her mouth, but a snort of laughter escaped. The triumph in her eyes was impossible to hide. “Alec!” she chirped. “I almost forgot, the charity auction starts in twenty minutes. We have to go.” At her words, Alec’s expression sharpened. He glanced at his watch and then turned back to me. “She’s right, we’re out of time.” “Seraphina, I was going to take you to pick out some new jewelry, but we’ll have to reschedule.” “Go home for now, okay? We’ll talk properly when I get back tonight.” He walked to the door, then paused and looked over his shoulder. “Seraphina. Be good. Wait for me at home.” Ivy was right beside him. The moment she turned her back to me, she shot me a look over her shoulder, her lips curling into a swift, sharp smirk. It held not a trace of apology, only pure, unadulterated provocation. He pulled the door open. I watched Alec’s back as he left with her, without a moment’s hesitation. The last bit of warmth in my heart fizzled out. “Alec.” “If this is how you handle things…” “I’m not satisfied.” “And I will handle this in my own way.” He finally turned back. His face was impassive, as if he thought this was just another one of my tantrums. He even managed a small, patronizing smile. “Alright, Seraphina.” “Don’t overthink it. Just wait for me to get back.” He opened the door and left with Ivy. The door didn’t latch properly, and their voices drifted in from the hallway. First was Ivy’s hushed tone, laced with carefully crafted worry. “Alec… Seraphina is so spoiled and arrogant, and her family is so powerful… If she really decides to come after me, what… what am I going to do?” Then came Alec’s voice, quiet but clear enough for me to hear every word. “She’s just angry. She’ll get over it.” “Besides,” his voice held a casual, confident certainty that chilled me to the bone. “As long as I’m here, who could possibly hurt you?” “She saves all her fire for me. It’s all for show. Look how a few words from her scared you.” Their footsteps faded away. The only ones left in the office were the shell-shocked young assistants, their eyes now full of pity. I tiredly covered the words on my face and spoke softly. “Excuse me. Could one of you lend me a mask, or a hat?” One of the girls hesitated for a moment before handing me a new disposable mask. “This one is clean.” I glanced at her name tag, my voice catching in my throat. “Thank you. I’ll remember you.” Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly stepped back. I hid my face behind the mask and pulled a borrowed cap down low. I left the building and got into my car. I sent a text to the Lin family, the hosts of tonight’s auction. Tonight, Alec Chase will be attending with an assistant named Ivy Jiang. Send her to me. In the city’s elite circle, everyone was desperate for a chance to get on my good side. Ivy had just handed the Lins that chance on a silver platter. Then I made another call. “Find a shop that makes custom stamps.” “I need one hundred ‘PORK QUALITY’ stamps. And I want the ink to be the brightest red you can find. The kind that never washes out.” 3 The car had barely pulled up to the villa when Benson, our house manager, rushed out to meet me. “Mr. Chase came by a little while ago. He said he was taking Miss Jiang to the charity auction tonight and she needed a suitable gown.” “He… he took her directly to your dressing room, ma’am.” My stomach dropped, but I kept my voice steady. “Which dress did she take?” Benson took a deep breath, clearly suppressing his own fury. “The ‘Starry Sea’ gown.” My breath caught. Starry Sea. The gown I wore to our engagement party. It wasn’t a designer piece. Alec had sketched the design himself and hired the finest master tailor to sew it by hand, stitch by stitch. The bodice was adorned with hundreds of natural blue sapphires of varying sizes. He had told me it looked like he’d plucked the stars from the night sky and draped them over me. The value of that dress could never be measured in money. It was a promise, a part of the grand, brilliant dream Alec had once woven for me with his own hands. I closed my eyes. I could still see the light in his eyes on our engagement day as he watched me put it on. “All the good luck I’ve ever had in my life,” he’d said, “was just to lead me to you, Seraphina.” I had never doubted the sincerity of Alec’s love for me back then. It was only in this moment that I finally understood how fleeting sincerity could be. I sank onto the sofa, exhausted. A maid immediately appeared with a basin of warm water and a soft towel, carefully beginning to wipe the marks from my face. The water was changed several times, and the rubbing started to chafe my skin. But the blue letters seemed to have stained me permanently, leaving behind a faint, greenish shadow, like a birthmark that would never fade. My phone started vibrating wildly. A dozen messages from my best friend, Chloe. That bitch Ivy! Has she lost her mind? Below the message was a link and a photo that was clearly going viral. In the picture, my face was turned to the side, my expression caught in a moment of shock and fury. The words “PORK QUALITY, GRADE A” were stark and blindingly clear. My hair was a mess, my makeup ruined. I looked utterly defeated. The caption was from Ivy’s account. A single sentence with a laughing emoji. Some people just get so serious when they get older. It was just a little joke! And another comment right below it: Youth is great, you can play around with no consequences~ Chloe’s call came through immediately. “It’s all over our social circles, Sera. I know the words themselves aren’t that bad, but…” She trailed off. I knew what she meant. But my reputation is in tatters. I opened my mouth to tell her I was fine, but my throat felt clogged with waterlogged cotton. No sound came out. I took a sharp breath, trying to keep my voice even. “I’ll handle it.” I hung up. Almost at the same instant, I heard footsteps outside. A dozen men in black suits entered, dragging a bound Ivy with them and throwing her onto the floor. She scrambled to sit up, her head snapping towards me. “Seraphina Ning, is this all you know how to do? Use your family’s power to bully people?” “What are you without your family? Nothing!” I slowly rose from the sofa and looked down at her. I even managed a small laugh. “My full name, Ivy, is Seraphina.” She stared, confused by the non-sequitur. “In our circles,” I explained softly, “a name like that… it means that child was born to be treasured. She doesn’t have to fight and claw her way up like a boy. She doesn’t have to go into business or politics. Her only job in this life is to enjoy it.” I paused, watching the color drain from Ivy’s face. “And I’m sure you’ve heard what the name ‘Ning’ signifies in this city.” Her lips began to tremble. Of course, she knew. In this city, the Ning family represented a world so far above her she couldn’t even glimpse it on her tiptoes. Ivy pushed herself up, her voice shaky. “So… so what if I wore one of your dresses? It’s not a big deal! I’ll give it back!” She fumbled with the zipper on the gown. “Don’t bother.” “I have no use for soiled clothes.” I stood up and walked slowly towards her, looking down from my full height. “And I, Seraphina Ning…” “Have no use for soiled people.” Ivy froze, her hand hovering over the zipper, her face completely ashen. A heavy cardboard box was carried into the room. It was filled to the brim with pork quality stamps. I gave my security a nod. One of them picked up a stamp, dipped it in a pad of crimson ink, and pressed it firmly onto Ivy’s calf. She screamed. One by one, the stamps fell, covering her arms, her neck, and her face in livid red marks. Her screams turned to pleas, then to whimpers, and finally to silence. One hundred stamps. Not one less. When the last one was done, she was a crumpled heap on the floor, her skin a grotesque canvas of red letters. I wiped my hands, my voice light. “I forgot to tell you. The ink is custom-made. It will never wash off. It will be with you for the rest of your life.” “I was just playing a joke on you. You’re not upset, are you, Ms. Jiang?”

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1 Two sets of divorce papers lay on the table between Jack and me. One was his. One was mine. My share was twenty percent of the assets and a villa. He would get the twins, the family estate, and everything else. My eyes scanned the page, and a calm settled over me. I signed. None of the hysteria from the weeks before. Jack’s hand slowed as he watched me, his gaze scorching. “No objections? Not even about visitation rights?” He pushed the papers back toward me. “Once this is signed, you can’t take it back.” I handed the documents to him, a faint smile playing on my lips. “I won’t need to.” Jack’s eyes narrowed, something left unsaid lingering in their depths. But it didn’t matter anymore. In a few hours, I would no longer be Mrs. Croft. I would no longer be the woman of the Croft manor. I would no longer even be the mother of two children. I would just be a body, burned beyond recognition. … After the papers were signed, for the first time in years, Jack walked me to the door. His tone was polite, distant. “Do you need a ride home?” I shook my head. He seemed taken aback, clearly unaccustomed to this newfound coldness. His gaze lingered on my hair for a moment before he tore a page from a notepad, scribbled a series of numbers, and handed it to me. “My personal number.” A confident, knowing smirk touched his lips. He was certain I would come crawling back to him. I froze for only a second before taking the piece of paper, nodding my thanks. The moment I was in my car, I flicked open a lighter and held the flame to the corner of the note, watching it curl and turn to ash. The number I’d once begged and screamed for, now handed to me as a parting gift. The irony was bitter. I’d just started the engine when my phone rang. Chloe, his tournament assistant, sounded frantic. “Evelyn, the Captain has warm-up matches for the next few days, and about his dietary regimen…” “Come to my apartment. I’ll give it to you.” A few hours later, Chloe stared at a stack of binders that nearly reached her waist, her smile strained. “Evelyn… I know you’re angry, but you’re not really… getting a divorce, are you?” Ever since I’d brought it up, everyone—Jack, his mother, his teammates on the chess circuit—they all thought it was a game. A ploy. A desperate gambit to force the world’s youngest six-time consecutive chess champion to heel. But the truth was simpler. The spell Jack Croft had cast over me was broken. “He’s allergic to shellfish and cilantro, his sinuses act up in the winter, he only wears pure cotton, and he likes his bathwater at exactly 100 degrees with a few drops of peppermint oil.” I rattled off the list of instructions without taking a breath. The forced smile on Chloe’s face had melted away, replaced by a look of genuine pain. “Evelyn, are you really…” she stammered. I didn’t answer. Instead, I pulled a small, framed document from under my pillow—the wedding vows Jack had written for me seven years ago. In front of her, I tore them to shreds. As the paper fragments drifted down like snow, my voice was a low whisper. “My father is gone. So are we.” A tear I hadn’t known I was holding finally broke free and traced a path down my cheek. Chloe stared, stunned for a moment. Then, her own eyes reddening, she rushed forward to wipe my tears away, apologizing as she did. “Evelyn… you two were childhood sweethearts… How did it come to this?” How, indeed. The most brilliant young chess prodigy of his generation had married his childhood sweetheart in a wedding fit for a storybook. He’d placed his dying mentor in a prohibitively expensive private clinic, and the following year, we were blessed with twin boys. Jack, terrified of ever shortchanging me, showered me with gifts. The napkins we used were embossed with a floral pattern he’d designed himself. When he was drunk, he would murmur my name, “Evie,” all night long. He even had my name tattooed on the palm of his hand. He had built a perfect image, earning both fame and public adoration. But in just seven short years, I, the childhood sweetheart, had become a stale crumb on his plate, while Ava, his manager with no official title, had become the very blood in his veins. Childhood sweethearts. What a joke. Once a man’s heart changes, even the daughter of the mentor who saved his life is discarded like trash. The Crofts were a dynasty of chess masters. But Jack was born with severe autism, the family outcast. It was my father who couldn’t bear to see such a talent wither away. He brought Jack into our home. From then on, there was a place for him at our table, a desk for him in our study, even a bed for him to sleep in. Mrs. Croft, his own mother, would only summon him once a year for a hollow Christmas dinner. He wasn’t a champion then. He was just a stray dog no one wanted. The day he won his first world championship, he didn’t go back to the Croft estate. He came to our house and dropped to his knees before my father. “Sir,” he’d choked out, tears streaming down his face, “I swear I will spend my life repaying you and Evie.” My father had smiled, patting his shoulder with a mentor’s pride. “This is only the beginning, Jack. Stay humble. You have a long road ahead.” Jack nodded, his eyes darting toward me. Back then, I was his sparring partner in name, but his assistant in reality. His preferences, his allergies, his pre-match diet, his training schedules—I had filled entire notebooks with the details of his life. Seeing those notebooks, he was no longer the withdrawn boy. He was a vulnerable soul, his eyes red and raw, clinging to my hand as if it were a lifeline. The teenage Jack would thank me on stage for my devotion. The Jack in his twenties took it for granted. During his fifth championship run, my father pushed Jack out of the way of a speeding car, suffering an injury that left him in a vegetative state. That same year, I became pregnant with the twins. He married me, and I became Evelyn Croft. Because of the children, even the ever-disapproving Mrs. Croft held her tongue. She did, however, hire an agent for him. Ava. That night, Jack stroked my swelling belly and swore an oath. “Ava Thorne is a top agent. She has years of tournament experience. She’s only here to lighten your load.” He kissed my forehead, his eyes full of what I thought was love. “Carrying twins is hard, Evie. I can’t bear to see you wear yourself out for me.” He wasn’t wrong. Just three months in, I was sick morning, noon, and night, wasting away to nothing. Jack, meanwhile, grew busier and busier. He was home less and less. When I asked, he was always “training.” I knew winning a seventh consecutive title was his life’s ambition, so I stopped asking. Instead, I poured my heart out to the coolly professional Ava. I brought her homemade food despite my growing belly. I sent her gifts. I begged her to take good care of Jack. And she did. She took very good care of him. The night I was in labor, hemorrhaging on the delivery table, the tabloids exploded with photos of Jack and Ava spending the night together in a hotel. My sons’ umbilical cords hadn’t even been cut. Mrs. Croft shoved a phone in my face, forcing me to give a statement to the press. My head was roaring. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth. I couldn’t form a single word. Mrs. Croft dug her nails into my arm, her voice a venomous hiss in my ear. “Evelyn! If you ever want to see your sons again, you will speak. Now.” My hand trembling, I took the phone and, following her script, whispered that I trusted my husband completely. That night, my name trended for all the wrong reasons. The public branded me a possessive, delusional wife. The moment I was out of the operating room, Mrs. Croft took the twins. My marriage was a sham. My reputation was in tatters. My father was a living ghost, and my children were the last lifeline I had. When I later pleaded with Jack to let me see them, there was no guilt in his eyes, only irritation as he shoved my hand away. “With my mother, they’ll get a world-class education. What will they learn from you? How to be a parasite?” “You want to know why I cheated? Why don’t you look at the stretch marks on your stomach? Why don’t you ask yourself what you have that Ava doesn’t?” He threw a folder at my feet. “This is Ava’s tournament analysis. Maybe you should spend less time acting like a lunatic and more time learning something useful.” The contempt in his eyes cut me deeper than any knife. My mind snapped. I ran headfirst into a marble pillar in the hallway. That night, Jack knelt at my feet, his body wracked with sobs. He clutched my hand, his voice hoarse as he recounted one memory after another from our youth. He swore he’d move my father to a better clinic. He swore he’d talk to his mother about letting me see the boys. Finally, he slapped himself across the face, his eyes bloodshot. “Can we start over, Evie? Please?” For my father, and for my sons, I swallowed my grief and nodded. For the next few years, he seemed to change. He remembered anniversaries. He took me to see the children. No matter how late he trained, he came home. He even dismissed Ava and hired a new team. Just when I thought things were finally getting better, Ava walked into our home and slapped an ultrasound photo onto the table in front of me, a triumphant smirk on her face. “Sorry, Mrs. Croft. I’m pregnant.” “Jack told me your body went soft after the twins. He can only find release with me now. Only a fool like you would actually believe a man could change.” So the dismissal, the starting over… it was all a lie. I stared at the black-and-white image and let out a hollow laugh. “What do you want?” She tutted. “Jack made me get rid of the others, but this time…” She gave me a strange, twisted smile, then slammed her own body against the wall. A second later, Jack’s furious roar echoed from the doorway. “Evelyn, what did you do?!” He kicked me aside and rushed to Ava’s side. From behind him, two small voices cried out, “Mommy!” They weren’t calling for me. They were calling for Ava. My two sons scrambled past me, their small feet trampling my hand as they rushed to her side, fussing over her with worried whispers. Even then, Ava kept up the act. “Don’t blame her, Jack. It was my fault… I said the wrong thing and upset her…” Her ‘defense’ only fueled his rage. He whipped his head around, his eyes locking onto me with pure hatred. “If I’d known you were this vile, I should have let you die on that pillar years ago!” he snarled. “Ava has already sacrificed so much for you, and you still do this?” Before I could speak, my older son picked up a heavy glass ashtray and hurled it at me. “You hurt my mommy!” he shrieked. “You should die!” A warm, sticky liquid trickled down my face. “What… what did you call her?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I’m your mother…” My younger son spat on me. “You? You’re just a parasite! We’re going to be champions! Our mother is Ava!” The look of disdain on his childish face was a perfect copy of his grandmother’s. No wonder they were always so distant when I visited the estate. They refused to call me mom. They shrank from my touch. They were ashamed of me, just like Mrs. Croft. I stared blankly for a long moment, then burst into laughter—a wild, broken sound. Tears mixed with blood, dripping onto the floor. Jack’s brow furrowed. He took a step toward me, but a pained cry from Ava pulled him back. He shot me one last venomous glare, then scooped Ava into his arms and ran out the door, the twins trailing behind him. At that exact moment, my phone buzzed with a flood of videos. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Every night I thought he was with me, he was spending the second half with her. Listening to the sounds from those videos, my mind finally shattered. I swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. When the housekeeper called Jack to tell him I was dying, he laughed into the phone. “If she dies, she dies. One less burden for me to carry.” I didn’t die. But the attempt drew a media frenzy. The Croft name was headline news once again. As I was wheeled out of the emergency room, Mrs. Croft was waiting. She slapped me, hard, across the face. “You pathetic waste! You can’t even keep your own husband, and now you have the nerve to pull a stunt like this!” She grabbed me by the throat, her voice low and menacing, while pointing a finger toward the ICU down the hall. “Your father’s life is in my hands. Tarnish the Croft name again, and he won’t live to see tomorrow.” Just then, I saw my two sons standing in the doorway, their faces etched with disappointment. “Damn, the parasite didn’t die.” “If she had, Mommy Ava could have finally moved in.” In that instant, I finally understood what it meant to be better off dead. After that, Jack never mentioned Ava or her baby again. The day I was discharged, he forced himself on me, over and over, all day long. His eyes were dark, terrifying, as if I were his mortal enemy. I didn’t understand why then. I understood three months later, when I was pregnant again. He drugged my food. Then he came into my room. He rode me all night, a storm of brutal, punishing thrusts. I screamed for my baby until my throat was raw. He ripped off his tie and stuffed it in my mouth. The tattoo on his palm was no longer my name. It was Ava’s. My baby was torn from my womb in a storm of violence, reduced to a pool of blood. Before I lost consciousness, I heard his voice, thick with rage. “Isn’t the title of Mrs. Croft enough to repay you for your father’s life?” “You killed Ava’s child. You had to know this was coming.” “Everything she suffered, I will make you suffer a thousand times over.” Jack was nothing if not stubborn. As a boy, he’d sworn he would conquer his autism, and he had, becoming a charismatic figure on the world stage. When my father was declared brain-dead, he knelt by my hospital bed and proposed, and I became the enviable Mrs. Croft. Now, he had personally murdered his own child. He was destroying me, trampling me, in the most humiliating way imaginable. Trapped in a prison of pain and despair, I was a living corpse, but I didn’t dare die. This was a torment worse than death. The day after I woke up in the hospital, a doctor delivered the final blow. “Mrs. Croft… I’m so sorry. Your father passed away last night.” “It was peaceful. He didn’t suffer.” I didn’t know if I should feel relief or grief. I dragged my broken body through the funeral arrangements. Every student my father had ever mentored came to pay their respects. Everyone except Jack. Swallowing my sorrow, I called him. He sneered into the phone. “He’s sleeping in a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-night clinic bed, better than I do. Why would he die?” “Look, I’m busy arranging a funeral for Ava’s dog. Don’t bother me.” The call was on speaker. The entire funeral hall fell silent. In the eyes of the man my father had saved with his own body, my father’s life was worth less than a dog’s. A kind friend asked, “Aren’t the twins coming to say goodbye to their grandfather?” I gave a bitter smile. I had called them. Their reply: “Good, the old bastard is finally gone. Now you can get lost too and stop clinging to our family!” Six months passed. Grass began to grow on my father’s grave. Jack never knew he had died. When I asked for a divorce, he signed the papers without hesitation. He thought he still had me under his thumb. He thought that in a few days, I would be on my knees, begging him to take me back. He even gave me his private number as a leash. But he was wrong. I would never beg him again. As I walked Chloe to her car, I pointed to the binders in her arms. “That’s over a decade of my life in there. Don’t lose it.” Chloe’s lips trembled. She wanted to say something, but all she could do was nod, her eyes red. She didn’t know what else to say. She just waved from the car—a farewell, and a wish for a better future. As the car drove away, she glanced back in the rearview mirror. What she saw made her entire body tremble. Forgetting that Jack was in a warm-up match, she dialed his number. “Captain… Evelyn… she set a fire… she burned herself alive…”

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Ever since I got my own phone at age 5, I’ve been receiving strange messages every day. The sender calls me “Mom.” At 3:00 AM today, she messaged again. “Mom, I dreamed of you again. The attic is leaking, and my stepmom told me to soak it up with a rag. But the rag is too small, and I’ve been wiping all night, but it won’t dry. Mom, I’m cold and hungry, and I miss you so much…” I tilted my head, watching the rain pour outside my window, and replied seriously: “Don’t be scared, baby. Where are you? Mommy will bring you some yummy food!” 1 “Who are you?” A reply popped up instantly. I was confused. I blinked my big eyes and pouted. “Didn’t you call me Mom?” Why is she asking who I am now? To show I was a responsible mother, I added a cute and patient smiley face emoji at the end. But I waited a long time. My “daughter” didn’t reply, and I drifted off to sleep. The next morning, rubbing my sleepy eyes, I instinctively reached for my phone. There was a message from my daughter on the screen: “You’re not my mom. My mom passed away five years ago.” I looked at my round little tummy, putting my hands on my hips angrily: “That’s rude! I’m five years old this year, alive and kicking!” After a while, it hit me. Her mom must have disappeared five years ago. My mom said people get reincarnated after they disappear, and I’m exactly five years old this year. Maybe I really am her mom. When I play house, I’m always the best mommy among all the kids! Just as I was about to tell her this news, my daughter sent a new message: “I don’t know who you are, but thank you.” “This was my mom’s old phone number. Today is my 18th birthday. If it’s not too much trouble, could you wish me a happy birthday?” I slipped into my bunny slippers and sent a voice message in my milky voice, converting it to text before sending. “Baby, happy birthday! Be happy and eat lots of yummy candy!” Then I thought, every year on my birthday, Mom and Dad prepare gifts for me. Does my daughter need a big birthday present too? So I messaged her again: “What gift do you want from Mommy for your birthday?” “Mommy likes cute dolls and chocolate. What do you like?” The girl on the other end hesitated for a long time before replying: “Can you send me some painkillers?” I didn’t know what painkillers were. But I knew people only take medicine when they’re sick. I quickly asked: “Baby, are you sick?” “Actually, my stepmom locked me in the attic last night…” She seemed afraid I would misunderstand and started explaining, “She said I stole money and locked me in the attic and beat me. It hurts a lot right now, I just want a painkiller.” Her stepmom sounded bad. Like the evil queen in Snow White. I angrily messaged my daughter back. “Your stepmom is so mean! She’s a monster! Don’t be scared, baby. My daddy is a dog (zodiac sign), I’ll send him to bite your stepmom and get revenge for you!” Then I asked for her address and ran downstairs to find our housekeeper, Auntie May. “Auntie May, I want to call a delivery guy!” Then I pulled out the medicine box from the cabinet, lying on the floor, my little butt in the air, rummaging through it. Colorful boxes of medicine, none of which I recognized. I looked left and right, but nothing seemed right. Seeing my face scrunched up, Auntie May asked with a smile: “Lily, why are you going through the medicine box?” I looked up at her: “Auntie, which one is the painkiller?” Auntie May got nervous hearing this. She picked me up from the floor, touching my forehead and palms worriedly. “What’s wrong, Lily? Are you not feeling well?” I shook my head obediently: “Lily isn’t sick, but Lily’s daughter is having a birthday today, and I want to send her painkillers!” Auntie May thought I was celebrating a doll’s birthday and corrected me with a smile. “Lily dear, for birthdays we eat cake, not painkillers.” Hearing this, I slapped my forehead, realizing that for birthdays, besides painkillers, I should also send cake and sweet candy. That way, the medicine won’t taste bitter. 2 I quickly asked Auntie May to order a cute cake for me. Although she didn’t understand what I was doing, she helpfully placed the order. I ordered a cute bunny cake, bought two boxes of painkillers, and included the filled candies I had been saving for a long time but couldn’t bear to eat. I put them all in a cute pink bag and had the delivery guy send them to my daughter’s school. “Dear baby, Mommy prepared lots of gifts for you. Remember to eat a candy after taking the medicine so it won’t be bitter. Happy Birthday!” After the order was completed, I specifically asked the delivery guy: “Sir, is my daughter okay?” The delivery guy sighed softly. “That little girl was bruised all over, looked like she’d been abused. Her clothes were full of patches, and she looked so pale. It was pitiful to see.” My heart clenched as I listened. What mother wouldn’t care about her daughter? Later, my daughter sent me a photo of her eating the cake: “Thank you. This is the first birthday cake I’ve eaten since my mom passed away. The cake is delicious, and the candy is sweet.” “It’s okay! Mommy will treat you to cake for every birthday from now on!” “Thank you, Mom.” I happily opened my phone and searched online for how to raise a daughter. The internet said daughters should be raised with abundance, given the best of everything in the world… I nodded in understanding, my gaze slowly falling on my pink piggy bank. When Mom walked into my room with a strawberry milkshake, I was smashing my piggy bank with a small hammer. Crash… Coins spilled all over the carpet like popping candy. I picked them up one by one, butt in the air. “This is for buying candy for my daughter… this is for buying dresses for my daughter… this is for buying the newest toys for my daughter… this is for Daddy, to pay him to teach my daughter’s stepmom a lesson!” Mom leaned against the wall, watching me mumble to myself with a smile. “Lily, why did you smash your favorite piggy bank? Do you want to buy a new toy?” I hugged Mom excitedly and told her: “Baby has a daughter now, so of course I have to raise her!” Mom was startled: “Where did you get a daughter?” I took out my phone and pointed to the text message on the screen: “Baby found her own daughter! She’s a poor thing with no mommy, getting bullied by her stepmom.” “The internet says raising a daughter costs a lot of money, so Baby has to work hard from now on.” Mom looked at me speechlessly and explained patiently: “Baby, there are many bad people in this world. Not everyone loves you like Mommy and Daddy. The person on the other end might be a scammer!” But I didn’t believe it: “No way! If she was a scammer, she would definitely ask Baby for lots and lots of gifts. But my daughter only asked for one painkiller.” “Her mom left her. If I, her new mom, don’t care about her, she’ll be bullied to death by her stepmom!” Mom sighed: “No, the police will help her.” I shook my little head: “The police can’t help everyone. But I’m her mom, I will protect her well.” Dad, who had just walked in, heard what I said and dropped his briefcase. “What? My baby is a mom?” “But baby, you’re still little. You can’t even tie your own shoelaces…” “Being a mom doesn’t mean you have to know how to tie shoelaces!” I tilted my head and retorted, “Being a mom just means wiping your baby’s tears, sharing candy, and…” I stood on my tiptoes and kissed Mom and Dad on the cheek, “Saying ‘I love you’ 100 times every day!” “I believe I can definitely be a good mom!” 3 Mom and Dad couldn’t argue with me and sighed softly: “Alright then, we believe you can be a good mom too.” “But we need to ensure your safety, so we’re going to investigate that girl…” I didn’t understand what Mom and Dad were saying. But I knew my daughter was good and obedient, so Mom and Dad would definitely like her too. In the evening, my daughter sent me a photo of a dark attic with a thin cotton quilt on the cold floor. “This is where I sleep every night.” I looked at the dark attic and felt so sorry for her. I turned around and took a picture of the star lights in my room: “Don’t be afraid, baby. I’ll share half of my star lights with you!” She replied with a smile: “Okay!” Then my daughter sent me another photo, a faded family portrait. My daughter was smiling happily, and the woman holding her was beautiful, with a distinct mole on her ear… I climbed out of bed and looked at my ear in the mirror. I turned to show off to Mom: “Mom look, I have the same mark on my ear as my daughter’s mom!” I deliberately took a photo of my ear. “My grandpa told me people who pass away come back to this world with gifts. Look, the mole on my ear is exactly the same as your mom’s!” The phone was quiet for a long time before the girl replied softly. “Will you always be with me? Mom.” “Of course!” I knew deeply that this was different from playing house because, in this moment, I had a real daughter! And I would be with my daughter forever. That night, Grandma and Grandpa sent me a red envelope (money). Being generous, I immediately forwarded the red envelope to my daughter. The girl on the other end was shocked: “Why are you giving me money?” I said: “You’re my daughter! Moms give their daughters pocket money!” She returned the transfer immediately. The chat box showed she was typing, but it took a long time for the message to come through. “Thank you, but I really can’t take your money. My dad is a sailor, and he pays my tuition and living expenses to the school on time. I can eat at school…” “Mom, you just need to keep me company every day and listen to me talk.” My eyes got hot. I suddenly felt my daughter was so sensible. “Okay, you can tell Mom anything from now on!” My phone suddenly buzzed. I looked at the incoming call from my daughter, feeling a bit lost. If she knew I was only 5 years old, would she stop letting me be her mom? After thinking for a while, I answered the call. The sound of rain dripping on the floor came through, along with a girl’s voice: “Hello, thank you for being willing to take my mom’s place and keep me company.” I deliberately lowered my voice, but I couldn’t hide my childish tone: “It’s what a mommy should do!” Her voice trembled a little: “Thank you. Now, besides Marmalade, you’re the only one willing to keep me company.” I tilted my head: “Who is Marmalade?” “It’s the cat my mom used to raise. She’s 9 years old now, an old kitty.” My daughter said as she sent a photo. The orange cat in the photo was chubby, but the tips of its fur were turning white, showing its age. I said happily: “Wow, what a cute kitty! With me and the kitty keeping you company, don’t be sad anymore, daughter!” “Okay, I won’t be sad.” And so, we talked on the phone every night. She would share interesting things from school, telling me that growing up is a happy but challenging journey. And I would pick up the new fairy tale book Mom bought me and tell her the latest stories. Mom and Dad stood at my door, a bit jealous. Shaking their heads, they said helplessly: “Sure enough, once a daughter has a child, she ignores her old folks!” “Baby, are you not sleeping with Mommy again tonight?” I looked up excitedly: “Mommy, my daughter’s name is Autumn. Such a pretty name!” “Sounds like a cute little princess!” Dad nodded helplessly: “Yes, yes, your daughter is better than mine!” I pouted and retorted: “Your daughter isn’t bad either!” 4 But then, everything changed again. For three days in a row, I waited for my precious daughter’s call every night. But there was no news, and even the daily text messages stopped. I suddenly had a bad feeling. Did something happen to my daughter? While I was anxiously thinking of what to do, I suddenly received a message from my daughter: “Save me!!” I quickly woke up my sleeping parents, shouting worriedly. “Mommy, Daddy, my daughter is in danger!” “Let’s go save her!” This was my first time at the entrance of the apartment complex where my daughter lived. It was late at night, but a crowd had gathered downstairs, smiling and watching the show. “Did you hear? Autumn’s stepmom tried to set her up with an old man, but the kid refused, so the stepmom threw her cat off the building!” “That’s a stepmom for you, so vicious! What was her dad thinking, finding an outsider to look after his kid!” “So what? The dad is a sailor, gone all year round. Who’s gonna meddle in their family affairs now?” In the center of the crowd, a thin girl was tightly holding a bleeding cat. She looked helplessly to the people around her for help. “Please, save my cat, please!” The girl’s desperate voice echoed through the stairwell, but no one cared about her feelings. A woman with a mean face walked out, looking coldly at the crying girl: “I told you to listen. It’s just a damn cat, is it worth it?” “If you want to save this cat, fine! Listen to me, stop thinking about college, just find a man and get married!” The girl’s face was pale. She hugged the cat tightly, crying helplessly. “Please let me go…” “I have nothing left, I only have this cat…” “I want to take the exam, I don’t want to get married, I want to study!” The woman sneered: “Want to study? Is it up to you! I’m your legal guardian now, you think you can escape me?” The woman’s high heel stepped on the cat’s tail. Marmalade was badly hurt and too weak to struggle. The girl could only pound on the woman’s leg. The woman said disdainfully: “If you want to save the cat, call your dad and tell him you want to get married and don’t want to study. Otherwise, you won’t study, and the cat won’t survive!” The girl lowered her head, her eyes dead, as if she had accepted her fate. She said hoarsely: “Okay, I’ll call my dad.” Seeing this scene made me furious. My precious darling was being bullied like this! In a fit of anger, I broke free from my mom’s arms, ran through the crowd, and stood in front of that bad woman. Hands on my hips, I pointed at her. “What do you think you’re doing! Don’t think about bullying my daughter while I’m here!” The woman laughed so hard she shook: “Where did this brat come from? Kid, are you crazy? I’m this girl’s mother, her legal mother!” “How is disciplining my own daughter bullying?” The crowd watching the commotion erupted in thunderous laughter at my comical behavior. Looking at me like I was a joke… The bad woman smiled and walked towards me: “Little kid, don’t try to play hero when you’re still drinking milk! Or she’ll pay for it!” My daughter looked at my back, her eyes full of disbelief and complexity. “I didn’t expect you to be a child…” she whispered, tears falling like large beads. “And I didn’t expect you’d really come to save me…” Before she could finish, the woman’s hand landed lightly on the girl’s back. My daughter trembled uncontrollably, begging me, “I’m fine, don’t worry about me. I just want to ask, can you take care of Marmalade for me?” She handed the cat to me with red eyes: “Thank you, thank you for really coming.” Holding the weak orange cat, I burst into loud tears. Because I realized that as a mother, I couldn’t protect my precious daughter. Suddenly, Mom’s voice came from behind me. “This stepmother, everything you just said will be used as evidence in court. As a top lawyer in this country, I have reason to suspect you of marriage fraud and child abuse!”

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After I retired, I had too much time on my hands, so I fell in love with knitting. My neighbor, Carol, gushed about a design I’d made and insisted on buying it for her daughter. I tried to refuse, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I let it go for the cost of the yarn. After that, it became a thing. Other neighbors would bring me yarn, asking me to knit sweaters for them. I’d only ever charge a ten-dollar fee for my time. It went on like this until the day Carol’s daughter, Jessie, came home from law school. She greeted me with a warm smile, holding three large baskets brimming with yarn. “Helen, I absolutely adore your sweaters! Could you please make me a few more?” Ten days later, she threw the finished sweaters on my floor. “Helen,” she said, her voice dripping with ice, “you wouldn’t want this little unlicensed business of yours to become a big legal problem, would you?” “And for selling defective goods? You’ll have to pay ten times the price back. Not just to me, but to all the neighbors.” 1 Carol was so thrilled to have her daughter back from law school that she spammed the neighborhood group chat with ten videos in a row. The shaky camera couldn’t hide her sheer excitement. A flood of thumbs-up emojis filled the chat, everyone congratulating Jessie on her achievement. Someone even commented how they wished they had a daughter like Jessie, someone to be proud of. After her public posts, Carol sent me a private voice message. “Helen, honey, have you finished that pattern I sent you? The temperature’s dropping, and my girl has nothing to wear.” I quickly pulled out the sweater I’d just finished and sent her a picture. It was a beautiful piece with a colorful star pattern, knitted from fine merino wool. The design was intricate and challenging, but the result was stunning. A moment after I sent the photo, another voice message came through. I pressed play, and a sweet, youthful voice filled the air. “Thank you so much, Helen! This is prettier than anything you could find in a boutique.” I rubbed the ache from my temples and replied with a couple of smiley faces. I’d barely put my phone down when a video call came in from my son, Alex. His eyes immediately spotted the leftover balls of yarn on my sofa. “Mom, how many times have I told you? Stop knitting for them,” he started, his voice a familiar mix of love and frustration. “We don’t need the money. Besides, you’re putting in all this work for practically nothing…” He went on, a gentle lecture from my boy who had just been promoted at his job in New York. He was managing a small company now, making a name for himself. “Mom, once you get things packed up, just come live with me. I can take care of you now.” I smiled and agreed, discreetly pushing the two large bags of yarn behind my back with my foot. The next morning, an insistent knock rattled my door. “Helen! Helen, open up! I’ve brought you some more business!” Carol was banging on my security door so hard it vibrated. When I opened it, I saw Jessie was with her, wearing the star-patterned sweater I’d finished just the day before. She was holding three overflowing baskets of yarn. “Helen, I’d like five more, exactly like this one,” Jessie said, pointing to the stars on her chest. I hesitated. “Jessie, that pattern is incredibly difficult. It takes a lot of time. Maybe you could pick another design?” Jessie’s face fell. She grabbed my arm, her voice turning into a playful whine. “Oh, please, Helen? Pretty please? I posted a picture of it online yesterday, and everyone went crazy for it!” Her sweet-talking left me flustered, and before I knew it, I’d agreed. “Alright, Jessie. But like we discussed, I’ll have to charge you for the labor. Let’s say fifty dollars a piece for this design.” A flicker of something crossed Jessie’s face, almost too fast to see, but her smile never wavered. “Oh, I heard all about your fees from my mom yesterday,” she said, her tone still light. “That’s not exactly cheap, is it?” A knot of discomfort tightened in my stomach, but I explained calmly. “Jessie, the simple patterns are just ten dollars, more of a thank-you than a fee. But one of these sweaters takes me two full days to make. Fifty dollars is already far less than you’d pay anywhere else.” Jessie just smiled wider, squeezing my hand apologetically. “I get it, I get it. A woman’s got to earn a living, right?” Her eyes scanned the room, landing on the stack of design charts in the corner of my desk. “Okay, it’s a deal then. I’ll come back in ten days to pick them up.” She quickly pulled out her phone and transferred the money—two hundred and fifty dollars, exactly. I took the payment and saw them out. That evening, Jessie joined our neighborhood group chat. It was a casual group where we’d share new knitting patterns and organize our morning Zumba classes in the park. Jessie chimed in right away, asking where the class was tomorrow, adding a few playful emojis and saying she wanted to join. I chuckled to myself. It was sweet that a young woman like her wanted to hang out with a bunch of old birds like us. I worked tirelessly, knitting day and night to get the sweaters done on time. The night before the deadline, just as I was getting ready for bed, my phone buzzed. It was a friend request on my secondary account, one I rarely used. The note attached read: Helen, we need to talk. It was from Jessie. I was confused. Why wouldn’t she just message my main account? The next second, I was pulled into a new group chat. The name of the group made my blood run cold: “Legal Action – Defective Goods Claim.” 2. Meanwhile, my main account remained silent. It slowly dawned on me that this secondary account was tied to a new SIM card I’d gotten with a phone plan. They probably didn’t know it was mine. But why was I in a legal action group? I hadn’t bought anything recently. Then, Jessie’s message appeared. It was a link to a spreadsheet, meticulously documenting every single sweater I had ever made for my neighbors. Names, photos of the items, the fee I’d charged—it was all there, clear as day. I hadn’t realized until that moment, but scrolling through the list, I saw I’d knitted hundreds of pieces over the past few years. Some were for the neighbors themselves, others they had given away as gifts. A quiet pride swelled in my chest. Their satisfaction had always been my greatest reward. Then, Jessie sent a voice note. The words she spoke shattered my world like a pane of glass. “Ladies, please feel free to add any items I may have missed to the spreadsheet. According to federal and state law, any person engaged in business activities is required to hold a valid business license. What Helen Miller has been doing is illegal. But don’t you worry. I’m a lawyer, and I will help you all get the justice you deserve.” Her voice was firm, ringing with self-righteousness. I scrolled up through the chat history. Most of it was Jessie, laying out her case. She had posted screenshots of her mother’s requests over the past few months, alongside screenshots from a wholesale website showing a similar item. “Look here. This same style of sweater sells online for ninety-nine dollars. But Helen Miller charged a hundred dollars for her labor fee on a more complex design.” “Ladies, we provide the yarn, we find the patterns. What gives her the right to charge such exorbitant fees?” “I know we all value being good neighbors, and it’s hard to say no to her. But I can’t stand by and watch you all get ripped off like this. Rest assured, as soon as I have all the evidence, I will be filing a lawsuit.” Along with her messages were several photos, zoomed in to show a loose thread on one sweater, a slight pucker at a shoulder seam, and a decorative patch that was beginning to peel. “I only noticed when I tried on my sweater a few days ago that there were already quality issues. And it’s not just this one; many of the older pieces have lost their shape. This proves she’s been careless and her work is shoddy. She doesn’t deserve our trust!” When no one immediately responded, Jessie posted a barrage of legal statutes. Operating without a business license. Illegal enterprise. Selling counterfeit and defective products. The words swam before my eyes, making my head spin. “Don’t worry, everyone,” she continued. “She will be held legally responsible. At the very least, she’ll have to pay back ten times the amount for every item.” That last sentence ignited the chat. “She’s right! The shoulder on that sweater I got last month bunched up, and Helen tried to blame me, saying I must have hung it wrong. If she’d made it properly, it wouldn’t have warped so easily!” “Jessie, you’re amazing. A true credit to your education.” “Yeah, not like Helen’s son. I hear he’s still just a nobody trying to make it in New York.” For every word of praise for Jessie, there was a barb aimed at me. The friendly faces I knew had twisted into masks of greed, all blinded by the promise of a payout. They started one-upping each other, boasting about who had ordered more sweaters and calculating how much compensation they were owed. Looking at the familiar profile pictures, a chill went down my spine. These were the same people who had begged me to knit for them, and I’d only ever charged them a pittance for my time. My work was meticulous, and my fees were a fraction of what any professional would charge. Knits are delicate; they’re affected by the yarn quality and how they’re washed. I had explained to every single one of them that these sweaters needed gentle care if they wanted them to last. Just then, a new message popped up. I recognized the sender—an old neighbor who had commissioned more than a dozen pieces from me over the years. “Jessie, honey, we don’t know much about the law. Are you sure she’ll have to pay?” Jessie responded with a winking emoji. “Don’t you worry. I have an ace up my sleeve.” She then circled several of the sweaters I’d made. “These designs are original creations from well-known brands. What Helen did is copyright infringement. If it comes to it, profiting from infringement could land her in jail.” “If she refuses to pay,” Jessie continued, “I’ll use this to sue her. I have experience helping designers fight copyright theft.” The group went silent again. After a long pause, a voice note appeared. “Jessie, isn’t that a bit much? Let’s just get her to pay us back. Jail seems too harsh.” Jessie didn’t respond for a moment. Then, she reposted the spreadsheet. “Take a look, everyone. This is a record of how much she’s scammed from you. In just two years, she’s made thousands of dollars from her ‘labor fees.’ If we don’t hold the threat of jail time over her head, why would she ever be willing to give that money back?” In the face of profit, years of neighborly friendship evaporated into thin air. 3. I switched back to my main account. It was quiet. A wave of sadness washed over me as I scrolled through photos of the sweaters I’d knitted over the years. My mother, God rest her soul, had taught me to knit, and I’d loved it ever since. But back when I was working, I only had time for small projects on the weekends. A few years ago, my husband passed away after a long illness. I had just retired, and suddenly my life was empty. No work, no partner. I spent my days wandering the house like a ghost. My son, Alex, had just graduated and taken a job in another state. As a young guy starting at the bottom, he was working constantly and rarely had time to visit. Worried I’d be lonely, he signed me up for a class at the local senior center without telling me. They offered all sorts of craft classes, and that’s how I rediscovered my passion for knitting. At first, I just made things for myself—a scarf here, a sweater there. Then Carol became my first “customer.” The first few times, I didn’t charge her anything, but she started bringing me more and more complex patterns. Soon, other neighbors wanted in. More and more people started asking, and I didn’t have the heart to say no. That’s when I decided to charge a small fee for my time. To my surprise, the requests didn’t stop; they multiplied. My days became filled with the click-clack of needles. It was a good thing, really. It kept my mind off my late husband. I looked over at the sofa, where five perfectly folded sweaters were stacked neatly. My heart felt like a block of ice. The next morning, Jessie was at my door. As I opened it, I caught the triumphant gleam in her eye before she could hide it. She took the sweaters from me, and then, without a word, dropped them onto the floor in front of me. The pale yellow wool instantly picked up a smudge of dust. She watched my reaction, a smirk playing on her lips, and pulled a folder from her bag. “Helen, you should take a look at this.” Inside were the “evidence” documents from the group chat, now professionally bound. Tucked behind them was a formal letter of demand from a law firm. “Your actions are in serious violation of the Fair Business Practices Act and other relevant statutes. According to these laws, any individual or entity engaging in commercial activities must possess a valid business license. Your operation has disrupted the normal market economy and constitutes illegal enterprise.” Jessie recited the text with the crisp, clear articulation of a seasoned lawyer. She was good; I had to give her that. “Furthermore, you cannot escape liability for selling defective products. I have multiple witnesses—your neighbors—who will testify that the items they received were of substandard quality.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Helen, you wouldn’t want this whole mess—operating an illegal business—to get any bigger, would you?” “So let’s make a deal. Ten times the original price. That goes for my orders, and for everyone else’s too!” She flipped to the last page of the folder, where a long, itemized list detailed my “illegal profits.” They had diligently recorded every penny I’d ever received. But they’d conveniently cropped the screenshots, cutting out the parts where they had pleaded with me, as a friend, to help them out. Honestly, a single sweater took me the better part of a day, and I charged a measly ten dollars for it. You pay more than that just to get a pair of pants hemmed. If my prices weren’t practically free, they never would have kept coming back. Jessie’s voice softened, turning syrupy sweet. “Helen, I understand you might be upset. But the law is the law. It’s our duty as citizens to abide by it.” She glanced around my living room. “Looking at your home, Helen, it doesn’t seem like coming up with ten thousand dollars would be a problem for you. Why make things ugly over such a small amount?”

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My superstar brother picked me up from work, but the paparazzi snapped a photo and claimed I was a desperate simp chasing him. To mock me, my brother posted a fake medical report online, claiming I had a terminal illness and didn’t have long to live. He even asked people to Venmo him $50 to fund my funeral. Unexpectedly, in the middle of the night, my door was pounded on. Standing there, red-eyed and frantic, was the usually cold and untouchable movie god, Preston Shaw. “I’ll give you fifty million dollars. Please, just give her to me. Let me save her.” My brother raised an eyebrow. “You’re too late. She’s already gone.” I, having just returned from a midnight snack run, stood quietly behind the movie god, holding a bag of chips. “Who’s gone?” The next second, the movie god fainted. My brother: “Crap. I forgot he’s terrified of ghosts.” Me: “…?” 1 When I was seven, I accidentally stepped on a famous actress’s dress during a commercial shoot. The actress, known for her gentle public image, leaned down and hissed that I was finished. Since then, faced with a barrage of fake scandals and blacklists, I decided to smash the jar and go full villain. I embraced the “love-to-hate” route in Hollywood. By the time my biological brother, Chase Chen—a top-tier idol and rapper—returned from his music studies abroad, my reputation was unsalvageable. “Here’s the plan,” my brother, who shares my DNA, said. “We pretend we don’t know each other. Don’t drag me down with you.” “You said you’d help me when you got back!” “There’s no fixing this, sis. Delete your account and restart. Maybe ask Mom for a third child.” “?” Since then, he’s been my biggest anti-fan. If I get a papercut, he offers salt. If my foundation is cakey, he offers sandpaper. If I’m dieting, he eats a three-tier cake in front of me. End of flashback. Right now, I had just finished filming a variety show with the movie god, Preston Shaw. I was sitting in my brother’s car, admiring my makeup in the mirror. “You look happy. Did sparks fly with the movie god today?” Chase asked, driving with one hand, a lollipop in his mouth. “Physical sparks, maybe. This sweater is cheap polyester; the static electricity is insane. I zap everything I touch.” “Oh?” Chase was silent for two seconds, then chuckled. “So that’s what he meant.” “What?” Chase didn’t answer. He just handed me his phone. The trending topics were dominated by Preston Shaw. It was the first day of recording, so that was expected. But the hashtags were… weird. I clicked on #PrestonShawSparks. It was about a tweet he had just posted. Preston, who usually speaks in monosyllables, had written a whole paragraph: @PrestonShaw_Official: I heard that when two hearts get close, sparks fly. I didn’t believe it before. But after colliding thirteen times today, can we define this as destiny? “…Is he off his meds?” I stared wide-eyed. Was Preston possessed? He was notoriously cold. We hadn’t exchanged more than three sentences today, and I swore he was glaring at me half the time for being in his way. Chase shook his head. “Maybe the static shocked his brain.” 2 The next day, things got even weirder. #ChaseChenSecretGirlfriend #ChloeChenDesperateSimp #ChaseAndChloeCohabitation Turns out, the paparazzi caught Chase picking me up. They spun a tale about how I, Chloe Chen (the D-list villainess), was throwing myself at Chase Chen (the A-list idol), and how he eventually took me home. Me: “…” Guys, look at the names. Chloe Chen. Chase Chen. We look alike! A fool would ask if we were related! But the comments were brutal. “Don’t tarnish my oppa! Chloe Chen is a stage name! Her real name is Gertrude!” Me: “…?” “No way, twenty years ago when she did that commercial, wasn’t her name Mary?” Me: “…??” “Wait, I know this! I’ve been a hater for ten years. Her real name is Sally Ann DeOpsva, she’s half-Russian!” Me: “…???” Hold on, bro, you know too much. I scrolled down, face darkening. No one got it right. Instead, they dug up the incident from twenty years ago. “Who cares what her name is? She’s been a liar since she was seven.” “True. I feel so bad for Lydia Quinn. She took care of that ungrateful brat, only to be backstabbed.” “Lydia Quinn hasn’t been active in years. Is she retired?” “I hope she comes back just to slap Chloe in the face!” Slap. I placed my phone face down on the table. Lydia Quinn. The first celebrity I ever met, and the architect of my ruin. Because of one sentence—”You’re lying”—directed at a seven-year-old, I had carried a label of dishonesty for twenty years. She used my “betrayal” to gain sympathy and win her Best Actress award. Meeting her again? Honestly, I was kind of looking forward to it. Buzz buzz. My phone vibrated. A notification from Twitter. Chase had posted. @ChaseChen_Real: I can’t hide it anymore. She has a terminal illness. She almost fainted on the road, so I brought her home to die in peace. She’s gone now. Venmo me $50 for a Cyber-Funeral (Deluxe Edition). Attached was a fake diagnosis report he pulled from who-knows-where. My brother is quiet only when he’s plotting evil. “Hey, you’re eating my blood buns (profiting off my misery)!” I walked into the living room, rolling my eyes. “Shh, I’m fishing for a big catch.” Chase typed furiously on his phone. I kicked him. “Is there food? I’m starving.” “Sis, it’s 1 AM. Aren’t you a female celebrity? Don’t you diet?” “The celebrity is dead. I’m a ghost now.” I scratched my messy hair. “Forget it, I’ll go buy something.” The convenience store was close. I walked back with a bag of snacks and saw a tall figure standing at our door. A stalker fan? I knew living with Chase was risky. I crept closer and saw Chase leaning against the doorframe, looking bored. “…She’s already taken her last breath,” Chase said solemnly. Huh? I squinted and stepped forward. “Who took their last breath?” The figure spun around. Before I could see his face, he collapsed onto the floor. Thud. “Crap. I forgot he’s afraid of ghosts,” Chase said, looking at me. “Sis, wash your face. You look like a zombie from the night shift.” “Yes, yes, your majesty.” I squatted down to check the body. When I saw the face, I nearly fainted too. “Preston… Preston Shaw?!” 3 “…” “…” Silence. Finally, I broke it. “Chase, are you trafficking men now?” “I’m a legitimate businessman.” “What is going on?” “I don’t know! He ran to our door screaming he’d give me fifty million to hand you over. Am I the kind of brother who sells his sister?” “Holy crap, is that a Black Card in his pocket?” “Where? Where?!” I glared at him. “…Cough.” Chase composed himself. “I really don’t know. Ask him when he wakes up.” “Okay, but why did we drag him into my bed?” “Your sheets are pink. He probably likes pink.” “And you say you aren’t trafficking him.” “I’m straight.” Chase frowned. “It’s fine, I texted his agent. They’ll pick him up soon. Can’t believe a six-foot-two man is scared of ghosts…” I rubbed my chin. “You sound like you know him well.” “Know him? I hate him. People who approach me with ulterior motives are the worst. Especially since his motive is my biggest trigger.” “Then why did you—” Ding dong. The doorbell rang. Creepy at this hour. Chase stood up. “Must be his agent. I’ll get it. Watch him.” I rolled my eyes. Once he left, I turned back to Preston Shaw. And locked eyes with a pair of deep, ink-black pupils. Crap, when did he wake up?! I opened my mouth but found no words. Preston just stared at me, slowly reaching out a hand. I watched, frozen, as his finger reached for me. Zap. Static electricity sparked where he touched me. “…” I am throwing this sweater away. But Preston acted like he didn’t feel it. He gripped my wrist, his expression tragic. “Are you really with Chase Chen?” Me: “…?” Huh? Bang! A loud slam from the front door. The next second, Chase stormed in, grabbed Preston by the collar, and hauled him up. “Why is she here?” Confusion flashed in Preston’s eyes. “While I still have patience, get out of my sight.” “What happened? Who was at the door?” I asked, bewildered. Preston seemed to realize what Chase meant. He looked at me with a complicated expression, then slowly stood up. “Did you step in glue? Move!” Chase snapped. Preston sighed and walked out. “What is your problem? You’re so rude. I’ll go see him out—” “Sit down.” Chase pushed me back onto the bed. “?” I slapped his hand away. “Did the static fry your brain too?” Ignoring his dark expression, I walked out. The front door was open. Preston stood there, radiating a chill colder than Chase’s anger. I peeked around him. A woman stood in front of Chase. It was dark, but as I walked closer, our eyes met. My blood froze. …Lydia Quinn. Even with the marks of time, her beauty was undeniable. I would never forget those eyes. She saw me. Just as she opened her mouth, the door was slammed shut in her face. Slam. Louder than before. I turned around. Chase was looking at me. “It’s okay. You don’t have to hold back your tears at home.” 4 The next day, I arrived at the variety show recording with swollen eyes. I was late, so I tried to sneak to the edge of the lineup. But when I stopped, everyone was staring at me. Strange. Usually, I’m background decoration. I turned my head and met a pair of familiar smiling eyes. “…Chase?” My brother, who was asleep when I left, was now standing next to me, dressed to the nines. And he was holding a child’s hand. Wait, a child? I widened my eyes. The kid blinked back. He looked familiar. This was my nephew, Leo! My cousin, a rapper who debuted with Chase, went off the rails after Chase went abroad. He left a trail of broken hearts and, eventually, a baby. When the mothers teamed up to cancel him, he dumped the kid on us and begged us to hide him. He shaved his head and swore to reform. I hadn’t seen him or the kid since. Why was Leo here? With Chase? I looked at Chase. He winked at me repeatedly. I nodded thoughtfully and asked politely, “Did your contact lens slip, Mr. Chen?” “…” Chase rolled his eyes and looked toward a screen displaying the live comments. [Holy crap, Chase and Chloe actually have a kid?] [LOL ‘contact lens slip.’ Chase is winking at a brick wall.] [So the rumors are true? Cohabitation and a secret child?] [Why does that kid look familiar…] [Why is everyone focused on them? Look at Preston Shaw in the middle. His face is terrifyingly dark.] I looked back at Chase. He had the face of a man ready to sacrifice himself. Just as I was about to signal him, a tall shadow separated us. Preston Shaw, who was standing in the center position, had walked over and stood wordlessly between me and my brother. I was even more confused. The host finally recovered. “Welcome to Saturday Night Frenzy! By popular vote, we have Chase Chen as our special guest! This episode is live!” “Hello everyone, I’m Chase.” “Welcome! We noticed you brought a cute little guest. Who is this?” I realized the situation. I looked at Chase, but Preston blocked my view completely. I moved left, he moved left. I moved right, he moved right. I frowned. My cousin must have dumped the kid on Chase again. We couldn’t reveal his identity yet. What would Chase say? Thinking this, I saw a finger point at me. “Ask her.” Me: “…?” Excuse me? The misunderstanding skyrocketed. The comments went wild. [Wow. ‘Ask her.’ That’s basically saying ‘Go ask your mother.’] [OMG… but why is Preston squeezing in there?] [Wait, wasn’t there a rumor that Preston and Chase had a thing? Is Preston jealous of the sister-in-law?] I opened my mouth to explain, but Preston suddenly grabbed my nephew’s other hand. With a solemn face, he announced: “The child is mine.” Me: “?” Chase: “??” Comments: “???” [WHAT?] [Preston, wait. Yours and WHOSE?] [Mom, the fanfiction is coming true.] [So the rumor about Preston and Chase having a secret love child in London is real?] Chase’s brain clearly short-circuited. The host, a professional, laughed nervously. “Haha! What a joke! Let’s start the games!”

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After high school graduation, my twin childhood friends confessed their feelings to me simultaneously. They held their breath waiting for my answer, but my attention was caught by a barrage of floating comments appearing out of thin air: [No matter who the side character chooses, the other one can guiltlessly be with the heroine.] [The brothers are so close, afraid of hurting each other, so they handed the decision to the side character.] [It’s a pity both brothers fell for Luna, but the side character is nice too. Hope the four of them stay friends forever.] What kind of twisted balancing act is this? I immediately called Luna: “Sam and Dean both confessed to me. They’re right here next to me. What do you think I should do?” The two who were about to snatch my phone froze in unison upon hearing my question, anticipating the answer from the other end. After a moment of silence, Luna said solemnly: “Neither of them is really up to par… I think I’m a better fit for you.” The three of us on this end fell silent. The person on the phone tried to salvage the awkwardness: “Haha, just kidding.” The eyes of the two boys dimmed rapidly, their silence eerie. Luna started to choke up: “Nina, I was really joking. Don’t ignore me.” 1 Sam and Dean were frozen stiff. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Luna spoke again, her words almost making me choke on that breath. “But seriously, neither of them is any good.” She explained through tears. “Sam can’t do it, you know.” She made such a bold claim that my eyes nearly popped out: “How would I know? I don’t know!” I carefully recalled my interactions with Sam. I certainly hadn’t seen that part of him. Sam, standing beside me, radiated a chilling aura. “He just can’t. Stares at a computer all day, no exercise, never goes out unless necessary. Pale and thin, no vitality. Wears layers even in summer, must be weak. Won’t live long.” I sighed in relief. So that’s what she meant by “can’t do it.” Sam’s cool voice rang out: “Whether I can do it or not, you can tell just by looking?” I tsked and glared at him. Why talk like that to a little girl? Sam gave me a deep look, then glanced at my phone. Without a word, he turned and left. Dean spoke up hopefully: “I love sports. I’m better than Sam.” Luna didn’t hesitate, her crying voice steady: “You’re no good either. Always sweating, smelling gross. Nina likes clean.” Dean subconsciously sniffed his cuff and frowned: “No smell. I shower after every workout.” “I say there is, so there is. You’re not good enough for Nina.” Dean pouted angrily. He looked at me, eyes pleading for me to control Luna. I shrugged. I can’t control what others say. Okay, I admit I was bothered by the floating comments. Seeing I wouldn’t help, Dean turned slowly, dejected. He paused several times, as if waiting for me to call him back. I turned off the speakerphone and put the phone to my ear: “Okay, they’re gone.” Luna sobbed: “So, you didn’t say yes to either of them, right?” “Right.” The person on the other end finally let out a little laugh: “That’s good, you’re still best with me…” Her voice stopped abruptly. After a few seconds, she hurriedly added: “Just kidding! I don’t like girls, I only like you. No, I mean I don’t like like you, I…” She made herself cry again. I rubbed my temples: “Okay, I understand. I’m best with you.” 2 Luna usually relied on me heavily, so her reaction wasn’t surprising. But the floating comments baffled me. [Two male leads can’t compare to one side character. Useless, both of them.] [Can I ship this pair?] [If the heroine relies on the side character so much, how can the male leads make a move?] [Then they don’t. If the heroine doesn’t choose them, they aren’t the male leads.] [Childhood sweethearts losing to the new girl… wait, the new girl is winning?] [Don’t overinterpret. The heroine was bullied, and the side character helped her out. It’s normal to be dependent, doesn’t mean it’s that kind of feeling.] What! What are they saying?! My face grew colder. I got back on my bike and sped past Dean. “Why is the side character blushing? Tired already?” “Her stamina isn’t great either.” Nonsense! I pedaled harder, wind rushing past my ears, braking sharply only when I reached my building. Those words haunted me like ghosts. They kept mentioning “heroine” and “side character.” Apparently, I’m the “side character,” and Luna, whom the twins like, is the “heroine.” Could these lingering comments be related to Luna? I dropped off the groceries at home and told my mom: “I’m not eating home. Going to find Luna.” Luna lived in the next neighborhood, a ten-minute bike ride away. I parked familiarly and rang her doorbell. Luna opened the door, looking dazed when she saw me. “Nina, you came to find me?” Her voice was still choked with tears. Two more people walked to the door, standing behind Luna. Sam and Dean. “The male leads didn’t get this excited reception.” “Ooh, a showdown between male leads and side character.” “Can ‘male lead’ and ‘side character’ even have a showdown?” “Wait, Luna likes the side character, so it’s a showdown between male leads and heroine… even weirder.” 3 I walked into Luna’s house. Her parents were always away on business, so she was usually alone. The first time I came here, the whole place felt cold and gloomy. Now the curtains were open, warm and bright. She sat me on the sofa and happily went to the kitchen for snacks and drinks. Opposite me, the twins stared, examining me. The people who confessed to me half an hour ago were now warily observing my interaction with Luna. This look was annoying. I ignored them. Luna piled snacks on the coffee table, squatting on the rug, enthusiastically handing me things: “You said these chips were good, and this soda too… I bought so much, but you rarely come over.” I took everything with both hands: “Mom brought Grandma home. I’ve been taking care of her since break started.” Luna’s eyes lit up, staring unblinkingly: “So that’s why. What does Grandma like to eat? I’ll buy some and bring it over.” “Cough.” Sam coughed, reminding us of his existence. Luna looked over: “If your throat hurts, go home and take medicine. Told you your body is weak, stop running around.” Her tone was unusually impatient. In my memory, Luna spoke softly to everyone. Sam clearly marked this down against me. I didn’t understand his look. Luna suddenly stood up, blocking me: “Looking won’t make her like you.” Sam scoffed at Luna: “Does she like you then? Keep dreaming.” I crunched on a chip. He’s always had this stinking face since we were kids. Expecting everyone to guess his thoughts, labeling anyone who couldn’t a dummy. Bad attitude, sharp tongue. He’ll never get a girlfriend like this. “Side character must be secretly pleased, right?” This comment made my eyebrow twitch. I forced the corners of my mouth down. I am not. “Sam isn’t sick, he’s just clearing his throat.” I glanced at Dean. In the short time apart, he had sprayed some cologne. The scent was dizzying. I just rubbed my nose. Luna told Dean: “Your smell is too strong. Sit farther away.” Thanks to Luna, the twins must hate me now. 4 Facing rising hostility, I pulled Luna to sit next to me and looked at the two opposite: “Why are you guys here?” Before they could speak, Luna spilled the beans: “Sam came first, said he was working out at home, told me not to talk nonsense.” I raised an eyebrow. Dean looked meaningfully at Sam. “Then Dean came too, smelling dizzying, claiming he loves cleanliness.” I reminded Luna: “They care a lot about what you say.” Unexpectedly, Luna looked like she was facing a formidable enemy. She scooted closer, pressing tightly against me: “Just because I stopped you from choosing them? They want my approval, want me to put in a good word for them.” Is that one way to interpret it? [Heroine: Peacocks displaying. Displaying for me to play matchmaker.] [Luna: Only I am worthy of Nina.] These comments made me uncomfortable. I quietly moved a bit away from Luna. Unnoticed, Luna moved closer again. I had to send the irrelevant duo away first: “You guys done? Can you leave now?” “Believing her puts a cap on your IQ. You want to be alone with her that badly?” Sam retorted. He was like he swallowed gunpowder. Luna, as the homeowner, shooed them away: “Can’t you tell you’re in the way? Leave.” Sam looked at me. Luna pushed him out. Dean looked at me with complicated eyes, stood up, said goodbye. Left alone with Luna, I thought I’d be more comfortable without a third party. But I forgot about the floating comments. Truly unsightly. I tried to calm down. Luna watched, suddenly reaching out to touch my face: “Nina, feeling sick? Why is your face so red?” I dodged her hand and moved to a single sofa: “No. I have something to say to you.” Luna couldn’t hide her expressions. My avoidance made her look dejected: “I won’t listen.” “…I haven’t said anything yet.” “It’s definitely something I don’t want to hear.” She turned her back: “You’re popular. You’re going to date someone and distance yourself from me, right?” I recalled my high school life. Besides Luna always sticking to me, who else welcomed me? “No.” Luna turned her head slightly: “You really don’t like Sam or Dean? You’ve known them longer, deeper feelings. They both like you. Not even a little moved?” The image of them blaming each other for bedwetting flashed in my mind. I took a deep breath: “Really no.” Luna’s face brightened. She moved towards me: “Then what did you want to say?” I looked at the messy comments in the air, pursed my lips: “One, Sam and Dean… don’t fall for them.” The comments were weird. The twins confessing to me was weird. Better not to get involved until I figure it out. Luna nodded: “Of course I don’t like them. I only hang out with them because you’re close to them.” The comments went crazy over her words: [If this isn’t love, what is?] [Hard not to suspect the heroine’s feelings for the side character.] [Side character forbidding the heroine from liking the male leads, is she jealous?] I closed my eyes, clenched my fists, avoided Luna’s gaze, and steeled myself: “Two, I probably don’t like girls.”

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