Category: English

Leila Elkin, FNB’s new director, had ousted news queen Diana Croft, causing a city-wide scandal. Now she stood in my consignment shop, here to sell jewelry. “My darling had these custom-made,” she said, waving a hand. “He spoils me with so many gifts.” A diamond choker with a ruby the size of my thumb—worth at least ten million—lay beside other treasures. I smiled professionally. “Your husband must love you deeply.” But as I checked the certificates, the signature made me freeze. Leila sipped her tea, eyes glinting. “Oh, I’m not his wife. We’re just… first loves.” She leaned in, smiling. “He said he missed fifteen years of my life, so he bought fifteen gifts to make up for it. Romantic, isn’t it?” It was. But that same elegant signature had graced my report cards for years. It was my father’s, a man I’d believed for thirty years was too unromantic to ever give my mother a single surprise. 1 Noticing my stunned silence, Leila’s eyes narrowed with a hint of amusement. “Goes to show, you really do have to raise a girl with money. Otherwise, even when you’re surrounded by luxury all day, seeing the real thing still leaves you speechless.” I ignored the barb in her voice and composed myself, offering a cool smile. “Ms. Elkin, I can offer eight million for the ruby. You’ve just taken over as director at FNB; why the sudden need to sell your collection?” “Oh, I’m selling these to buy my love a birthday present,” she explained, a dreamy look in her eyes. “He gave me this massive rock the other day. Do you have any watches in a similar price range?” A desperate, sliver of hope flickered within me. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. The same name, the same handwriting… it could happen. “Could I perhaps see a photo of him?” I asked, my voice steady. “It would help me recommend a suitable style.” The moment she showed me the screen, that hope died. There was my father, his arm wrapped tightly around Leila, a genuine, unbridled joy in his eyes that I had never seen before. At home, his face was a constant mask of stern solemnity. Here, he was alive. “Ms. Lin, you’ve been staring at my man for quite a while,” Leila said, snatching the phone back. Her tone was sharp with displeasure, and the massive diamond on her finger flashed, searing my eyes. My parents had been married for thirty years. Our family of three was crammed into a tiny one-bedroom apartment in the Barrens, the grimiest part of Cresthaven. The living room doubled as my bedroom, a space so small that the three of us couldn’t walk around at the same time without bumping into each other. And yet this was the man who could afford to shower Leila Elkin with custom haute couture jewelry. Meanwhile, the only thing on my mother’s hand was a thin, misshapen silver band. “I was just struck by his devotion,” I said, my voice carefully neutral. “To have stayed so faithful to you for all these years.” Leila let out a scornful laugh. “Oh, I know he got married after I left. I don’t care. Love and obligation are two very different things.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Besides, back when I was leaving the country, I teased him. I said he had no masculine charm, just the smell of money. Do you know what the silly fool did?” I didn’t need to guess. Because of Leila’s casual joke, he had pretended to be poor for thirty years, never once using his wealth to ease our family’s burden. And because of one sweet murmur from her, he had instantly shed that disguise, ready to give her the world. Her sprawling penthouse apartment, her powerful job at the network—it was all from him. After settling on a watch for her, I stumbled home in a daze. I pushed open the door to our cramped apartment. My mother, her back slightly stooped, was navigating the tiny space, bumping into furniture. Her arms and waist were dappled with the faded purple of old bruises. We were poor. My father’s “salary” of two thousand a month was never enough. So, my mother worked as a cleaner for the wealthy. She was a beautiful woman, and she often came home in tears, having spent her day fending off the wandering hands of the men she worked for. She would cry, and then she would go back the next day. My father never defended her. He would just say, “Life isn’t a fairy tale, is it?” So she learned to keep her head down, to make herself small, to become the hunched figure she was today. Leila Elkin, on the other hand, always stood ramrod straight. Because my father was the ground beneath her feet. In my line of work, I dealt with the city’s elite. I had connections. It didn’t take much digging to uncover the truth. My father wasn’t just rich. He was powerful. He was the secret owner of FNB. I remembered when I was five and fell deathly ill. I watched my mother swallow every last shred of her dignity, getting on her knees to beg her employers for an advance on her wages. The money wasn’t enough. The surgery wasn’t entirely successful. To this day, my heart still seizes in my chest if I walk too fast. Seeing me, my mother’s tired face broke into a smile. “Sophie, I found a new client! She’s paying so well. We’ll be able to afford a new place for you soon!” She had no idea. My father had already bought someone else a new place—a penthouse in the heart of downtown. I looked at her, a lump forming in my throat. “Mom,” I said, my voice thick. “I have something very important to tell you.” 2 My mother sat on the sofa—my bed—wearing a faded, mended shirt. It was the only gift my father had ever given her. “Sophie, what is it? Should I call your father?” she asked, her brow furrowed with concern. “He just lost his job, you know. He’s probably out pounding the pavement at the recruitment agencies.” He’d used that excuse to stay away from home for the past three days. Meanwhile, Leila had just posted an update to her social media. He said I needed to network, so he bought me a golf course. My mother’s hands were swollen and chapped from years of hard labor. The hands my father was holding in the photo were slender, pale, and perfectly manicured. “Mom,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Dad is having an affair.” I couldn’t meet her eyes. I just stared at the floor. “Sophie, how can you say that about your father?” she protested, her voice rising. “He’s just been away for a few days! He’s doing it for us, for our family!” I said nothing. I just unlocked my phone and showed her the photos I’d taken today: the purchase authorizations for all those custom pieces. The signature, the name, the ID number. It was all him. Then, I showed her more. “Mom, Dad has been lying to us for thirty years. He’s rich. He doesn’t need to work. He has more money than we could ever imagine.” I watched as her shoulders began to tremble. Tears spilled from her eyes, silent and steady, soaking the front of her worn shirt. Every month, my father gave her just enough to cover the barest of expenses. My school tuition was paid for with her humiliation, one degrading job at a time. She wasn’t just a cleaner for the rich; she’d swept streets and scrubbed public toilets. She never took a day off. She gave everything for our family. But my father never gave her a single surprise. He even forgot their anniversary every year. “In our situation, what’s there to celebrate?” he’d always say. And my mother, though her eyes held a flicker of hope, eventually learned to say nothing. But he remembered every one of Leila’s preferences. Every gift he gave her was steeped in meaning. “Mom,” I said, my voice cold and hard. I had to be cruel to be kind. “Leila was his first love. The only reason he pretended to be poor was because of a joke she made years ago.” I watched her face crumble as the screen glowed with undeniable proof. “On your birthday, the fifteenth of this month, not only did he not get you a gift, he didn’t even come home.” I took a shaky breath. “That was the day he was at a high-end auction, spending a fortune on a diamond for Leila.” My voice was getting tighter, strangled. “Can’t I just… pretend I don’t know?” she whispered, her voice choked with tears, interrupting me. A surge of hot anger rushed through me. Even now, she wanted to protect him! But then I heard her next words. “He’s so rich… you’re his daughter. He’ll look out for you. It’s okay if he wants to divorce me, Sophie, as long as he takes care of you.” I hadn’t planned on crying. But hearing that, I broke down completely. The crushing weight of life had tamed my mother into a creature of infinite patience and forgiveness. Meanwhile, Leila, coddled and adored by my father, got everything she ever wanted. Why? I wiped the tears from my mother’s face. “No. If we divorce him, I’ll make sure he leaves with nothing.” 3 My mother was still hesitant. “He’s so powerful, Sophie. Can we really win against him?” Poverty had made me a target for bullies when I was a child. My father never stood up for me, which taught me to fight my own battles and never back down. He owed us. And I would make him pay back every single debt. “Trust me, Mom,” I said, my voice firm. “I’ve got this.” I tracked down the contact information for Diana Croft, the star anchor Leila had pushed out, and sent her a text. I have a story that can get you your job back. Her reply was instant. I’m listening. But purchase receipts weren’t enough to nail him for adultery. All of Leila’s social media photos were carefully framed to hide his face. So, I used the expensive watch as an excuse and arranged to deliver it to her at FNB studios myself. When I arrived at her office, Leila was thrilled with the timepiece, immediately snapping photos of it. Then she took out her phone and sent a voice message. “This is your birthday gift from me, darling. Will you come pick me up after work today?” The reply came back as a voice note, too. Leila played it without a hint of shame. “Leila, my love, just having you by my side is the greatest gift. You don’t need to buy me things like this.” At that exact moment, my mother sent me a screenshot of her own text conversation. Will you be home for your birthday? she had asked my father. His reply: The best gift you could give me is to stop complaining and stop being so needy all the time. Seeing me staring at my phone, Leila leaned back in her chair, a smirk on her face. “Envious of my love story, little girl? It’s a shame, really. But what can you do? Blame your parents for not giving you a better start in life.” The irony was so thick I could choke on it. My father hadn’t given me a good start. But he’d certainly given her one. Walking through the FNB building earlier, I’d overheard employees whispering about her incompetence. The ratings had plummeted to less than half of what they were under Diana Croft. “I’m launching a new segment,” Leila announced, examining the watch. “Interviews with poor people like you. Should be fascinating, don’t you think?” She picked up an alcohol wipe and began meticulously cleaning the watch I had just handed her, even though I’d worn gloves. Her eyes were filled with disdain, as if my very presence was contaminating her space. Once she signed the confirmation receipt, I left. I sat in a coffee shop across the street from the FNB tower for hours, waiting. Finally, the workday ended. Leila emerged, clicking down the steps in her sharp stilettos. A sleek sports car pulled up to the curb. My father got out. They fell into each other’s arms, their lips meeting in a long, deep kiss. Leila leaned against his chest, laughing softly. My face was a mask of ice as I raised my phone and captured photo after damning photo. I showed them to my mother as soon as I got home. I needed to steel her resolve, to make sure she wouldn’t beg him to come back. In the past, she would try to be affectionate with him, to cuddle up to him, but he would always subtly push her away, a flicker of disgust in his eyes. Now, looking at the pictures, she just smiled faintly. “I’ve already started looking at new apartments. Once the divorce is settled and we get the money, I can buy one outright.” But before I could package the evidence and send it to Diana, I got a call. It was about my mother. There had been an incident.

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At our high school reunion, my old deskmate suddenly walked up to me and asked, “Do you remember how you bullied me in middle school?” The chatter stopped instantly. Everyone looked at me. Even the livestream camera of our classmate, a famous influencer with millions of followers, turned to focus on my face. The whole world was waiting for me to prove my innocence. I smirked and pulled out a notebook, thick enough to be a weapon. Five hundred pages of receipts. “Tell me when and where I bullied you. Let’s check the ledger.” Who keeps a diary like this? A normal person? No. But I, unfortunately, have suffered from persecution paranoia since I was ten. I always felt like someone was out to get me, so I came prepared. 1 In elementary school, I was falsely accused of stealing a hair clip. They called me a thief with nothing but their words and demanded I prove I didn’t do it. The clique relied on their numbers, drowning me in accusations. I had no friends, no one to back me up. I could only clench my teeth and let the tears fall. In the end, the matter was dropped. No one bothered me about it again, but no one cleared my name either. But it left a scar on my heart. Just like that, I developed persecution paranoia. I always believed there were “unruly subjects trying to harm the Emperor”—me. So, starting at age ten, I began keeping a diary. There was no “Today was sunny” or “I felt sad.” It was a record of every grudge, every slight, every conflict. You could call it my “Book of Grudges.” The purpose was simple: if I was ever falsely accused again, I could lay out a clear timeline and leave them speechless. Later, I did plenty of those “mental gymnastics” exercises popular online. One question was: [If someone at a reunion suddenly asks if you remember bullying them, how should you respond?] I skipped that question at the time. With my Book of Grudges, I didn’t need to worry. But that absurd hypothetical became my reality. It had been ten years since middle school. Suddenly, someone in the group chat called for a reunion. As a freelancer, I didn’t have many friends around, so I agreed without thinking. We had just started eating when a girl with short hair arrived late. She was painfully thin. Even with makeup, she radiated a bleak bitterness. The smile on her face was faint and fake, like a mask. Her eyes darted around with a calculating coldness. Having studied some physiognomy, I didn’t want to engage with her. It wasn’t until she introduced herself that I realized she was my old deskmate, Jenny. We were deskmates in name only; we didn’t sit together for long. Seats were rotated monthly based on grades. I didn’t expect that while I ignored her, she would come for me. 2 Among the attendees was a mega-influencer, Chloe. From the moment she walked in, she had been livestreaming. Chloe was a talker. Back in the day, she was the school gossip who couldn’t keep a secret. She sat diagonally across from me, eating and talking non-stop. Just then, Jenny ran up to me, raising a glass of wine. She stepped right into the livestream frame. She didn’t come with good intentions. A hint of sarcasm played on her face, her tone passive-aggressive. “Vivian, do you remember bullying me in middle school?” Jenny looked like the protagonist of a revenge drama who had suffered immensely. Years later, the ugly duckling returns as a swan for a grand entrance. She provokes the perpetrator, savoring their shock. Then pretends to be magnanimous, forgiving, and above it all. It was such a sensitive topic. As soon as Jenny spoke, everyone stopped talking. The noisy private room fell dead silent. Every classmate stared at me, each with their own thoughts. Chloe panned the camera, showing the whole scene. Then she gave my face a clear close-up. Thousands of people flooded the livestream instantly. They were all smirking, waiting for me to defend myself. [Bullies deserve to die! That woman looks mean.] [I grew up being bullied. I know exactly how helpless it feels.] [Does anyone else feel like this is a setup?] [No way, who would joke about this at a reunion? Victim blamers, get out.] [If she didn’t do anything, it’s still hard to prove a negative.] [Are you empathizing with the bully? You must be one too!] Although my face showed confusion, it wasn’t panic or guilt. I was wondering if Jenny was pulling a prank, so I asked: “Are you sure? You say I bullied you. When?” Jenny sneered contemptuously, looked at the ceiling, and sniffled loudly. She looked like she was holding back tears. “You locked me in the bathroom and poured water on me.” “You locked me in the teacher’s office all night.” “You snapped all the pens in my pencil case so I couldn’t take the exam.” “Forget it, why am I telling you this? It’s been so many years. I’ve let it go.” “Vivian, I don’t plan to hate you anymore. Drink this glass, and let’s reconcile.” She tilted the glass toward me. I stared at the swirling red wine. If I clinked glasses with her, wouldn’t that be admitting my guilt as a bully? 3 I extended a finger and pushed her wine glass away. Then I stood up, looking Jenny in the eye. “I never accept false accusations.” “I thought you were joking.” “Now I see you’re serious.” “Jenny, I really can’t compete with people who are naturally talented at being ridiculous.” Jenny came prepared. Her earlier setup was a retreat to advance, forcing me into a corner. How could she be here to reconcile, as she claimed? “Vivian, it seems the internet is right. Villains never know they’ve done evil.” “How can you be so self-righteous! For ten years, I’ve had nightmares every day, dreaming of your ugly face.” “Do you know the psychological trauma you caused me?!” Her eyes grew redder until a tear fell. Trembling fingers, shaking body, twitching facial muscles. Anyone else seeing her state would have felt a pang of guilt. But not me. I straightened my back and answered her with absolute certainty. “Jenny, I did nothing wrong to you. If you want to be an actor, don’t practice on me.” “You’re an adult. You should know there are consequences for spreading rumors.” “You open your mouth with no evidence, just tears falling pat-pat-pat. If that worked, lawyers should just merge with professional mourners.” Jenny raised her volume, delivering a K-drama-worthy performance. “Don’t threaten me! I was threatened by you back then, and now you want to do it again! Do you think I’m still that pushover?!” “You know it’s hard to get evidence for these things, but you bullying me is a fact!” I wiped Jenny’s spit off my face. She suddenly stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Vivian, I gave you an out, you should have taken it. Don’t make this hard on yourself. Can you really explain this away?” “Why can’t I?” I pulled a five-hundred-page diary from my bag. And slammed it onto her face. Since she insisted on embarrassing me, I wouldn’t hesitate to ruin her socially. “Look closely. Everything that happened in the last ten years is recorded here. A dull pencil is better than a sharp memory.” “You said I locked you in the bathroom and poured water on you. Please watch the VCR.” I had already asked someone to project the contents of my notebook onto the wall of the room. “March 11th. Jenny didn’t finish her math homework. Afraid of being scolded by the teacher, she dared not return to the dorm and locked herself in the bathroom.” “She tried to get herself wet to catch a cold so she wouldn’t have to do homework.” “But she accidentally locked herself in the stall.” “Everyone asked her how it happened, but Jenny wouldn’t say.” “Only I knew, because I was in the next stall, constipated.” “My homeroom teacher can testify for me. I was the one who helped her out when my legs went numb.” “May 27th.” “The eve of the placement exam. Jenny went to the teacher’s office to steal the answer key. Unexpectedly, the grade director had been kicked out by his wife that day and slept in the office all night.” “Jenny had no chance to return and called me for help. She asked me to distract the director because I was the class representative. I still have the call logs saved on my hard drive.” I read sentence by sentence. Logical, clear. Every word was a public execution of Jenny. Jenny interrupted me impatiently: “Enough! You even have call logs from ten years ago? You are too sinister!” The word “sinister” seemed so pale and weak right now. Even she seemed to panic, clenching her teeth, unsure how to end this. The livestream chat was buzzing. [Holy moly, who keeps a diary like this?!] [And she listed a clear timeline. The Chronicle of Events. I didn’t even study history this seriously.] [This sister prepared a Book of Exoneration for herself in advance!] [Thought it was ‘The Glory’, turns out it’s ‘The Twilight Zone’.] Even at this point. Jenny still didn’t want to give up. 4 “Maybe I don’t remember those things clearly because it’s been so long.” “But you abusing the stray dog is true!” Jenny started crying to the livestream camera. “That puppy was named Lucky. I fed him every day after school. But suddenly, one day, Lucky never ran to me happily barking again.” “It was this vicious woman! I saw her drug Lucky, beat him, force water down his throat, and finally, Lucky died that winter.” “Since then, there has been a small grave at the school.” “Stop denying it! The school surveillance cameras captured it all!” Jenny wiped her tears, a glint of success in her eyes. This move was clever. Even harder to disprove than bullying, since there was no witness. The vet clinic that treated Lucky had closed down, so I couldn’t get a diagnosis record. I thought my self-defense earlier would calm the livestream audience. Unexpectedly, a wave of bots flooded the chat. All accusing me: [She’s so twisted, who keeps a grudge book like that!] [Is she a serial killer? And she abuses dogs?] [What did the puppy do wrong! Hang in there, short-haired girl! These psychos are usually deep schemers.] I admit I’m dark. Normal people don’t keep ledgers of grudges. But calling me a psycho dog abuser? That won’t stand. Jenny seemed to relax silently, thinking she could proceed with her plan. I pulled out another weapon. No witnesses? Did she think I didn’t have physical evidence? “I knew text could have flaws and sometimes isn’t convincing enough.” “I have terabytes of video.” “Lucky was a dog you couldn’t tame. Every time I fed him medicine, he was fierce.” “To catch him and take him to the vet, I almost fought him. In the end, I had to drug him.” I skillfully connected my phone and clicked screen mirroring. The restaurant’s Wi-Fi was fast. Soon, images from ten years ago appeared. In the video, I faced the camera: “It is 6 PM on the 20th. I am preparing to kidnap the school’s limping dog, Lucky, to take him to the vet.” As soon as I approached, Lucky bared his teeth at me. I had no choice but to return to the camera. “The wound on Lucky’s leg is deep enough to see bone. He needs stitches. But the dog won’t cooperate. Clearly, there is no basic trust between human and dog.” “Now I need to put a pill in a sausage.” Lucky ate the sausage and soon stopped moving. The footage shook as I carried Lucky, preparing to leave for the vet. I ran into a short-haired girl coming down the stairs. She pointed at me and screamed: “I saw you drug Lucky! If you’re hungry, buy food! Why eat dog meat?!” In the video, I froze for a second looking in the direction of the voice. Then I cursed at her. I was a rebellious teen once; I couldn’t take that kind of slander. “If your brain is full of water, shake it out. The sun is so bright, and it still hasn’t dried you out.” She was clearly stunned by my scolding, freezing in place. I rolled my eyes and walked straight ahead. Walking to the school gate, I explained to the camera: “That psycho just now was Jenny, my deskmate.” “Always crying and whining, accusing people of bullying her at the drop of a hat.” “Doesn’t study seriously, eyes red, snot running down, pretending to be a strong little flower.” “I feel like this girl will definitely try to harm me in the future, frame me for dog abuse.” “When that happens, I’ll release the evidence.” And I was right. Ten years later, Jenny really accused me of abusing the dog. When those words appeared in the video, the whole room was shocked. Chloe covered her mouth in disbelief, screaming: “Fifty thousand viewers!” Another classmate jumped up from his seat excitedly. “Trending! Front page headlines! It blew up! It blew up!”

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The day after we got our marriage license, I saw a trending post on a local subreddit. The poster, bragging with a photo of a marriage certificate, wrote: [Free gym membership acquired.] When users asked what he meant, he proudly shared his “wisdom”: [A marriage license is basically a free gym pass.] [Use the wife as a punching bag. Workout while you discipline. The more you hit her, the clingier she gets.] [You hit her, and her only request is ‘please stop hitting me.’ You don’t hit her, and she has a million demands.] [My biggest wish is to have a wife who won’t die no matter how hard I hit her. Bonus points if she makes good sounds when hit.] I was intrigued by his confidence. He gave off the vibe of someone who was begging for a beating. I created a burner account and DM’d him: [Bro, what kind of ‘hit sounds’ are good? Can you give us a demo?] He replied instantly: [Sure. I’m planning to practice on my new nurse wife tonight. I’ll record it for the boys!] After confirming the poster was my new husband, Mark, I had an epiphany. I crushed the thermos in my hand, cracked my knuckles, and got ready to go home for a “workout.” Chapter 1 In a short time, the post had accumulated 14,000 upvotes. It was hard to imagine so many people supporting such filth. There were even comments agreeing with him. [Agreed. Getting yelled at by the boss all day, nothing beats going home and smacking the wife around. Way better than boxing.] [Some women need to be taught a lesson. If you don’t hit them for a day, they think they run the place. They need to know who’s boss.] On my phone screen. The user “Master Wife Tamer” seemed to find his people and kept spewing nonsense. [Check out my taming tool. It’s a swing I customized for my wife.] [She doesn’t know it can be detached. I’ll tie her hands, hang her up, and she becomes the perfect punching bag.] [I calculated the rope length perfectly. Her toes will just barely touch the ground. It’s going to be great.] I stared at the photo, my blood running cold. The swing in the photo was identical to the one in Mark’s and my new apartment. The comments kept piling up. They even discussed the feasibility of beating a wife on the balcony. [OP, if you beat her on the balcony, won’t the neighbors hear and call the cops?] The poster replied smugly. [Way ahead of you. I installed blackout curtains and double-pane soundproof glass.] [Close the doors and windows, draw the curtains, and no matter how much she screams, no one outside will hear a thing.] I couldn’t believe I married such a thing. When I snapped back to reality, the thermos in my hand was crushed. After a brief moment of shock, I suddenly found it funny. I was born with abnormal strength and a touch of sociopathy. In elementary school, I crushed the testicles of a groper on the bus with one hand. It terrified the teachers and the police, and even made the local news. After that, my mom taught me that girls should be quiet and gentle. So I learned to camouflage. I went to nursing school and became a gentle nurse. “A marriage license is a free gym pass,” huh? “The more you hit her, the clingier she gets,” huh? Great. I don’t have to pretend anymore! I rolled my wrist, joints cracking lightly. Mark, since you want to play the taming game. I’ll play with you. Chapter 2 Immediately, I registered a male burner account named “Angry Little Man.” I used a meme as my profile picture. I messaged him: [Damn, bro! Honestly, my wife needs a lesson too, but I’ve been too scared to do it.] [Bro, can you teach me? I want to take back control of my house!] To show sincerity, I sent him a $200 digital red envelope and a fist-bump emoji. The fish took the bait. Mark took me for a fanboy and started sharing his “taming plan” without reservation. [Bro, the first time is crucial. You have to beat her into submission once and for all, and you need a ‘legitimate’ reason.] [I’m inviting my boys over for drinks in a couple of days.] [We’re going to throw sunflower seed shells, fruit peels, and cigarette butts all over the floor. Make a huge mess.] [When my friends leave, that woman will see the mess and definitely get angry.] [As long as she dares to complain, that’s disrespecting her man.] [Then, using the alcohol as an excuse, I’ll slap her silly and force her to clean it up.] Reading the text, I could almost see Mark’s smug face. Suppressing my disgust, I typed: [What about after? What if she makes a scene?] [Scene? Bro, you don’t understand women.] Mark replied: [After the beating, you act like you snapped out of it. Kneel in front of her and slap yourself.] [Say you love her so much, but you just lose control when you drink. Cry and beg for forgiveness.] [Then, a few days later, find an excuse to hit her again.] [Rinse and repeat. A slap and a sweet date. Slowly, you erode her boundaries until she gets used to being hit.] [Ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome and Pavlov?] [Don’t be afraid she’ll run away.] [Beating a wife is like training a dog. The more you hit her, the more she can’t leave you.] [My dad beat my mom her whole life. Not only did she stay, but she served him hand and foot.] I took a deep breath, trying to calm the rage in my chest. He spoke of gaslighting like it was a science. Turns out he learned it from his parents. I questioned: [Will this really work? What about the police…] [Don’t worry.] He was confident. [Haven’t you seen the news? In domestic abuse cases, the police rarely do anything until it’s too late.] [As long as you don’t cripple or kill her, it’s a ‘domestic dispute.’ Cops just mediate.] [Besides, I know where to hit. At most, it’ll be classified as a minor injury.] [I just love hearing women scream when they get hit.] [My biggest wish is to have a wife who won’t die, preferably one who makes good sounds.] Reading this, I couldn’t hold back a curse. I almost crushed my phone. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to calm down. [Bro, I learned a lot! But I’m curious, what counts as a ‘good’ hit sound? Can you give us a demo first?] Then, I sent him another $200. Mark replied quickly. [Deal! My boys are coming over tonight to celebrate my wedding. I’ll record it for you guys!] Putting down the phone, my eyes went cold. Mark, I hope your bones are as hard as your talk. Chapter 3 At 5 PM, Mark texted me. [Wifey, a few of my buddies are coming over tonight.] [They’re jealous I have such a pretty, virtuous wife who can cook. They insisted on seeing you.] [Buy some groceries on your way back, lots of meat. Show them your skills.] [It might get a bit loud. You know I care about face, so please bear with it. Hubby will make it up to you later.] He sent a $520 red envelope and a “cute cat heart” sticker. I looked at the screen and sneered. Make it up to me? With a belt or a fist? I replied with a cute cat emoji: [Okay, Hubby.] After work, I went straight to the wholesale market and bought the cheapest pre-made meals. Braised pork, sweet and sour ribs, spicy chicken… All heat-and-eat junk. Since you want to act, I’ll play along. Back home, I dumped the food onto plates and microwaved them. Soon, the house smelled of MSG and grease. Around 8 PM, the doorbell rang. Mark walked in with four or five men. They looked like thugs—the kind of friends I usually avoided. As soon as they saw me, Mark’s buddy, Blackie, whistled. “Yo, this is Mark’s new wife? Looking fresh!” “Smells good. What did you make, sister-in-law?” Blackie actually lifted a lock of my hair and sniffed it. “Let me guess… sweet and sour ribs, braised pork… did I get it right?” Holding back vomit, I stepped back. Mark, walking in last, slapped the back of Blackie’s head. “Watch how you talk to your sister-in-law.” “Wifey, don’t mind him. He’s just like that, no bad intentions.” They walked in without taking off their shoes, stomping mud onto the carpet. I wiped my hands on my apron and brought out the food. “Come in, food’s ready. Sit anywhere.” Mark looked shocked that I was being so accommodating. He winked at the others, signaling them to provoke me further. “Eight dishes in one afternoon? Mark is lucky, marrying such a capable nurse!” “Nurse sister, come drink with us.” I didn’t get angry. I smiled and seated them. Once the food was served, I retreated to the kitchen. “It’s a guys’ night, I shouldn’t intrude.” Mark found it incredible. I used to complain about how sexist his friends were. Now, I was playing the perfect traditional wife. He came into the kitchen. “Wifey, come eat with us. Have a drink.” “Are you mad about their jokes?” I waved him off. “You guys eat. I’ll grab a bite in here.” Once the door closed, I pulled out the seafood feast I packed from a five-star hotel. Who eats pre-made slop when you can have lobster? But since I didn’t go out, he couldn’t pick a fight. Soon, Mark knocked again. “Wifey, I dropped my chopsticks. Get me a new pair.” I opened the door with chopsticks and saw the living room was a disaster zone. Sunflower seed shells, peanut skins, and cigarette ash covered the floor. Blackie threw a chicken bone on the carpet and stomped on it. “Oops, sorry sister-in-law, slipped.” He grinned at me, eyes full of provocation. They all knew the plan. They were trying to trigger me. If I showed even a hint of displeasure, Mark would explode. Unfortunately for them, I disappointed. Not only was I not mad, I smiled brighter. Mark was cleaning this up later anyway. The messier, the better. “No problem, have fun. The carpet needed washing anyway.” Blackie froze. He didn’t expect that reaction. Mark’s face stiffened. His prepared script was useless. For the next two hours, I played the perfect wife. Pouring tea, cutting fruit, handing out napkins. No matter how much they trashed the place—someone even poured beer on the sofa—I kept smiling. “It’s fine, we can use a slipcover.” “Oh, we were going to replace that rug anyway.” My performance was flawless. Mark couldn’t find an excuse to rage. Even his scumbag friends felt a little bad. “Mark, your wife is amazing! Such a good temper!” “Yeah, I’d give ten years of my life for a wife like this!” When they left, they patted Mark’s shoulder meaningfully. “Mark, don’t go too hard later. Just a little.” Mark stood at the door, smiling awkwardly. He wanted to beat me for embarrassing him in front of his friends. But now everyone was praising me. If he hit me, he’d be the asshole without a cause. He closed the door. The room went silent. Looking at the mess and Mark standing awkwardly in the middle of it. I decided to help him out. I claimed a stomachache and went to the bathroom. I messaged him from my burner account. [Bro, how’s it going? We’re waiting for the show!] I attached a $200 red envelope and a starry-eyed emoji. Mark loved his ego. I knew he wouldn’t let his big talk fall flat. Seconds later, he replied. [Wait for it.] Just three words, but I could feel the grit in his teeth. I smirked. Mark, you asked for this. Don’t cry too loud later. Chapter 4 I heard smashing from the living room, followed by Mark’s intentionally loud cursing. “F*ck! Look at this mess! Annoying!” I flushed the toilet and walked out, pretending to be startled. In the living room, Mark had flipped the dining table. Red oil and soup soaked the carpet. He stood in the middle of the debris, chugging a beer, face flushed. Seeing me, he finally found his target. He pointed at the trash on the floor and roared: “What are you staring at? Can’t you see this mess? Clean it up!” He was shouting, spit flying. I stood still, watching his performance. “Are you blind or deaf? I’m talking to you!” Seeing no reaction, Mark got angrier. He undid his belt, advancing on me step by step. “Lynn, why did you smile at Blackie just now?” “I hate cheaters. You were making eyes at him right in front of me. Do you think I’m dead?” I couldn’t help but laugh. What a pathetic excuse. Seeing me laugh, he raged harder, smashing a vase with his belt. Crash! “Today I’ll show you who’s the man of this house!” “Who’s in charge!” He raised the belt and lashed it towards my legs. Fast and vicious. No mercy. A normal girl would be screaming in pain. Too bad he met me. Watching the belt whistle towards me, I felt no fear. Only excitement. I sidestepped, my right hand shooting out like lightning, grabbing the belt and yanking back. Snap! The buckle whipped back and hit him in the face. Mark froze, his drunken haze clearing instantly. He touched the welt on his face, then looked at his wrist, caught in my iron grip. He instinctively tried to pull back. Immovable. He used both hands, pulling with all his might, face turning red. I stood like a statue. I stepped closer, smiling. Then, I pulled a rope from behind my back, tied his hands together. With one hand, I lifted him and hooked him onto the swing mount on the balcony ceiling. “Hubby, you’ve been naughty. I told you not to hang out with those losers. Why don’t you listen?” “Also, I’m curious who’s in charge of this house.” “You can tell me all about it.” Then, backhand, I whipped him with his own belt. Workout time.

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After binding with the “Word Editor System,” I immediately changed [Secret Crush] to [Secret Assassination]. The schoolgirls who were supposedly crushing on the Male Lead all raised knives from the shadows, ready to deliver a fatal blow. Then, I changed [Viral Hit] to [Viral Explosion]. The Male Lead’s school forum post didn’t just blow up the internet; his laptop literally exploded, sending him straight to the ICU. The Male Lead was confused. The System crashed. I smiled. “Today, this main character? He absolutely has to die.” 1 “Oh my god, Prince Julian! Please accept my love letter!” “Wow, Julian is so hot!” I rested my chin on my hand, sitting by the window, watching the Male Lead, Julian Ashford, walk into school bathed in admiring gazes. [Julian Ashford comes from a wealthy family. Handsome and rich, every girl in the academy has a secret crush on him.] The System popped up the plot text at the right moment, adding a slightly creepy reminder: [Unleash your imagination! Add some romantic scenes for yourself!] I scoffed. With a mental stroke, I changed [Secret Crush] to [Secret Assassination]. The girl who had just looked lovestruck suddenly pulled a dagger from her pink envelope and lunged at Julian. “Die, scum!” Julian’s eyes went wide with disbelief. He tried to dodge, but it was too late. The dagger plunged into his chest. He slowly collapsed. The System screamed in my head: [Are you crazy?! The Male Lead is dead!] 2 Because I had terminal cancer, the System dragged me into this cliché high school romance novel to be the heroine. The heroine, simply because she was poor, was targeted by the school’s “Prince,” the Male Lead. After a series of physical and emotional abuse, she eventually died from it. At the end of the story, the Male Lead stood in the rain holding her ashes, crying snot and tears: “I was wrong! Lori!” The System was moved: [What great love.] [As long as you obediently go through the plot of being bullied, kidnapped, imprisoned, and finally thrown into the ocean to feed the fish, you will get a healthy body in return.] Me: ??? Do you hear yourself right now? The System chuckled dryly: [To help you complete the mission, here is a cheat: ‘For every plot point, you can change one word.’ You can use this to start a beautiful romance with the Male Lead!] Screams erupted around us. Julian lay on the ground, unconscious. I thought darkly: Why is it always the heroine who dies in these angst fests? The Male Lead? Hmph! He can die! But Julian didn’t die. The school nurse said, “It’s a miracle! His heart is located near his belly button, so it was just a flesh wound.” The System sounded smug: [Good thing I was quick and patched the bug. You must have made a typo just now. Don’t do it again!] There were so many things wrong with that sentence, but before I could grind my teeth in response, the bell rang. 3 The teacher stood at the door, smiling encouragingly at me. “Come on, introduce yourself! You’re the only ‘commoner’ in the whole school!” As soon as she finished, whispers filled the classroom. “How did a charity case get into our elite academy?” “Probably did something shady~ This is going to be good.” Seeing I remained silent, the teacher’s eyes darted around, hatching an idea. “How about this, transfer student? You sit next to Julian Ashford. He’s the only one with an empty seat.” I looked around. The whole class was watching me like I was a circus act. In the original book, the heroine listened to the teacher, only to be dragged off the chair by her hair by Julian, who cursed, “What kind of trash dares to sit next to me?” Thinking of this, I smiled. “No thanks, Teach.” I didn’t stop walking. I dragged the desk and chair next to Julian all the way to the back of the classroom, starting a new row. “I’ll sit here.” Julian sneered, propping his legs up on his desk. “What? Does sitting next to me make you sick?” I cursed internally. This guy is a psycho. Before I could respond, the System released the next plot point. [Julian looked at this stubborn charity case and felt intrigued. He decided to show her who’s boss. He unilaterally issued a Red Card against her, making Lori’s life even harder.] The System hinted: [The more he bullies you, the more he loves you.] [You can change ‘Red’ to ‘Love.’ A Love Card, hehe~] Julian looked at me, holding a red Joker card between his fingers. “Charity case, I declare that against…” Holy crap! My hand moved so fast it left afterimages. I changed [Her] to [Him]. [He decided to show HIM who’s boss.] Julian’s words involuntarily twisted: “I declare a Red Card against… MYSELF! All students and staff can bully me at any time, in any place!” Gasps filled the room. The System was shocked: [What? That works too?] I couldn’t help but clap. “I didn’t know the Prince was a masochist! You can’t judge a book by its cover…” He glared at me. “I said bully ME!” Everyone looked at each other, unsure if they should approach. In the original book, as soon as Julian issued the Red Card, a mob descended on the heroine with punches and kicks. I sneered and charged forward, slapping him twice across the face. Rules are rules. Once the Red Card is issued, the target gets bullied. No exceptions. The class inhaled sharply. Julian shouted in humiliation, “Hit me! Hit me!” After a moment of hesitation, everyone swarmed him. One slap per person. The scene ended with the Male Lead bleeding. 4 Nobody helped the swollen-faced Julian. He limped back to his seat and gave me a vicious look. The System begged in my brain: [Stop your magic! Please, just fall in love!] I ignored it and stared Julian down. He twitched his lip. “Just you wait, charity case.” I replied to the System: [See? He’s not convinced yet!] Before Julian could make a move, his minions couldn’t wait. As soon as class ended, a group of girls dragged me out of my seat. “Newbie, we need to teach you some manners.” Julian saw this and gave me a provocative smile. The leader was a girl with dark skin and bright red lipstick. I remembered her name was Bella. She grabbed my hair and dragged me out the door. Once we were in the bathroom, she didn’t waste time. “Someone cut up her face.” A girl with glasses and black hair stepped forward, trembling. “Who… who told you to disrespect the Prince?” Just as the knife was about to touch my face, the plot text appeared. [Seeing the knife about to slice Lori’s face, Adrian wind caught some noise. He thought it was Julian’s business and didn’t want to interfere, but he still decided to SAVE her.] The System yelled excitedly: [It’s the Second Male Lead! The gentle one! He and the Male Lead are called the Twin Stars. Go develop feelings with him!] I frowned. I remembered this Adrian Wind was a hypocrite. After saving the heroine, he told her to endure it. Later, he even gave the heroine’s National Award to the Male Lead’s sister without asking. “Lori, you already have so many awards, but his sister has none. I think you should do something nice.” Thinking of this, I changed [Save] to [Substitute]. [He still decided to SUBSTITUTE for her.] The next second, Adrian kicked the door open, roaring, “Let her go! Slash MY face!”

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During Freshman Orientation Camp, the so-called “Campus King” tried to show off by opening a water bottle with his abs. He failed. My best friend happened to whisper a joke in my ear right at that moment, and I snorted out loud. The King’s sidekick thought I was mocking him and called me out. “What’s so funny? Put up or shut up.” So, I stood up, lifted my shirt to reveal a shredded six-pack, and popped the cap off a Dasani bottle using nothing but my core muscles. The girls screamed. The sidekick looked terrified. “Dude,” the sidekick whispered, “your nose is bleeding.” 1 During the break, my bestie, Chloe, dragged me under the shade of a massive oak tree. She shook a can of sunscreen spray like a bartender mixing a martini and unleashed a chemical fog on me. I swatted her hand away. “Chloe, stop. Save it for yourself. I’m a track athlete; I’m supposed to be tan.” Chloe smacked my hand back. “No way. I can’t let a goddess like you ruin her skin. Even if you don’t burn, we are not taking chances. I became your bestie for the eye candy, okay?” I rolled my eyes and let her marinate me in SPF 50. Nearby, a gaggle of girls from our dorm were whispering. They thought they were being subtle. They weren’t. “Omigod, Mason is so hot.” “I heard he was practically running his high school. A total alpha. See that skinny guy next to him? That’s his hype man, Leo.” “Look at those pecs. That waistline. I always thought these orientation uniforms looked like trash bags, but on him? With that tactical belt? It’s giving top gun energy.” Is he really that great? They were staring directly behind me. I was about to turn around when the Drill Instructor (DI) walked over, grinning like a shark. “You ladies and gentlemen bored?” “Yeeees,” the crowd groaned. DI Miller smirked. “Oh? How about we play a game?” A crisp, clear voice rang out from behind me. It sounded warm, like sun-baked pavement, but with a hint of arrogance. “Sarge, if your ‘game’ involves more burpees, we’re suddenly extremely entertained by sitting still.” A scrawny voice chimed in, “Yeah, we’re actually having a blast.” “Too late,” Miller snapped into authority mode. “You said you were bored. Form a circle. Sit down. We’re doing a talent showcase.” “Ughhhhh.” “I’m counting to three. Anyone not seated runs laps. One—” The shuffling was instant. Everyone hit the dirt. 2 I dragged Chloe to the back row and watched Miller. Miller was young, probably Gen Z like us. He was chill until he wasn’t. He definitely saw some TikTok trend and wanted to use us as lab rats. We sat there, blinking at him like baby birds. “Any volunteers? Show us a talent.” Silence. Miller put on his best disappointed-dad face. “Nothing? I thought Gen Z could do anything. Climb Everest, code an app, survive the apocalypse. I am disappointed.” The clear voice spoke up again. “Sarge, you’re Gen Z too. Can you do all that?” The skinny guy: “Yeah, exactly.” Miller adjusted his hat. “Nope. That’s why I’m disappointed in myself. And doubly disappointed in you.” I turned my head. The voice belonged to a guy with a buzz cut, sharp jawline, and high nose bridge. Mason. He was undeniably handsome. He was already bantering with the instructor, flashing a set of deep dimples. Chloe nudged me hard in the ribs. “Ooh, checking out Mason? The Campus King?” “That’s Mason?” I asked. Chloe looked scandalized. “Girl, are you blind? I spotted him day one. He’s the hottest guy on campus. How did you miss that?” I pulled her arm off me. “Probably because on day one, someone sprained her ankle, and I had to carry two sets of textbooks and piggyback you up six flights of stairs.” Chloe giggled guiltily. “Hey, you’re strong! I love you, Sloane!” I ignored her. Chloe, sensing danger, started cracking jokes to get back on my good side. As students started performing random talents in the circle, Chloe dropped a punchline that caught me off guard. I snorted. Loudly. The skinny guy, Leo, glared at me. “What are you laughing at? You think you’re tough? If you’re so cool, you do it.” Me: ? I looked up. Mason was standing in the center, shirt lifted, holding an unopened water bottle against his abs. There was a red mark on his skin. He had failed the trick. He looked at me, his eyes flickering with embarrassment. I looked away. Leo wasn’t letting it go. “Why aren’t you talking? Blah blah blah…” He was annoying. “Shut up,” I snapped. “I’ll do it.” 3 I walked up to Mason, took the water bottle from his hand, and turned to face the crowd. Without hesitation, I unzipped my jacket and lifted my olive-green tee. My abs were rock hard, defined, and tanned. I jammed the bottle cap against my oblique, twisted my core, and—Pop! The cap sent flying. Water splashed onto my camo pants. I didn’t care. I handed the bottle back to Mason and turned to leave. Leo’s jaw was on the floor. He looked like his brain had short-circuited. Mason stared at me, his pupils shaking. I scoffed. I was wearing a sports bra. No big deal. The crowd was stunned for two seconds before erupting. The girls were screaming louder than the guys. “Holy crap! I’m dead! Marry me!” “She’s ripped! She’s gorgeous and handsome at the same time!” “Ma’am! Gender is a construct, I am free this Friday!” DI Miller: “Whoa, keep it down! Don’t let the Commander hear you thirsting!” As I sat down, girls swarmed me. Chloe threw herself in front of me like a bodyguard. One girl asked shyly, “Hi, can we be friends?” Chloe barked, “No! You don’t want to be friends; you just want to touch her abs! Back off!” I recognized the girl. She was the one drooling over Mason earlier. The girl blushed. “Is it that obvious?” Chloe: “Yes! Sloane’s body is for my eyes only! I’m the only one allowed to touch the abs!” To prove her point, she reached under my jacket and slapped my stomach. My skin turned red. The girl’s eyes turned red with envy. Me: “…Stop it. Sit down.” “Okay.” Chloe sat. Just as I was about to scold her, I heard Leo scream in terror. “Holy sh*t, Mason! Your nose is bleeding!” Mason: “…Shut up.” 4 The downside of showing off is that the instructor remembers your name. Miller asked me if I had anything prepared for the Campfire Gala. He said, “This is a competition between the four platoons. We need to dominate. We need shock and awe.” I said, “I don’t know what kind of performance counts as ‘shock and awe.’” Miller waved his hand. “Just sing two songs. Then, for the grand finale, do the ab bottle opener thing. The guys in Platoon 3 will lose their minds when they see I have a student who can do that.” Me: “…Pass.” Miller gave me the sad puppy eyes. Me: “…Fine. Fine.” Miller: Happy noises. That night, I brought my guitar case to the field. Sixteen squads formed a massive circle. The Performing Arts squad did a choral rendition of “We Will Rock You” and a K-Pop dance cover. When a group of long-legged dancers made those baggy uniforms look like high fashion, the instructor of Platoon 3 was grinning so hard I thought his face would crack. He even came over to taunt us. “Hey Miller, your squad is looking a little low energy. You guys gotta step it up. My squad just… naturally excels.” Miller rolled his eyes. “Get lost.” He turned to me, handing me a water bottle. “Sloane, it’s all on you. Don’t let that guy win.” I nodded. “Got it.” The K-Pop dance ended, and the crowd started chanting for our squad. I was about to stand up when Mason walked past me. He snatched the water bottle out of my hand. He muttered, “Making a girl do the ab trick in front of everyone? Do us guys have no shame? What if… what if you have a wardrobe malfunction?” Me: “?” Mason walked to the center, put the water bottle on the ground, glanced at me, and nodded at Miller to hit the music. He started with a breakdance routine. The flashlights from the phones created a halo around him. He moved like water—sharp, fluid, mesmerizing. He was genuinely talented. The crowd went wild. Even Miller nodded. “Kid’s got moves.” We all thought that was it. But when Mason locked eyes with me, I knew he was up to something. Was he going to redeem his failed bottle trick? I underestimated him. The music switched abruptly. It wasn’t cool hip-hop anymore. It was… “Baby Shark” remix? No, something weirder. A viral TikTok meme song. Mason started twerking. He threw away all dignity. He shook his hips with a flexibility that put the K-Pop girls to shame. Me: “…” The Crowd: “HAHAHAHAHA!” Miller: “I take it back. That kid is a clown.” Finally, Mason grabbed the water bottle, successfully popped the cap with his abs (redemption!), and walked off to thunderous applause. He beamed at Miller. “Sarge, was that ‘shock and awe’ enough for you?” Miller: “It was shocking, alright. My colleagues are going to roast me for a year.” 5 Thanks to Mason warming up the crowd, the atmosphere was electric. I grabbed a fresh water bottle, slung my guitar over my shoulder, and walked to the center. I promised to open a bottle. Chloe ran over to set up the mic stand. The crowd was buzzing, but when I plugged the acoustic-electric in, the feedback hum silenced them. Then the whispers started. “She’s my new goddess.” “She has that ‘I could kill you but I won’t’ vibe.” “Is it true girls in Squad 1 have to bench press their body weight to join?” Someone shouted, “Hey Miller! Is having abs a requirement for your squad?” Miller beamed. “No, no. Sloane is just… standard. You know.” I tuned them out. Chloe ran back to her seat, holding her phone up to record. Strum. Just one chord, and the atmosphere shifted from “party” to “battlefield.” I didn’t play a pop song. I played a flamenco-metal fusion piece. Fast, aggressive, percussive. It sounded like arrows flying and swords clashing. “Whoa,” someone whispered. “I have goosebumps.”

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Six years ago, I was the head of Research and Development—a Chief Research Scientist—until I was busted for falsifying drug trial data, a scandal that killed countless patients. The entire internet crucified me, calling me the Butcher of the Lab. Before I was even sentenced, a group of victims’ families found me and carved their rage onto my skin—eighteen cuts, right on the street. When I got out, I vanished. I changed my name and hid, becoming a fishmonger at a downtown market, the stench of brine and blood clinging to me like cheap perfume. I was scrubbing down a fillet board when my billionaire ex-husband showed up. Harrison Shaw. He looked at me, his perfect face a mask of shock. “Sloane? What happened to you? Why didn’t you come find me after you were released?” I didn’t get a chance to answer. His assistant, sleek and terrified, leaned in from behind him. “Mr. Shaw, Ms. Wells is still waiting for the fish you promised to personally select for her broth. It won’t be fresh if we’re late.” I yanked off my surgical mask, exposing the jagged, half-scarred face I wore now, and let out a cold laugh. “That cut of salmon is twenty dollars. Pay up or get lost. You’re messing with my business.” He threw me to the wolves—Tatum Wells’ wolves—and let me take the fall, all so she could climb the corporate ladder. Now that Tatum was the replacement fiancée, he had the nerve to stand here? 1 I slammed my gutting knife down on the cutting board, splattering fish blood onto Harrison’s Italian leather shoes. He recoiled half a step, a flicker of pure disgust crossing his features. “Sloane, what are you doing to yourself? You know these hands weren’t meant for cleaning fish.” My body swayed, and my hands started to tremble uncontrollably. My fingers were chapped and swollen, the nail beds permanently stained with black dirt and fish guts. Six years ago, these hands handled million-dollar lab equipment. Now, they only gutted fish. “Mr. Shaw, don’t sully your pristine gaze. Are you buying this fish or not?” I reached into the tank, expertly snatched a thrashing trout, and brought the blunt back of the knife down hard on its head. Thunk. The fish went still. Harrison hadn’t spoken, but the old man behind him in line lost his patience. “Are you selling fish or holding a board meeting? I’m going to the stall down the row if you don’t hurry up!” “Selling, of course.” I pulled my gaze away, done with looking at Harrison, and prepared to weigh the trout for the customer. A large, controlling hand pressed down on my arm. Harrison placed a stack of cash on my counter. “Don’t sell anything else today.” “I’ll take the rest of your stock. Pack up and go home to rest.” I didn’t touch the money. I picked up my scaling tool and went back to work. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Shaw.” “But I run a small business. We don’t do exclusive buyouts. Now, if you’re not buying, please move. You’re blocking the line.” Just then, a saccharine voice chimed in. “Harrison, why are you still here? Miles and I have been waiting for you to come home to make the soup.” My hand, scaling a bass, paused. Tatum Wells stepped forward, linking her arm affectionately through Harrison’s, and then feigned shock when she saw me. “Oh, is that… Sloane? Sis, what are you doing here selling fish?” “Did you just get out and have nowhere to go? You should have told me! I’ll ask Harrison to find you a place to stay, or maybe a job!” She was immediately followed by a man who looked utterly ashamed to be there. It was Miles Harrington, my own brother. Six years ago, when I was sentenced, he not only cut ties and disowned me from the Harrington family, but he also triumphantly brought Tatum—my father’s illegitimate daughter from an outside affair—home to take my place. Our parents had made Miles and me swear on their deathbeds that we would never let Tatum Wells set foot in the Harrington home. They had warned us that Tatum’s mother had nearly destroyed our family years ago, and her daughter was no better. My own brother had forgotten our parents’ dying wish completely. Miles now spoke softly to Tatum. “Sweetheart, why talk to someone like this? Let’s go home. Harrison and I are making you a big dinner tonight.” He then glared at me. “Sloane is a disgrace who hasn’t learned her lesson. Six years in prison and she’s still covered in bad luck!” His loud voice drew the attention of everyone around. An older woman who frequently bought fish from me suddenly pointed a trembling finger. “Wait! I remember now! The news six years ago! The Butcher of the Lab! The one who killed all those people—that’s Sloane Harrington!” “Oh my God! I’ve been buying fish from a murderer!” Harrison immediately stepped forward to try and calm the enraged crowd. “Sloane, you can’t work here. Your hands belong in a lab, not a fish market.” “Tell me what you need. I can help you.” But the shouts and insults were growing louder. Rotten vegetables and eggs began to fly. Harrison spoke about helping me, but his body immediately shielded Tatum. He was terrified that the expensive designer dress she was wearing would be stained. I stood there, covered in the stench of fish and now the slimy mess of raw egg. Tatum peered out from Harrison’s protective embrace. “Sloane, you should apologize to everyone.” “Even though those patients died because of your fake data, if you just show genuine remorse, people will forgive you.” That single phrase, genuine remorse, sent the crowd over the edge. Someone shoved my entire fish stand over. The water tank burst. Over a dozen live fish flopped desperately in the dirty puddle on the ground, struggling for a final breath. Just like I did six years ago. I quietly gathered the remaining supplies and walked home. The next day, the market manager dismantled my stall. “We received complaints about unsanitary conditions and illegal operation. Your lease is terminated.” I looked at the empty space and gave a hollow laugh. They truly were determined to eliminate anything that reminded Tatum of me. They stopped at nothing. When I arrived back at my dilapidated basement apartment, all my luggage had been tossed out onto the street. The landlord had even refunded me three months’ rent—triple the deposit—just to ensure I left immediately. I sat on my pile of belongings, staring into space, when a pair of perfectly shined leather shoes stopped in front of me. “Sloane, Tatum’s research project has hit a crucial bottleneck. She’s only missing the final piece of data.” “You’re a genius in this field. If you agree to help her, I’ll give you enough money to disappear. You can start a new life somewhere no one knows your name.” Hearing those words made me sick. “Harrison, are you insane? You framed me for data fraud and put me in prison for years. Now you have the audacity to ask me to clean up the mess for that illegitimate daughter who killed those people?” Harrison’s face darkened. “Sloane, watch your tone. You’ve already paid for the mistakes of six years ago. Don’t try to throw dirt on Tatum.” “Tatum is highly gifted. She took over your disaster of a project and has practically ruined her health trying to perfect this drug. She’s the one who asked me to come to you, despite everything. Don’t be ungrateful!” I laughed again, a sound devoid of humor. “And what if I refuse?” Harrison spoke with his usual arrogance. “Then you’ll have to deal with the consequences yourself.” Harrison left, and I initially dismissed his threat. I found a new underground apartment and started looking for another job. Then, the caretaker of my parents’ memorial park called me. “Ms. Harrington, the Shaw family has acquired the land where your parents are buried. They plan to flatten the area and build a new sewage treatment facility.” “The Shaw representative said if you don’t accept their terms, they will scatter your parents’ ashes on the street.” My hand holding the phone trembled violently. Was this the man I had loved? He was using my dead parents as leverage, all for the sake of Tatum Wells? I looked at my half-ruined face in the mirror. For six years, for the sake of a misguided love and my family’s reputation, I had silently accepted the blame. I thought my sacrifice would protect Miles and the Harrington family, and that Harrison would remain untouched. What was the result? My brother elevated the illegitimate daughter to a princess, and Harrison cherished the murderer. Only I rotted in hell for six years. Harrison’s call came in. I answered on the first ring. “Have you thought it through? Sloane, stop being difficult. The past is over.” “If you just focus on helping Tatum, you still have a chance to restore your reputation. I’ll help you, alright?” I answered calmly. “I’ll do it.” “But first, I need the title to my parents’ burial plot transferred solely into my name, with a signed contract guaranteeing it will never be moved.” Harrison agreed.

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Part I: The Chokehold The first thing I felt was the cold. Not the kind of cold that comes from a drafty window, but the visceral, bone-deep freeze of fingers wrapped tight around my windpipe. My vision was swimming in black spots. My lungs were burning, screaming for oxygen that wasn’t coming. Above me, a face twisted in pure, unadulterated hatred hovered like a specter. “Say one more word about my father, Vivian,” the voice hissed. It was a low, jagged sound, like gravel grinding against glass. “One more word, and I will snap your neck like a twig.” I wheezed, clawing instinctively at the hands crushing my throat. My fingernails scraped against skin, but he didn’t flinch. I looked into his eyes. They were dark, endless pits of rage. But it was the rest of his face that jolted my memory awake. The left side was perfect—high cheekbone, sharp jawline, the kind of face that belonged on a Calvin Klein billboard. But the right side… the right side was a roadmap of tragedy. Burn scars, jagged and pink, twisted the skin from his temple down to his jaw. Liam Thorne. The name hit me harder than the lack of air. I wasn’t me anymore. I wasn’t the college student who fell asleep studying for finals. I was Vivian Vanderbuilt. The heiress. The queen bee of Crestwood Academy. And, most importantly, the “cannon fodder” villainess of the trashy young adult novel The Rest of Forever. And the boy strangling me? He was the villain. The future psychopath who would eventually burn half the city down. And I—Vivian—was the reason he turned into a monster. I was currently dying in the prologue. “I…” I choked out, my voice barely a squeak. “I’m… sorry.” The grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened. Confusion flickered in his dark eyes. The Vivian he knew would have spat in his face. She would have threatened to have her daddy buy the trailer park he lived in and bulldoze it. She wouldn’t have apologized. “What did you say?” he growled. “I said…” I gasped, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, “I’m sorry, Liam. I won’t… say it again.” He stared at me for a long, agonizing second. Then, as if my neck had suddenly turned into a red-hot coal, he released me. I collapsed onto the dirty tile floor of the boys’ locker room, heaving in air. It tasted like sweat and bleach. I coughed, clutching my bruised throat, and looked up at him. He was wearing a faded, oversized hoodie that had clearly seen better decades, and sneakers that were held together by duct tape and prayer. His fists were clenched at his sides, trembling. “Get out,” he said. “Before I change my mind.” I didn’t need to be told twice. I scrambled to my feet, my legs feeling like jelly, and bolted. I ran past the rows of gray lockers, burst through the double doors, and didn’t stop until I was in the pristine, marble-floored hallway of the main building. I caught my reflection in a trophy case. The girl staring back was stunning. Platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, skin that looked like it had been airbrushed. I was wearing a designer skirt that probably cost more than Liam’s entire life savings. “Great,” I whispered to my reflection. “I’m the rich bitch who dies in Chapter Ten.” Part II: The Redemption Arc According to the plot of The Rest of Forever, Vivian Vanderbuilt was obsessed with the male lead, Chase Sterling—the captain of the football team, the golden boy, the sun around which Crestwood Academy orbited. To get Chase’s attention, Vivian bullied anyone who got close to him, especially the scholarship student, Grace Miller. And Liam? Liam was just Vivian’s punching bag. She used him to vent her frustrations. She mocked his scars, humiliated him publicly, and eventually pushed him too far. In the original book, Liam kills Vivian on the night of the Senior Prom, framing it as a suicide, which kicks off his career as a high-functioning sociopath. I had about six months until Prom. Tick tock. The next day, the cafeteria was a war zone of social hierarchy. I walked in, my tray trembling slightly in my hands. Usually, Vivian sat at the “Table of Gods” in the center, flanked by her minions. I looked over. Chase was there, laughing loudly, his arm draped over a chair. Grace Miller was walking past, and I saw Chase wink at her. The main plot was moving along nicely. I ignored them. I scanned the perimeter. The outcasts. The stoners. The kids who ate quickly so they could leave. There, in the far back corner, sitting alone near the trash cans, was Liam. He had his hood up. He was picking at a sandwich that looked like two pieces of stale bread and nothing else. I took a deep breath. Don’t die. Just be nice. I walked past my usual table. My “friends”—Jessica and Chloe—waved at me. “Viv! Over here!” Jessica squealed. “Not today,” I murmured, clutching my tray. The cafeteria went silent as I approached the back corner. It was like the parting of the Red Sea, if the sea was made of teenagers wearing Abercrombie and judgment. I slammed my tray down opposite Liam. He flinched. His hand instinctively went to his pocket—I knew he carried a box cutter there. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “What game is this, Vanderbuilt? You want to pour milk on me again? Or maybe you brought your friends to film it this time?” His voice was tired. That was what broke my heart. He wasn’t even angry yet; he was just exhausted by the cruelty of his existence. “No game,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I opened my expensive bento box. Inside was sushi, fresh fruit, and a Godiva truffle. “I just… I don’t like the noise in the center.” Liam stared at me. He stared at the sushi. Then he looked back at me. “You’re out of your mind,” he muttered, and went back to staring at his empty bread. I pushed my tray toward him. “I’m allergic to crab.” “Liar,” he said. “I saw you eating crab cakes yesterday.” Crap. Vivian had no allergies. “I developed it overnight,” I lied smoothly. “Medical mystery. Look, just eat it. Or throw it away. I don’t care.” I pulled out my AP History textbook and pretended to read. For five minutes, he didn’t move. Then, I heard the subtle sound of chopsticks. I risked a glance. He was eating. Fast. Like someone who didn’t know when his next meal was coming. We sat in silence. The rest of the cafeteria was whispering, cell phones out, recording the downfall of the Queen Bee. But I didn’t care. I looked at the faint purple bruises on his wrist, peeking out from his sleeve. His father. The drunk who beat him every time he lost money at the track. I have to save him, I thought. Not just to save myself. But because nobody deserves this. Part III: The Umbrella It rained in Crestwood for three weeks straight in November. The kind of relentless, freezing rain that soaked through your soul. I was waiting for my driver, standing under the massive portico of the school entrance. My Mercedes pulled up. As I walked toward it, I saw a figure walking toward the bus stop. No umbrella. Just that soaking wet hoodie. Liam was limping slightly. “Stop the car,” I told the driver. “Miss Vivian?” “I said stop!” I grabbed the oversized golf umbrella from the backseat and jumped out. My Gucci loafers splashed into a puddle. “Liam!” I shouted over the roar of the rain. He didn’t stop. He kept walking, head down against the wind. I ran after him. I wasn’t built for running. I was out of breath by the time I caught up, shielding him with the umbrella. The sudden silence of the rain hitting the canopy made us both jump. He stopped and turned. Water was dripping from his nose, his scars standing out starkly against his pale skin. “What do you want?” he yelled. “Are you trying to see how pathetic I look? Is this funny to you?” “Get in the car, Liam,” I shouted back. “Go to hell.” “You’re limping! Just get in the damn car! I’ll drop you off!” “I’d rather walk on broken glass than get in a car with you.”

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My grandma refuses to listen to reason. On the day of my little brother’s SATs—the biggest exam of his life—the whole family was anxious. We begged her to watch the clock and remind him to grab his Admission Ticket. Instead, while he was brushing his teeth, she took the ticket, crumpled it up like trash, and flushed it down the toilet. Whoosh. Gone. My brother turned his backpack inside out but couldn’t find it. He missed the exam. His future was ruined before it even started. Then, it was my turn. I was up for a massive promotion at my company, a Director position. I warned her a thousand times not to talk to strangers about family business. What did she do? She went around telling everyone I was “vomiting in the middle of the night.” The company heard the rumors, assumed I was secretly pregnant and unmarried, and immediately scratched my name off the candidate list. My dad finally snapped. He decided to send Grandma back to her old house in the countryside. Before leaving, Grandma said she wanted to make a “peace offering” dinner—her famous meatloaf. The kitchen smelled amazing. She brought the steaming dish to the table, smiling like a saint. We were mid-chew when the neighbor started screaming from the window: “Where did my rat poison go?! That stuff is lethal!” Grandma slapped her thigh and yelled, “Oh snap! I thought that was seasoning!” Before she even finished the sentence, our stomachs cramped into knots. We collapsed, foaming at the mouth. We all died. Grandma didn’t shed a tear. She immediately moved her illegitimate son and her old lover into our house and lived happily ever after on our life insurance. But when I opened my eyes again, I was standing at the front door on the exact day Grandma was coming to stay. 1 “Son! Open up! It’s Mom!” The door banged loudly, shaking the frame. Inside, me, Dad, Mom, and my brother Josh all jumped. Josh’s face went pale. He grabbed Dad’s arm, his voice trembling. “Dad! Don’t let her in!” Mom reacted instantly. She ran to the kitchen, grabbed a cleaver, and stormed back. “David! If you let that woman in, I’m divorcing you right now!” Dad, usually a total mama’s boy, looked grim. “Don’t worry, Karen! I’m sending her away!” I realized it instantly—my whole family had reincarnated. In our past life, Grandma demanded to come stay to “help” with Josh’s exams. But the shrewd old woman suddenly acted like a senile fool. In the middle of a heatwave, she switched Josh’s AC to ‘Heat’ while he slept. He woke up with severe heatstroke and almost ended up in the ER. When Mom screamed at her, Grandma played innocent: “I thought he might get cold! I tried to turn it off, but I guess I hit the wrong button!” Dad couldn’t bring himself to kick her out. Then came the ticket flushing incident. Her excuse? “I wanted to sew it onto his jacket so he wouldn’t lose it, but my hand slipped!” Josh missed college. He became a shell of himself. Then she ruined my career with the pregnancy rumors. She even sabotaged Mom. Mom finally got a shot at hosting a prime-time TV slot. She set three alarms. Grandma deleted them all while Mom was showering. Mom missed the broadcast and was blacklisted by the station. Dad finally tried to kick her out, and she fed us poisoned meatloaf. We died in agony. She lived in luxury with her secret family. 2 Seeing Dad about to charge out, I blocked him. “Dad, if you kick her out now, she’ll throw a tantrum on the lawn. We’ll never have peace,” I said quickly. “The neighbors don’t know she’s a monster. They just see a poor old widow. If we leave her out there, she’ll ruin our reputation. Josh needs to focus on his exams; he can’t handle a scandal right now.” Mom’s hand was shaking on the cleaver. “That old witch is evil! I want to chop her up right now to protect you guys! But… going to jail isn’t worth it.” I clenched my fist. “Since we know her playbook, let her in. We’ll counter every move and expose her true colors to everyone.” The family agreed. We opened the door. Grandma, who was mid-fake-sob to the neighbors, froze. I plastered on a smile and grabbed her bags. “Grandma! Sorry, we were cleaning up for you! Mom made your favorite Pot Roast!” Mom forced a smile, tied her apron, and brought out the oily, glistening beef. The neighbors oohed and aahed. “David’s mom is so lucky! Karen is such a good cook!” Grandma’s face dropped. She spat, “She knows I hate fatty meat! She’s doing this on purpose!” Dad stepped up, his voice booming for the whole hallway to hear. “Mom! Stop lying! Whenever there’s a buffet in the village, you pile your plate with meat! You act like a beggar just to make us look bad!” The neighbors started whispering. “Yeah, like that rich lady in building 4 who digs through trash for attention. David and Karen are good people. Stop looking for trouble, old lady.” Defeated by public opinion, the neighbors dispersed. 3 Grandma walked in, fuming because her first scheme failed. The second she saw Josh, she put on a fake smile, reaching out to touch his head. “Since the big exam is coming up, I’ll sleep in Josh’s room! I’ll make sure he doesn’t kick the blankets off and cook him snacks!” I knew exactly what she was planning. I hugged her arm tightly. “Grandma! I missed you so much! Sleep with me instead!” She couldn’t refuse without breaking character. Before bed, she asked me how to use the AC remote. I knew the drill. I deliberately taught her the buttons backward—telling her the ‘Heat’ button was ‘Cool’ and vice versa. In the middle of the night, I cracked my eyes open. Grandma crept out of bed and sneaked into Josh’s room. I heard her muttering: “Josh, don’t blame Grandma. Your horoscope clashes with Zack’s. If you get into college, Zack loses his spot. Blame your mom for birthing you at the wrong time.” Zack was the illegitimate son she had at 40 with the village Handyman, Hank. Hank claimed he found Zack in a dumpster to cover it up. But Zack looked exactly like Hank. The whole village knew, but nobody suspected Grandma because she was “too old.” If we hadn’t died and seen them living together as a happy family in the afterlife, I never would have guessed that Zack—who was the same age as Josh—was actually my Dad’s half-brother. 4 I was lost in thought when Grandma turned around. She saw me standing there in the dark and screamed like a banshee. “AHHH! GHOST!” I didn’t say a word. I turned on a flashlight, pointed it under my chin, and slowly drifted around the living room. Mom and Dad rushed out. I winked. Dad immediately put on a worried face. “Mom, I forgot to tell you. Chloe has severe sleepwalking issues. Don’t wander around at night. She’s harmless with a flashlight, but sometimes she grabs a knife…” Grandma rubbed her twisted ankle, groaning. “She never had this before! You’re trying to scare me away!” She didn’t buy it. The next night, I saw her get up again, muttering, “Is the remote broken? I set it to ‘Heat’ but Josh is fine. I need a new plan.” She grabbed her cane and headed for Josh’s door. I threw off my covers, marched into the kitchen, grabbed a heavy cleaver, and started hacking at a cutting board. Thwack. Thwack. Grandma side-eyed me but kept going toward Josh’s room. The second her hand touched the knob, I charged at her, raising the cleaver. “Chloe! You little psycho! You trying to kill me?!” she shrieked. I stared blankly through her, pulled the knife back, and swung it wildly near her head. Grandma rolled on the floor, screaming for Dad. Dad came out, looking annoyed. “Mom! I told you not to wander! You can’t wake a sleepwalker! Do you want to die?” “I just need to pee!” she lied. “Sleepwalkers don’t care,” Dad said coldly. “Risk it if you want.” Seeing me still holding the knife, Grandma scrambled back to our room on all fours. For the next week, I “sleepwalked” every night, chopping meat in the kitchen. Grandma was too terrified to leave the bedroom. 5 But she was relentless. A few days later, I was waiting for Josh at the school gate. He didn’t come out. I ran to his classroom and found him passed out on his desk. I splashed cold water on his face to wake him up. “Josh! Did you pull an all-nighter?” I asked. He looked dazed. “No, Sis. I slept at 10:30. But the second I got to school, my eyelids felt like lead.” My heart sank. “Did you eat anything Grandma gave you?” “Just breakfast Mom made,” he said. “And a bottle of milk. But the seal was broken.” I asked Mom and Dad. Neither of them had opened it. I immediately bought micro-cameras and hid them in the kitchen. The next morning, the footage showed Grandma grinding sleeping pills into the milk. Mom watched the video, shaking with rage. “That monster! She brought sedatives from the village just to drug her own grandson for that bastard Zack!” We couldn’t kick her out yet. She was too slippery. Instead, we switched the milk. We gave the drugged bottle to Grandma. She slept all day, snoring like a chainsaw. When she woke up, she groggily asked Josh, “Were you tired at school today?” Josh yawned theatrically. “So tired! I almost fell asleep during the mock exam!” Grandma grinned, her wrinkles bunching up. She thought she’d won. We held back our laughter and kept playing along.

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In my past life, when my wife and her high school sweetheart—her “white moonlight”—were both rushed into the ER after a car accident, I saved my wife first. She survived without a scratch. Her lover, however, lost his legs because his treatment was delayed. He killed himself shortly after. My wife hated me to the bone. She screamed that I murdered him. To get revenge, she tampered with my car. When I drove our son to school, the brakes failed. We both died. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the ER. My wife was lying on a stretcher, struggling, screaming at me to save her lover first. I knew then: she was reborn too. Fine. Since she wants it so badly, I’ll grant her wish. But later, when she knelt before me begging for forgiveness… well, that’s another story. 1 “David! Don’t save me! Save Julian first! You have to save Julian!” My wife, Claire, stared at me with intense, desperate eyes. In that moment, I knew. She came back too. She was reborn to the night she snuck out to meet her lover and crashed the car. In my last life, when Claire and Julian were wheeled in simultaneously, I was devastated. If not for the accident, I wouldn’t have known my wife had been cheating on me for years. But even then, seeing her in pain, my duty as a doctor kicked in. I was the only attending trauma surgeon on shift at that ungodly hour. I chose to operate on Claire. Julian had to wait for another surgeon to arrive. He missed the golden window for reattachment. It seems in this life, she wants to rewrite the script. I remembered the venom in her eyes in our past life. I remembered how she took her anger out on our son, Leo, making him tremble in fear. I remembered the scream Leo let out when our car crashed, the pain that seared my soul. My chest felt heavy, like a beast was clawing to get out. Since she wants to save her lover so badly… I’ll grant her wish. I just hope she doesn’t regret it. I nodded at her. Her face lit up with hope. “Thank God! He’s saved! He’s saved!” 2 I saved Julian. His legs, lost in the previous timeline, were preserved. But my wife? Not so lucky. Because she missed the critical window, she lost an arm. When I walked into the recovery room, my in-laws’ faces were dark as thunderclouds. “David! Did a donkey kick you in the head? Claire is your wife! You left her to rot and saved some stranger?” My mother-in-law screamed, pointing a finger in my face. My father-in-law joined in, cursing me for being incompetent. I stared at them blankly. It was laughable. My family was well-off. I graduated from a top med school and was a rising star in the hospital. Claire’s family? Her dad was a gambler drowning in debt. Claire didn’t work. My mom raised our kid. For years, I subsidized her family so she could live like a princess. Yet her parents never respected me. They always made snide comments, implying that without me, Claire would have married Julian, the rich boy. Yeah, right. Did she not want to marry him? Or did Julian just think she wasn’t good enough? I didn’t try to placate them like I used to. I said coldly, “Claire demanded I save Julian first. Not my fault. Also, she was in the car with him at 2 AM. You figure it out.” My in-laws froze, awkward silence filling the room. Claire lay on the bed. Instead of grieving her lost arm, she was smiling. “Mom, Dad, I’m fine. I lost an arm, but I saved Julian’s life.” I sneered internally. True love, huh? She always complained I didn’t give her enough. But for him, she gave an arm. Before, this would have broken my heart. Now? I felt nothing. From the moment she killed me and Leo, she was dead to me. “Mom, Dad, David… since you’re all here, I have an announcement.” She looked at me, serious. “David, after Julian and I are discharged, let’s get a divorce.” 3 My in-laws were stunned. But I knew exactly what she was thinking. She wanted to chase her happiness properly this time. In her past life, she constantly whined that if she had been there for Julian, he wouldn’t have committed suicide. She thought she was his savior. His light. I looked at her, amused. In this life, she’s disabled. Will the rich playboy Julian still see her as his light? I chuckled and agreed immediately. “Sure.” I want to see if her fairytale comes true. My quick agreement caught her off guard. She looked annoyed. “David, you’re agreeing so fast because I lost an arm, right? You think I’m damaged goods? Julian isn’t cold-blooded like you. I knew divorcing you was the right choice!” I nodded. “I hope so.” I turned to leave. She shouted at my back, “Just wait and see! Julian stayed single all these years for me. Once I’m divorced, he’ll definitely marry me!” Her parents heard this and started laughing excitedly, asking if she was serious about marrying into money. A few days later, once Claire could move, she practically lived in Julian’s ward. I heard Julian was “deeply moved” and swore to treat her well forever. Claire cried tears of joy and even came to brag to me. My colleagues whispered about her shamelessness, but she didn’t care. 4 My parents urged me to reconsider for Leo’s sake. But I was firm. A woman who could kill her own child for a man? She doesn’t deserve to be a mother. On the day we went to the courthouse, Julian’s driver brought them. Claire leaned into Julian’s embrace, smiling like a newlywed. Julian carried her purse, acting the perfect gentleman. “David, see? I’m better off without you.” Her eyes were triumphant. She wanted to hurt me. I just smiled politely. My indifference enraged her. “David, if Julian hadn’t been blocked by his family back then, I wouldn’t have married you out of spite. Do you really think a toad like you deserves swan meat like me?” I frowned at her ugly expression. She was hideous now. Why did I ever love her? I felt pathetic for my past self. “Fine. Since you got what you wanted, congratulations.” I walked away, ignoring her. She probably thought I fled in shame. 5 Articles about Claire started popping up online. “High School Sweethearts Reunited by Tragedy.” “Woman Sacrifices Arm to Save First Love.” Netizens called it “God-tier Romance.” My intern, Lily, was furious. She almost threw her phone. “God-tier romance my ass! Not a word about her cheating on her husband!” She looked at me, embarrassed. “Sorry, Dr. Evans. I just got mad. I didn’t mean to bring it up.” I looked at Lily’s flushed face and shook my head. “It’s okay.” I knew Claire planted those articles. According to her, Julian’s parents were the only reason they didn’t marry before. She was using public opinion to pressure his family. She branded herself as his “Savior.” She figured the wealthy parents would be moved by her sacrifice. She figured Julian loved her enough to fight for her. I laughed at her naivety. She didn’t understand men like Julian. If he truly loved her, he wouldn’t have given up so easily back then. He didn’t marry her when she was whole and beautiful. Now she’s a divorcee with a kid and one arm. She wouldn’t even make the cut as a mistress, let alone a wife. And rich families? They don’t accept “damaged goods.” She lived two lives and still didn’t get it. Sure enough, a few days later, all the articles vanished. Scrubbed from the internet. 6 After the divorce, Claire kept sending me photos. Holding hands with Julian. Julian carrying her. She was trying to make me jealous. But after a month, the messages stopped. I guessed her “happiness” had expired.

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“$25,000?” I stared at Declan’s phone screen. The text was from the bank: “Your loan ending in 8888 is due for a monthly payment of $25,000. Please remit immediately.” He was in the shower. His phone was sitting on the coffee table. I read it again. Twenty-five thousand dollars a month? What loan? We had been married for eight years. I had no idea he had any debt of that magnitude. My finger instinctively slid across the glass, locating his bank app. I tapped it open. Loan Balance: $4.5 million. A silent, deafening explosion went off in my head. The sound of the shower stopping jolted me. I placed the phone down and settled back onto the sofa, my hands resting calmly on my lap. Declan walked out, towel-drying his hair. “What are you looking at?” “Nothing.” I offered a slight smile. “Just wondering about that bank text,” I continued, keeping my voice level. “It said the payment due was twenty-five thousand dollars?” His color immediately drained. “Five million dollars?” I looked him straight in the eye. “In the eight years we’ve been married, I’ve managed to save up two hundred thousand dollars, and you’ve managed to run up five million dollars in debt.” 1 Declan didn’t speak. He stood there, the towel still draped over his shoulder, a statue carved out of sudden dread. “Care to explain?” My voice was flat. “I… I have a loan,” he stammered, wetting his lips. “But it’s not what you think.” “What do I think?” “It was a company investment project,” he finally sat down. “Last year, there was a major opportunity, and I put some money into it, and it just…” “It crashed?” “Yes, it was a massive loss.” He watched me, his eyes pleading. “So, I took out a bridging loan. I thought I could turn it around.” “Five million dollars?” “It’s not that much,” he hedged, avoiding my gaze. “Maybe a million and a half. Two at the most.” I laughed—a sharp, mirthless sound. I pulled my own phone from my purse, opening the screenshot I’d just taken of the bank message. “Loan Balance: $4,500,000.” I pushed the screen towards him. “Did you just say a million and a half?” Declan’s face went utterly white. “When did you take this loan out?” I asked. “And why, in eight years of marriage, did you never mention it?” “Last year…” His voice was a whisper. “Last March.” “Two years ago?” I stood up. “You’ve been hiding this for two years?” “Harper, please, let me explain…” “You’ve been paying $25,000 a month,” I interrupted, the facts rolling off my tongue like cold steel. “That’s twenty-four months. You’ve already paid back six hundred thousand dollars.” He lowered his head. “Where did that six hundred thousand come from?” “The firm…” “Don’t say the firm.” I walked closer. “Your salary is eighty thousand a year, maybe sixty-five thousand after tax. You contribute forty-eight thousand a year to our joint account. What exactly was left over to cover six hundred thousand in payments?” Declan was silent. “Do you have an emergency fund? Other money you haven’t told me about?” He looked up, his eyes darting away from mine. “Tell me.” “I… I have some.” “How much?” “Not much. Just…” He gritted his teeth. “About two hundred thousand, maybe a bit more.” I nodded slowly. Two hundred thousand dollars. A personal stash. A secret savings account he’d never seen fit to mention. “Is that two hundred thousand enough to cover the balance?” I asked. “No,” his voice was even smaller. “It’s nowhere near enough.” “How much is left?” “Over four million…” I took a deep breath. $4.5 million remaining balance plus the $600,000 he’d already paid back… wait. “You said you’ve paid back six hundred thousand?” “Yes.” “Then why is the remaining balance four point five million?” Declan froze. “Five million dollars minus six hundred thousand dollars is four point four million.” I stared at him. “So your original loan was five million dollars, wasn’t it?” He nodded, defeated. “You’ve been paying $25,000 a month for twenty-four months.” I sat back down. “How did you cover those payments?” “I…” “Don’t mention your two hundred thousand. Two hundred thousand divided by twenty-five thousand is only eight months of payments.” I leaned in. “Where did the other sixteen months of payments come from?” Sweat beaded on Declan’s forehead. “Is there more money, Declan? Money you haven’t told me about?” He didn’t answer. “Declan, I’m asking you one last time,” I stood up again. “What is the real story behind this five million dollars?” “It was an investment gone bad…” “Stop lying.” “It was! It really was a bad investment!” He rose, his voice escalating. “I went in with a few partners, and we got scammed! The money’s all gone!” “Scammed?” “Yes! They promised a guaranteed return, but it was a total fraud!” I looked at him. His eyes were still shifting, unable to hold my gaze. “If you were scammed, why didn’t you file a police report?” “I did, but…” “You did?” I pulled out my phone. “Then there should be a case number. What is it?” Declan was speechless. I smiled, the expression cold on my face. “You can’t even keep your stories straight, can you?” “Harper…” “Don’t call me that.” I turned toward the bedroom. “I’m exhausted today, and I won’t fight. Tomorrow, I’m going to the bank. You’d better use the night to come up with the truth.” “Harper!” I closed the bedroom door. Leaning my back against the polished wood, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Five million dollars. The magnitude of the betrayal was only now sinking in. 2 I called out of work first thing the next morning. Declan was still asleep. I didn’t wake him. Taking my driver’s license and our marriage certificate, I drove to Summit Bank. “Hello, I need to check all loans under my husband’s name,” I said, sliding the documents to the teller. “Are you looking for a joint loan, or…” “All of them.” “Certainly, please wait a moment.” After several minutes of typing, the teller printed out a document. “Your husband has one active business line of credit. It was initiated on March 15, 2023, for $5 million. The term is five years. $600,000 has been paid back, leaving a principal balance of $4.4 million. The monthly payment is $25,000.” I took the paper. March 15, 2023. Exactly two years ago. “What was the stated purpose of this loan?” “It’s a business line of credit, so it was intended for corporate operations,” the teller checked his monitor. “At the time of application, he provided his company’s business license and financial statements.” “May I see the loan contract?” “Yes, please give me a moment to retrieve the file.” A few minutes later, the teller returned with a thick folder. I opened it. First page: Loan Amount: $5,000,000. Loan Purpose: Corporate Working Capital. Collateral: Real Estate Mortgage + Personal Guarantee. I kept turning the pages. Collateral Property: Unit 1003, Building A, The Riverwalk Residences. That was our home. Our primary residence. He used our house as collateral? “This property…” I pointed to the address. “It’s a joint marital asset. How could he mortgage it without my presence?” The teller looked surprised. “You didn’t sign the documents?” “No.” “When the mortgage was processed, he provided an authorized Power of Attorney form, signed by you.” My head began to swim. An authorized Power of Attorney? When had I ever given him that authority? “Can I see a copy of that POA?” “That will require a request to the archives. It might take a few days.” “Please, can you process that request for me?” “I will.” I walked out of the bank, clutching the loan contract. Standing by my car, I called my lawyer friend, Margot. “Margot, my husband secretly took out a $5 million loan using our house as collateral. What do I do?” “What?! Five million?” Margot’s voice was high with shock. “Were you aware of the loan?” “Completely oblivious.” “Then how did he put up the house?” “The bank said he provided a notarized Power of Attorney with my signature.” “A POA?” Margot paused. “Did you sign it?” “No.” “Then that POA is potentially fraudulent,” Margot said firmly. “You need to get the original document from the bank immediately. I’ll review it. If it’s proven to be a forgery, we can argue the loan is invalid, or at the very least, you have no joint liability.” “Okay.” I walked straight back into the bank lobby. “Hi again. I requested that Power of Attorney document. Can you expedite it? I need it now.” The teller looked at me hesitantly. “I don’t know if…” “Please,” I insisted, leaning in. “If that document is fake, my entire life savings and my home are at risk. I need to see it.” The teller hesitated, then nodded. “Wait here. I’ll talk to the manager.” Thirty minutes later, I was handed a photocopy of the POA. I stared at the signature. Harper Brooks. It was my name. But it wasn’t my handwriting. My signature is precise and controlled. The one on the POA was light, almost airy, clearly a rushed imitation. I snapped a picture and sent it to Margot. “Is that your signature?” “No.” “We’ve got him,” Margot confirmed. “Keep that copy. We’ll file for a handwriting analysis. If it’s a forgery, you walk away clean from the debt.” A wave of relief washed over me, quickly followed by a harder realization. Declan forged my signature to secure a $5 million loan. What, exactly, did he spend it on?

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