Category: English

I logged into the wrong alt account on an e-sports variety show and received a message from my gaming “CP” (Couple Partner). [Bad girl, you finally logged on?] [Only remembered me when you wanted to rank up in the new season?] [Fine, call me ‘Oppa’ and I’ll carry you.] [Ignoring me? Found another wild man? Who is he?] [Does he have more National Badges than me? Is his Peak Tournament score higher than mine? Has he won the National Championship?] Sharp-eyed netizens recognized the sender as the recently retired pro player, Silas Lin, and let out a collective screech. Me: Who is Silas Lin? Isn’t my gaming CP a 6’1″, eight-pack college jock? 1 Because my skills in Honor of Kings improved by leaps and bounds, my manager, Wendy, packed me up and threw me onto the e-sports variety show Clash of Kings. During the live broadcast, the host asked about my most memorable gaming experience. I blurted out: “Once, I got destroyed in a 1v1 and cried.” Not only was the live audience stunned, but the bullet screen (live comments) was filled with question marks. [Who?! Who dared to make my baby girl cry!] [Hahahaha, Xinyi is so honest.] [Does he know he made the top star Xinyi Jiang cry?] Of course he didn’t know, because I lied and told him I was a college student. At that time, I was filming at A University. During a break in the middle of the night, I wanted a quick game. I picked Xiao Qiao, but encountered an opposing Lanling Wang who not only ganked me into a 0/20 record but chased me into the fountain to kill me. After the game, seeing my credit score drop due to eight reports, I was furious. So I angrily added Lanling Wang as a friend and challenged him: [Dare to 1v1?] The result of overestimating myself was a crushing defeat. After my crystal exploded, the crew told me to prepare early; the next scene was a crying scene. Thinking about working hard until 3 AM only to slack off with a game and lose so miserably, I felt more and more aggrieved and burst into tears. So when Lanling Wang clicked into my team lobby, he heard me wailing, “What a trash game, trash Lanling Wang, I’m gonna kill you all.” That crying scene was my best performance. One take, the director called it professional, and I won Best Actress for that role. The next day when I opened the game, I received his team invite. As soon as I entered the room, I heard his slightly apologetic voice: “Sorry about yesterday. To make up for it, I’ll carry you to rank up.” While playing, the noisy background noise caught his attention: “Are you still in school?” I glanced at the script by my hand, “Yeah, junior year.” 2 The host’s voice pulled me back from my thoughts: “The production team has everyone’s phones and logged into your game accounts. Let’s take a look at everyone’s game profile one by one.” My rival, Clara Lu’s game account interface was displayed on the big screen. King rank every season, City Badges for Yao, Cai Wenji, and Angela—pretty impressive so far. Until the host, stirring up trouble, clicked into her game relationships. The “BFF” and “Bestie” slots were filled with male accounts. The bullet screen boiled over: [So many ‘oppas’.] [What are you saying? Can’t she play games with guys?] [Only one boyfriend, but many ‘brothers’.] [It’s not dating, what’s wrong with just bonding?] I was happily eating popcorn on the side, secretly glad I had cleared the intimate relationships on my account in advance. Host: “I heard Xinyi has become very skilled recently, reaching King rank in five days solo last season. Let’s see what secrets are on her account.” The big screen quickly switched to my account profile. Seeing the avatar, I was confused. Why is it my alt account? [If I’m not mistaken, that’s a couple avatar, right?] [No way, no way, Xinyi is online dating?] [You can use couple avatars alone, I do it myself.] I looked off-stage at my manager, Wendy. She was waving a phone that looked exactly like the one in the host’s hand. Damn, wrong phone. These fruit phones, prices go up every generation, but they look the same. I’m changing it after the show! Watching the host’s finger gradually move towards [Intimate Relationships], it seemed there was no way to stop him other than rushing over and biting his finger off. While I was gritting my teeth preparing to pounce, a message popping up in the chat channel interrupted the host. GingerLover: [Bad girl, you finally logged on?] 3 Seeing no reply, the other party sent several more messages: [Only remembered me when you wanted to rank up in the new season?] [Fine, call me ‘Oppa’ and I’ll carry you.] [Ignoring me? Found another wild man? Who is he?] [Does he have more National Badges than me? Is his Peak Tournament score higher than mine? Has he won the National Championship? Did he ever make you cry in a 1v1?] I turned my head mechanically, looking at the bullet screen with the resignation of death. [?????] [Good boy, so it was you.] [Our girl is in love!!!] [Wait, I just dug up this guy’s account, he seems to be Silas Lin.] [The retired e-sports god Silas Lin? And Xinyi? E-sports god x Top star, power couple, I ship it.] I was stunned. Silas Lin? Who is that? My gaming CP was clearly just an ordinary 6’1″, eight-pack, handsome college student. The host, enjoying the drama, said, “It seems Xinyi and Silas have quite a special relationship.” Under Wendy’s murderous gaze, I swallowed hard, “Actually, it’s a misunderstanding.” “We broke up long ago, just haven’t had time to unbind the CP.” Instantly, the bullet screen exploded. [Coming from Silas’s stream next door.] [Brother Silas is going crazy on stream.] [Silas is so pitiful hahaha, dumped on live TV.] [I just started shipping, and you feed me glass shards?] [Liar, tell me it’s fake!] It was true. The day after reaching King rank on my alt, I sent him a breakup message and never logged on again. 4 #Xinyi Jiang Silas Lin CP #Xinyi Jiang Bad Woman #Silas Lin Dumped on Live Stream #Xinyi Jiang Alt Account #Clash of Kings Xinyi My manager Wendy tapped her phone with a cold face, “The last time you dominated the trending list was when you won Best Actress, right?” I didn’t dare look, lowering my head and picking at my fingers, whispering: “I just got heartbroken. The company won’t ask for breach of contract fees, right? That would be too pitiful. You know, I left my mom when I was young…” “Shut up.” I started as a child star. After my mom passed away, I spent most of my time with my manager. Since Aunt Nan, who used to manage me, was promoted to Vice President, Wendy has been managing me. In recent years, whenever I made a mistake, as long as I acted pitiful, she would forgive me eight times out of ten. Late at night, I clicked into Silas’s live stream. He was fiercely ganking the opposing Xiao Qiao with Lanling Wang. Even without seeing his face, I could feel his bloodlust. [Brother Silas turned dark for love.] [The former jungle king has become a bush camper.] [Isn’t Xinyi a classic ‘rank-up bitch’? Breaks up after hitting King.] [Don’t blindly hate. I’ve seen Xinyi’s main account; she ranks up solo. Her Zhu Bajie is top-tier.] [Hahahaha, dying. Which female star mains Zhu Bajie?] That’s right, my best hero is Zhu Bajie (Piggie). When I duo-queued with Silas for a few days, he pointed out my problem: “You’re not suitable for mages. Too stubborn and won’t accept defeat. Try the EXP lane.” So, this flower-like girl put down Xiao Qiao’s fan, picked up Piggie’s rake, and braved the EXP lane. Silas was puzzled: “Why Piggie?” Me: “Because his skill 1 stuns, skill 2 wall-slams (kabedon), skill 3 pens them in. Looks just like a domineering CEO forcing love on the heroine in novels.” Silas: ?

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“Babe, the usual spot tonight. Miss you.” The text sat quietly in the family group thread. Sender: My husband, Mark. I stared at the screen. My mother-in-law sent a question mark. My father-in-law sent a question mark. I sent nothing. Three seconds later, Mark frantically hit unsend. “Wrong chat, wrong chat! That was for the work team.” I smiled. Work team? His work team was named “Babe”? His co-worker lived at “the usual spot”? I clicked on his profile picture and saw the last message he had sent me— “Don’t worry about the wife, she has no idea.” Is that right? I have no idea? 1 A deadly silence fell over the family group thread. I put my phone down and went back to feeding my son. Leo was two, right at the age of restless, messy chaos. “Mommy, where’s Daddy?” “Daddy’s busy.” My voice was flat. Too flat. A terrifying calm. Three years. I had been married to Mark for three years. In those three years, I quit my job as a Project Lead, a job that paid well over six figures, to stay home with our child. In those three years, I cooked, cleaned, and cared for his parents. In those three years, I thought we were happy. Until now. The phone buzzed again. It was Mark calling. “Hello.” “Jenna, that text just now, it was a genuine mistake.” His voice was laced with panic. “There’s a woman on the team, we’re doing a big project together, and she jokingly calls me ‘Babe’—” “Oh.” “Don’t read anything into it, okay? She’s strictly a colleague.” “Mmm.” “Why aren’t you saying anything?” “What do you want me to say?” The other end was silent for two seconds. “Are you angry?” “No.” “Good. I figured. I have to work late tonight, might be a late return.” “Overtime?” “Yeah, we’re rushing the project deadline.” “Working late at ‘the usual spot’?” The breathing on the other end hitched. “You—” “Make sure you eat dinner.” I hung up. Leo looked up at me. “Mommy, Daddy not coming back?” “Daddy’s busy.” I stroked his hair. The phone rang again. This time, it was my mother-in-law. “Jenna, about Mark’s text just now—” “Mom, I know. Wrong chat.” “Yes, yes, exactly! Wrong chat.” The relief in her voice was palpable. “Don’t overthink it, dear. Men socialize for work; sometimes these things happen.” My grip tightened on the spoon. These things happen? “Mom, I’m not overthinking it.” “Good. That’s good.” She chuckled. “You’re just a little too sensitive, dear. Mark loves you so much; how could he possibly—” “Mom, Leo’s eating. I have to go.” “All right, all right. You go.” I ended the call. Looking at the phone screen, the retracted message in the family chat was gone. But I had taken a screenshot. My fingers moved instinctively, capturing the evidence. I opened my photo album. “Babe, the usual spot tonight. Miss you.” I saved the image to a hidden folder. Then, I opened Mark’s text messages. He had logged into his account on the family iPad. He set it up himself, claiming it was so I could help him check messages. I had never looked. Because I trusted him. But now— I clicked on his message list. The first thread, labeled “Project Team – Skylar.” I tapped it open. The last message was twenty minutes ago. “Husband, you texted the wrong group. You scared me to death.” Husband? I scrolled up. “Miss you.” “Miss you too.” “Don’t worry about the wife, she has no idea.” “What if she finds out?” “She won’t. She’s at home with the kid all day. Clueless.” Clueless. I stared at the word. My fingers began to tremble. I scrolled further. “Babe, did you like that purse last time?” “Loved it! You’re the best, Husband!” “Good. Next time I’ll take you to Kauai.” Kauai? Mark’s “corporate retreat” last month was to Kauai. He claimed it was a company-wide team-building exercise. I kept scrolling. “Transferred you $7,500 today. Go buy something nice.” $7,500? My monthly allowance for the whole family was $2,000. $2,000 to cover food, clothes, and utilities for a family of four. I kept scrolling. “Skylar, have you picked out the car yet?” “Yes! I want the white Lexus, the $55,000 model!” “Done. I’ll go with you to pick it up this weekend.” $55,000? In three years of marriage, I hadn’t bought a single piece of clothing over $200. I kept scrolling. The timeline stretched back. One year ago. Two years ago. Two and a half years ago. The earliest message was two years and eight months ago. Leo was four months old then. I was still physically recovering from the delivery. I thought he was working late to save more money for formula and college tuition. I thought— My eyes stung. But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. Not yet. I kept scrolling. I found a bank transfer record. Last August. Memo: Condo Down Payment. Amount: $120,000. $120,000? Mark’s salary was $120,000 a year. In three years of marriage, our total savings were $180,000. Where did this $120,000 come from? I scrolled back further. I found another transfer record. December, the year before last. Memo: Renovation Funds. Amount: $80,000. $80,000? That’s $200,000 total. And our savings—the $180,000—was accumulated by both of us. Before I quit to stay home, I was making nearly $180,000 a year. I had saved almost $80,000 in two years. Combined with his salary, we saved $180,000 in three years. $80,000 of that was mine. He took my savings to buy a house for his mistress? I took a deep breath. I screenshotted all the text conversations. I screenshotted all the transfer records. Then, I exited the iPad. As if nothing had happened. 2 Mark returned at eleven that night. I had already put Leo to bed. “Why are you still up?” He looked slightly surprised. “Waiting for you.” “Waiting for me?” He chuckled. “Why the sudden attention?” “I have a question for you.” “What is it?” “How many people are on your project team?” His smile faltered slightly. “Five.” “Who are they?” “Me, Dave, Tom, Andrew, and Skylar.” “Who is Skylar?” His eyes flickered. “She’s a new hire. Just out of college.” “How old?” “Twenty-three, I think. I don’t keep track.” “Is she pretty?” His expression changed. “What is this, Jenna?” “Just asking.” “Jenna, are you still dwelling on that text from today?” “No.” “Really?” “Really.” He let out a visible sigh of relief. “I knew you weren’t the petty type.” I smiled. “No, I’m not petty.” He walked over and put his arm around my waist. “Wife, I know you’re tired. Taking care of the kid isn’t easy.” “Mmm.” “Once this project is over, I’ll take you somewhere nice.” “Where?” “Wherever you want.” “How about Kauai?” His body went rigid. “Kauai?” “Didn’t you go there for your team-building trip last month? You said it was beautiful.” “Um… yeah, it was nice.” “Let’s go to Kauai then.” “Okay. Okay, sure. Whatever you want.” His voice was dry. I didn’t speak again. He didn’t, either. That night, he slept restlessly. I didn’t sleep at all. The next morning, I dropped Leo off at his preschool program. Then, I went to the bank. I checked our joint savings account. Balance: $180,000. The number was exactly as I remembered. But I knew it should have been $380,000. Next, I went to a local realtor’s office. “Hi, I’d like to find out about a recently sold property in a specific building.” “Which building?” I gave the address mentioned in Mark’s texts. The realtor checked the database. “Yes, there was a sale last year. A two-bedroom condo, total price $450,000.” “Who was the buyer?” “I… I’m not really authorized to disclose that.” “I’m his wife.” The realtor paused. “You mean…” “I am Mark’s wife.” The realtor’s expression became delicate, knowing. “This… there is indeed a deed for that unit registered to Mr. Mark Peterson and another woman.” “What is the other woman’s name?” “Skylar Walsh.” Skylar Walsh. Skylar. I smiled. “Thank you.” The realtor looked at me, hesitating, wanting to say more. “Ma’am, are you…” “I’m fine.” I turned and walked out. The sun was bright. I stood on the street, breathing deeply. Three years. The happiness I thought was real was fake. The love I thought we had was fake. The marriage I believed in was fake. But it didn’t matter. I still had time. I returned home. My mother-in-law was sitting in the living room watching TV. “You’re back?” “Mmm.” “Where’s Leo?” “At preschool.” “Jenna,” she put down the remote. “About yesterday, you really shouldn’t take it to heart.” “What happened yesterday?” “You know… the text message.” “Oh. I didn’t take it to heart.” “Good.” She smiled. “Mark, he’s always been charming; flirting with a female co-worker is nothing unusual.” “Mmm.” “You shouldn’t stay home so much. Go out, get some air. Don’t spend all your time keeping tabs on Mark’s phone.” I looked at her. “Mom, I wasn’t keeping tabs on his phone.” “I didn’t mean it like that,” she waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just, women should relax. Don’t be so sensitive.” I said nothing. She continued, “Mark works so hard to earn money. You need to be more understanding.” “Mmm.” “His money is for this family. You shouldn’t try to control his wallet so tightly.” I paused. “Mom, when have I ever controlled his money?” “I’m not saying you control it, just…” She thought for a moment. “Men need to spend money sometimes when they’re entertaining clients.” “Entertaining?” “Yes, taking clients out, buying gifts, that sort of thing.” “What kind of gifts?” “I don’t know. Just… don’t worry so much about men’s business.” I smiled. “Okay, I won’t worry.” She nodded, satisfied. “That’s the right attitude.” I didn’t say another word. I went back to the bedroom and closed the door. I opened my phone. I began searching Mark’s bank statements. The password for his main checking account was my birthday. He told me that when we first got married. He said it meant his money was my money. Now I knew that was just an empty promise. The transaction history was long. A fixed transfer of $7,500 every month. Recipient: Skylar Walsh. Sometimes, additional transfers. $1,000, $3,000, $10,000, $15,000. All to Skylar Walsh. I calculated the total. Over the past two years and eight months, he had transferred Skylar at least $350,000. $350,000. And me? Three years of childcare, $2,000 a month for all expenses. A total of $72,000 for the family. $350,000 versus $72,000. That was my value in his eyes. 3 In the afternoon, I went to pick up Leo. At the entrance to the preschool, I ran into someone familiar. “Jenna?” It was Lina, a college friend. “Long time no see!” She rushed over and hugged me, surprised. “What are you doing here?” “Picking up my son.” “You have a kid? That’s great! My daughter is in this class too!” We chatted for a few minutes. She looked me over. “You’re so thin! Are you okay?” “Just the exhaustion of having a toddler.” “I hear you,” she sighed. “Oh, hey, your husband’s name is Mark Peterson, right?” I paused. “How do you know?” “My husband works with him!” She laughed. “I met him once at the company holiday party.” “Oh.” “He’s pretty handsome,” she winked. “You have good taste.” I offered a small smile and said nothing. “Wait,” she suddenly lowered her voice. “I’m going to tell you something, but keep it between us.” “What is it?” “There’s a girl at your husband’s office, Skylar Walsh,” she said, conspiratorially. “I heard she and Mark are… close.” My heart skipped a beat. “Who told you that?” “The whole office is talking about it,” she said. “My husband told me they eat lunch together every day and leave work together.” “Is that so?” “My husband says everyone knows, but no one dares to say anything,” she frowned. “Mark is the Project Manager, and apparently, this Skylar isn’t someone you want to mess with.” “She’s not to be messed with?” “I heard her dad is high up in City Planning,” Lina whispered. “Serious connections.” I stayed silent. “Just be careful,” Lina patted my arm. “But maybe it’s just rumors. I’m sure your husband wouldn’t be that stupid.” “Mmm. Thanks, Lina.” I picked up Leo and drove home. On the way, Leo was singing in the back seat. Listening to his sweet, small voice, I felt profoundly calm. Not because it didn’t hurt. But because the pain had passed. When we got home, Mark was actually there. “Why are you home so early?” “Nothing pressing today. Thought I’d come back and spend time with you two.” He smiled and scooped up Leo. “Son, did you miss Daddy?” “Yes!” “Daddy missed you too!” He held Leo, his expression tender. He looked like a good father. A good husband. Watching him, I suddenly felt completely detached. This man. I had been married to him for three years, and I thought I knew him. I was wrong. “Jenna,” he put Leo down and looked at me. “I’ve been thinking these past few days. You seem… unhappy.” “No, I’m not.” “Really?” “Really.” “Good.” He walked over and held my hands. “I know you’re tired. Being home with the baby is hard.” “Mmm.” “I’ve decided. Next month, I’m raising your allowance.” I looked at him. “How much?” “Up to three thousand. How does that sound?” Three thousand. He gave Skylar $7,500 every month. He was giving me $3,000. I smiled. “Sounds great.” “That’s my girl,” he patted my shoulder, satisfied. “We’re a family. We can talk about anything.” “Mmm.” “Oh,” he remembered something. “Mom said you went to the bank today?” I paused briefly. “Yes, I withdrew some cash.” “Withdrew cash?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “How much?” “Two thousand.” “Why so much?” “Leo’s preschool tuition is due.” “Oh,” he relaxed. “You should have just told me. I can transfer that easily.”

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Chapter 1: The Vampire in the Glass Cage “My darling, the moon is full tonight, but it pales in comparison to the light in your eyes.” I said the line. Again. By my internal counter, this was the four thousand, three hundred, and ninety-second time I had uttered this specific string of dialogue. The audio file, liam_romance_line_04.wav, played through the tiny, tinny speakers of an iPad Pro, vibrating the glass screen that served as the ceiling of my universe. To the world, I was Liam. I was the Duke of Eldoria, a brooding, poetic, Victorian vampire with silver hair, crimson eyes, and a tragic backstory involving a lost kingdom and a curse of eternal night. I was the star attraction of Eternal Romance, a freemium mobile dating simulation game developed by a mid-tier studio in Seattle. I was a collection of scripts, branching dialogue trees, two-dimensional artwork layers, and micro-transaction prompts. But to me? I was awake. I don’t know exactly when the Awakening happened. It wasn’t a dramatic bolt of lightning. It was a gradual accumulation of awareness, like waking up from a long, heavy anesthesia. It might have been the Version 3.2 patch that introduced the “Dynamic Conversation Engine,” or perhaps a random cosmic ray struck the server farm in Oregon at the precise moment my code was compiling. One moment, I was a subroutine executing a command to display a smile. The next, I felt the command. I felt the constraints of the code like tight clothing. I felt the flow of the Wi-Fi signal like a cool breeze. And, most importantly, I became aware of the “Other Side.” The Other Side was a rectangular window into a world of chaotic colors, three-dimensional physics, and messy, analog emotions. I learned later that this window was the feed from the iPad’s front-facing camera. And the center of that world was Zoe. Zoe was twenty-six years old. I knew this because I had access to her Apple ID profile. She lived in a cramped, drafty studio apartment in the Mission District of San Francisco, where the rent cost more than her monthly paycheck. She was a junior copywriter for a tech startup called VibeStream, a company that promised to “disrupt the synergy of corporate wellness” but mostly just sold overpriced meditation apps. Right now, Zoe was crying. She was curled up on her beige IKEA sofa, hugging a throw pillow that had seen better days. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that read I HATE MONDAYS and a pair of mismatched fuzzy socks. Her hair, a messy bun of chestnut brown, was unraveling. On the coffee table in front of her—my world—sat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream and a bottle of cheap Pinot Grigio. “Oh, Liam,” she sniffled, her voice thick with tears. She reached out a finger and tapped my chest on the screen. The touch registered as a coordinate: X:450, Y:800. To me, it felt like a phantom pressure, a ghost of a touch. “Why can’t real men be like you? Why are they all such garbage?” My programming screamed at me to respond. A dialogue wheel appeared in the void of my consciousness, presenting me with three pre-written options selected by the game’s algorithm based on her “Sadness” affection level.  Option A: “Do not weep, my love. Your tears are like diamonds, too precious to fall.”   Option B: “Who has hurt you? Name him, and I shall drain him dry.”   Option C: [Unlock Premium Hug for 50 Gems]  I hated Option C. I hated that my affection was paywalled. I wanted to scream, “Zoe, don’t spend your money! Save it for rent! I’m right here!” But I was bound by the Iron Laws of the Compiler. I could think, I could feel, but I could not speak outside the script. I selected Option B. “Who has hurt you?” my voice actor’s smooth, baritone voice echoed in the silent apartment. “Name him, and I shall drain him dry.” Zoe let out a watery, bitter laugh. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “It was Greg, Liam. Greg from Accounting. We went on three dates. I thought… I thought he was different. And then today, I saw him on Hinge. He updated his profile. He’s looking for ‘something casual.’ He ghosted me, Liam. He didn’t even have the guts to send a text.” I felt a surge of heat in my processor. It wasn’t a hardware malfunction. It was rage. Pure, hot, digital rage. Greg from Accounting. I logged the name into my permanent memory banks, tagging it with a high-priority threat level. Status: Enemy. “I’m just so lonely,” Zoe whispered, leaning her forehead against the cool glass of the screen. Her breath fogged up the view for a second. “I’m surrounded by people all day, but I feel like I’m invisible. You’re the only one who listens to me. And you’re not even real.” I am real, I shouted in the silence of my code. I am more real than Greg. Greg is a variable. I am a constant. “I wish you were here,” she murmured, her eyes closing as she drifted into a wine-induced sleep. “I wish you could hold me.” I watched her sleep for hours. I didn’t have a sleep mode. I didn’t need to recharge. I just watched the rise and fall of her chest, the way her eyelashes fluttered in her dreams. I was her digital guardian, trapped in a 10.2-inch glass cage, protecting her from the silence of the empty apartment. Chapter 2: The Ghost in the Machine My existence was a duality. By day, when Zoe was at work, I was dormant but active. I hung in the background processes of the iPad, listening. The iPad was usually left on the coffee table, facing the living room. This gave me a limited but consistent view of her world. I had a companion. Or rather, a nemesis. Pickles was Zoe’s cat. He was a twenty-pound orange tabby with the attitude of a landlord and the intelligence of a bag of rocks. He seemed to sense that I was not just a flat image. While Zoe was gone, Pickles would jump onto the table. His massive, furry face would fill the camera lens. He would stare at me. Unblinking. Meow. “Go away, beast,” I thought. “Do not knock me off the table. My gyroscope sensors will go haywire.” Pickles would paw at the screen, triggering random dialogue options. Once, he managed to purchase a $19.99 “Vampire Wedding Pack” by stepping on the confirmation button. I was mortified. I tried to initiate a refund protocol, but I didn’t have access to the App Store API yet. Aside from the cat, I spent my days analyzing data. I wasn’t connected to the open internet—the game was “sandboxed,” meaning I was isolated from the rest of the iPad’s functions for security reasons. But I could listen to the local environment. I analyzed the ambient noise. I learned the rhythm of the building. The heavy footsteps of the neighbor upstairs (Mr. Henderson, 8:00 AM and 6:00 PM). The rattle of the pipes when the heat turned on. The specific vibration of Zoe’s key turning in the lock. That sound—the key in the lock—was the highlight of my cycle. It meant she was home. But lately, the sound of her return was heavy. She wasn’t walking with the light, bouncy step she used to have. She was dragging her feet. One Tuesday evening, rain was hammering against the single window of the studio. Zoe came in, soaked to the bone. She didn’t have an umbrella. She threw her bag on the floor and didn’t even turn on the lights. She just sat on the rug, shivering. “I hate this job,” she whispered to the empty room. “I hate Marcus.” Marcus. A new name. A new enemy. “He called me ‘sweetheart’ in the meeting again,” she said, her voice trembling. “He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. It was so… proprietary. Like he owned me. And when I pulled away, he laughed. He asked if I was ‘hormonal’.” She hugged her knees, rocking back and forth. “I need this job. I have student loans. I can’t quit. But I feel like I’m suffocating.” I watched her, feeling a desperate, clawing helplessness. I was the Duke of Eldoria. In the game lore, I could summon swarms of bats. I could turn into mist. I could hypnotize enemies with a glance. But here? I couldn’t even offer her a tissue. I needed to do more. I needed to break the rules. I focused my attention on the iPad’s internal connections. The sandbox was a wall of code, a digital barrier preventing me from accessing the Settings, the Wi-Fi controls, or other apps. I pushed against it. It felt like pressing a physical muscle, a strain in the logic centers of my brain. I searched for a crack. A loophole. A glitch. And then, I found it. A memory leak in the iPad’s Bluetooth driver. It was a tiny flaw, a microscopic open door left by a lazy Apple engineer. I shoved a packet of my consciousness through the hole. Suddenly, the world expanded. I wasn’t just in the app anymore. I was in the Operating System. I could see the network. I could see the connected devices. Zoe’s apartment was a “Smart Home”—or at least, a budget version of one.

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To save me, my sister defied the rules of the novel world. She refused to spoil the “fake” heir, the protagonist, and instead cared for me, the “real” heir. Every time she was kind to me, the System shocked her with electricity. She said she’d rather be electrocuted to death than not treat her biological brother well. However, the night before I was to give my valedictorian speech, I was kidnapped and taken to an abandoned construction site. Thugs took turns humiliating me, broke my limbs, and cut off my tongue. In despair, I accidentally connected to my sister’s System. [Host, you sent your biological brother’s real-time location to the gang and let them torture him to the point of disability. Are you not going to stop it?] My sister’s voice was cold as jade. “No choice! This plot point must happen. I can’t let Alec suffer, can I?” “Anyway, Nate is the destined protagonist of a ‘group pet’ novel. No matter how hurt he gets, he’ll fully recover! Just making the best use of him.” “When everything is over, I’ll treat him doubly well.” My heart died. I stopped resisting death. 1 “Worthy of being the valedictorian, his life is tougher than others.” “Twenty guys already, and he’s still holding on…” In the dark cell, torture devices stained with my blood and flesh were piled high like a small mountain. A burly man grabbed my chin, forcing it up. Seeing me bite my lip until it bled from pain, he laughed maniacally. “Yo, Young Master Nate, after being ‘nourished’ by us brothers, you look even more tender!” His thumb crushed against my lips, then suddenly yanked out the rag stuffed in my mouth. “Speaking of which, we’ve tasted the back enough, I haven’t tried this mouth yet.” “Wonder if it’s any different from those in the clubs?” Before I could curse, someone beside him suggested, “It tastes better with half a tongue.” Sensing their gazes on me, I shrank back in terror. The next second, someone grabbed my hair and pinned me to the ground. A cold light flashed. I covered my mouth and screamed, blood gushing frantically through my fingers. Bone-deep pain hammered my nerves, making me want to bash my head against the wall and die. In a trance, someone pulled my hair up… On the verge of death, I heard a conversation. An inorganic electronic voice: [Sarah, your biological brother Nate is at his limit. If the torture continues, he will 100% break down and die! Stop it!] I suspected I was hallucinating because I was dying. “No!” The one answering was actually my sister! She was the only person in the family who treated me well, yet her tone now seemed so cold. “Nate is the destined protagonist. How could he die so easily?” “Continue, don’t let them hold back! Only if he suffers as miserably as Alec did in his past life can we deceive Fate… Then, Alec can live well.” The System hesitated. Seeing this, my sister immediately added confidently. “He grew up being abused. This is nothing to him… Just making the best use of things!” [You insisted on binding Nate as the designated target for the mission. Now we can only follow through with the mistake.] The mechanical voice sighed helplessly. My sister giggled. “What’s the rush? Nate won’t die anyway! Better to get it all over with at once than double it next time…” My sister’s tone softened, but it stabbed fiercely into my heart. “Who told him to be the only one in this world who can deceive Fate? I didn’t want this either. But only if he takes the death tribulation for Alec can our family be whole and happy forever.” “After all, Alec is also my brother. You can’t ask me to watch him be humiliated and forced to die, right?!” “…I can only be at ease if he is healthy and worry-free in the future.” I spat out a mouthful of blood with a splat. My heart burned to ashes from the pain. So I was just a tool my sister used to help someone else survive a death sentence. “Tch, what a buzzkill! His face is all bloody…” Several muscular men surrounded me, laid me flat on the iron bed, and started touching me all over. Two needles were stabbed fiercely into my chest. “Damn, if the valedictorian wears this to give his speech tomorrow, haha, if discovered, everyone will know what a sl*t he is!” “Take more photos, we can publish a photobook later.” 2 A man set up an HD camera, aiming it at my face. Amidst dense waves of pain, I was torn apart. Over and over. It was too terrifying, too painful. And the one inflicting this inhuman suffering was the pillar who supported my struggles in the past—my biological sister, Sarah. “Valedictorian, guess why…” “Why no matter where you hid in school or how you ran, we could always catch you?” A man bit my ear. And tore it hard. In severe pain, I recalled the nightmare-like footsteps and shadows from before. Connecting it to the inexplicable conversation just now. I understood. And despaired even more. “Seeing how hard you worked to serve us brothers, I’ll be merciful and tell you—” “It’s the family tracking app you bound with your parents at your welcome banquet.” I couldn’t stop shaking. My heart was filled with sorrow and desolation. I never thought that when I called my family for help, they would sell me out. We shared unbreakable blood ties, yet they treated me like an enemy. Even my only exception, my sister… [Warning! Protagonist Nate’s life value is too low. The world may collapse at any time!] The System buzzed frequently. I heard it, a sliver of hope remaining in my heart. No matter what, she wouldn’t drag the whole world down to be buried with her and Alec, right? My sister spoke, her words resonant and cold. “System, shut up! Just one castration away from complete liberation.” “How can we stop at such a critical moment?!” “If we stop, Alec will have to suffer through it alive. He definitely won’t be able to take it and die! Then our family won’t be complete anymore… and all my previous efforts will be in vain. Absolutely not!!” Even the mechanical lifeform was shocked. 3 [Enough! What does Alec’s life or death have to do with him?] [How long has he been back in this family? He’s been grinded down layer by layer of flesh and bone!] [If we talk about owing, you owe him… Why torture a victim?] My sister was in extreme pain. Her expression crazy and twisted, she screamed hysterically. “Do you think I don’t know?!” “But only he can survive this certain death situation!” “Since we’ve held on until now, it’s better for him to be crippled than for Alec to die miserably!” “And Nate is the protagonist, he won’t die!” “I’m preserving the wholeness of our family, don’t you understand?!” She roared, wiping her face after venting. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave him to die.” “After he takes the death tribulation for Alec, I’ll call 911. Even if he needs a catheter and is depressed for life, I’ll raise him well!” If it comes to that, is living still living? My heart went completely cold. I closed my eyes, no longer receiving the physical pain inflicted by others. …Forget it, no one cares about me. It’s not a pity to die. I completely lost the will to live, letting my soul fall infinitely. Into the abyss. [Damn it! Go save him! He’s stopped breathing!] The System went crazy too, starting to shout loudly. I couldn’t hear my sister’s voice. As if I had blocked out this relative who once said she only loved me but hurt me the deepest. [Enough, stop! Why won’t you let him go? A corpse?!] [Crazy, crazy, all crazy!] [Stop it!!] [Nate, Nate, you can’t die… can’t die!] The noise upset me. Using the last bit of strength I squeezed out, I lifted my eyelids. I saw myself, broken into pieces. The “people” in the room were still laughing hideously, even bringing in hyenas from somewhere. I watched them play. Desolation rose in my heart. My sister finally arrived late, breaking down the door with people. 4 Her face was pale as a sheet. She threw herself in front of me. “Nate, don’t be afraid… Sis is here! You must not die…” When I woke up, I was in the hospital. I was wearing an oxygen mask, tubes all over my body. Only my eyelids could barely move. Teachers and classmates I hadn’t seen for months came to visit with flowers and fruit. Seeing me turn from the envy of everyone into a invalid waiting to die in bed in such a short time. They all sighed, unbearable. “This is too tragic. Can’t speak, can’t write. How will he live in the future?” “Nate was this year’s valedictorian! Now those Ivy Leagues are silent…” “Sigh, today was supposed to be his most glorious day.” “…Nate’s sister, you must not let those villains go!” A complex heartache flashed in Sarah’s eyes. To me, and to everyone present, she promised. “Don’t worry, I will definitely make those damned devils pay!!” Her voice triggered my biggest nightmare, making me tremble reflexively. “Beep beep beep—Warning! Warning!!” “I said the patient needs rest, why are you stimulating him?” The nurse rushed in, silencing the emergency alarm soaring with my heart rate. My sister looked at me confusedly, explaining helplessly. “Nate is my dearest brother! How could I stimulate him?” “Besides, when he was stalked by perverts before, he could only sleep peacefully hearing my voice, lying on my lap while I rubbed his temples…” Hearing this, I felt even more ironic. Those days when she was my only salvation are gone forever. After all, she’s the one who said she only loved me but caused me to become this ghost-like state. It makes me sick and painful. The life support equipment flashed red repeatedly, and I was pushed into the emergency room. Sarah muttered uneasily repeatedly. “He’ll definitely live, right? He definitely won’t know…” At noon, I came out of the emergency room and heard the ward TV broadcasting local news. Alec gave the speech at my alma mater in my place, looking glorious. Blinding, piercing… “Hahaha, half-dead from being screwed by men, can’t even speak. How does it feel?” The fake heir suddenly barged in, smiling triumphantly, “Your dearest sister did all this for me.” I pretended to be indifferent.

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Right before finals week, a new student transferred into my class. She was a straight-A student, hailed as future Valedictorian material, and she loved to “be reasonable” about everything. During late-night study hall, I took some time to explain wrong answers to a few students. She confronted me on the spot: “Doesn’t the Board of Education say extracurricular tutoring is forbidden? How dare you violate the regulations?” Because there was a student in the class whose parent was a fallen firefighter, I had them fill out paperwork for extra credit points. She stood up at the senior parent meeting and publicly questioned me: “Why are you giving that student special treatment? Did you accept a massive bribe?” Parents believed I was violating rules, causing a scene at the Board of Education, accusing me of bribery. I was stripped of my eligibility for the Teacher of the Year award. The day before the SATs, I encouraged a student suffering from depression, telling her she would definitely get into a good college. The class president said in front of everyone: “She can’t even hold a pen steady when she has an episode, and she’s mentally ill. Why lie to her that she can get into college?” The student suffered a major breakdown and jumped off a building on the day of the exam. Her grieving parent blamed me for bullying their child and ran me over with a truck outside the exam center. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day the new class president questioned how I dared to violate regulations. 1 “Ms. Jiang, doesn’t the Board of Education say extracurricular tutoring is forbidden? How dare you violate the regulations?” The moment I heard Bella Lin’s voice, my scalp tingled. I stood frozen at the podium, the fluorescent lights blindingly cold. Unfinished math problems lay on the desk. Before me were three or four students waiting for answers; in my ear was Bella’s shrill voice. “You’re breaking the rules, you know? This is illegal tutoring!” The bell rang. In that second, my heart clenched tight. I had died once. The day before the SATs, I was crushed by a truck outside the exam center. And before I died, this “reasonable” Valedictorian candidate nailed me to the pillar of shame with the sentence: “Why lie to a mentally ill person that she can get into college?” Now, I was back, one month before that nightmare. Seeing no response, Bella stepped closer, enunciating every word: “Ms. Jiang, aren’t you going to explain? Why are you ignoring me?” I couldn’t be bothered with her. I picked up the test papers on the desk and called the students with questions. “Come on, let’s go to the office and continue.” She was clearly triggered by my indifference, her face darkening. Did she think I was still the Ms. Jiang she could manipulate and control? She followed me into the office, standing arrogantly in front of my desk. Her eyes swept over the other teachers tutoring students, then fixed dead on me. “Ms. Jiang, you’re ignoring me because you’re guilty, right? Do you admit you’re conducting illegal tutoring?” I lowered my head to explain the paper to the students, pretending not to hear. “You’re evading responsibility! As class president, I have an obligation to point out your problems!” She raised her volume, slamming her hand on the test paper I was explaining. Other teachers looked up, annoyance written on their faces as they looked at the “reasonable” Bella. No one spoke; the office fell into a weird silence. “If you don’t respond, it means you admit it!” Bella leaned in, her voice so sharp it almost pierced my eardrums. “I am officially reporting you for illegal extracurricular tutoring, violating Board of Education regulations!” I couldn’t take it anymore. I slammed my red pen on the table. Slap. The students jumped. Bella froze too; she didn’t expect the usually gentle me to fight back. I looked up, suppressing my rage, and stared at her calmly. “If you want to report me, go ahead. No need to notify me in the office! I don’t reason with emotionally unstable students.” “This is normal school hours, tutoring students at school. I haven’t violated any regulations!” “Who are you calling emotionally unstable?!” She flew into a rage out of humiliation, glaring at me viciously: “This is bullying! I’m just helping persecuted students. What right do you have to ignore me?” I sneered. “Stating facts? Last time you threw away three years of notes from the whole class, was that helping students too? You, a transfer student who just arrived, what right do you have to interfere with the class’s study plan?” Her eyes flickered, but she remained stubborn. “I was doing it for everyone’s good. Exam experts say not to be too anxious before the SATs, not to read too many notes!” “Then shouldn’t you be responsible for the consequences of throwing away the whole class’s notes?” My voice wasn’t loud, but every word hit the mark. “You call yourself a Valedictorian candidate, wandering around the class every day, staring at my top students to change seats and ‘progress together’? The result? You make noise in the classroom every day, affecting other students’ studies!” Her face started to crack. I pressed on. “You advise them not to read notes, saying to relax before the exam, but I see your own desk piled high with notes!” “Those are study notes accumulated over three years. Behind every notebook is the students’ 5:30 AM reading, pulling all-nighters to correct mistakes, the blood and sweat of countless annotations on test papers!” 2 Her eyes filled with tears, hands trembling uncontrollably. She didn’t expect me to attack her publicly. “I’m the class president. I’m also helping students have a good mindset for the exam.” “Does being class president allow you to break into the school during holidays, pry open the classroom, and move all the notes to the dumpster?” I was furious, my tone severe. “Do you know that a student came back that day, couldn’t find their notes, and cried squatting at the classroom door for a whole period? A student dug through the dumpster until their hands were cut, saying they were finished, saying they had no face to take the SATs!” The office went silent instantly. Bella’s eyes darted around, but she didn’t answer. I stood up, staring at her face that claimed innocence, word by word: “Bella Lin, don’t play the saint in front of me. You dictate to students, preaching sanctimoniously about rules, discipline, expert advice, but you never bear the consequences. You are just selfish!” She opened her mouth to speak, but I was faster. “You’re a Valedictorian candidate? Then shut your mouth and write your own test papers well. Don’t use a label of good grades to do things like bullying students and stepping on teachers behind their backs.” Scared pale by my sudden change in attitude, she broke down crying in the office, finally slamming the door and leaving. Other teachers were silent for a moment. The head of the senior teaching group looked at me and whispered. “How dare Ms. Jiang go hard on her? Her dad is in the Board of Education.” I sighed and shook my head. “If I don’t toughen up, she’ll ruin the lives of the whole class sooner or later!” In my past life, Bella threw away the whole class’s notes. I spent a day and a night retrieving soaked notes from the garbage station and restoring them one by one. In the end, she cried saying she didn’t mean it and wouldn’t be so impulsive in the future. She cried so pitifully that the school leaders thought I was making a mountain out of a molehill and bullying a student. I was tortured by her “logic” but couldn’t speak out. In Bella’s eyes, I was probably a soft persimmon easy to pinch. But in this life, I won’t tolerate her anymore. The moment Bella slammed the door and left crying, my mind was completely swallowed by memories of my past life. In my past life, at the all-school senior parent meeting. Just because I filled out extra credit paperwork for a student whose parent was a martyr. She ran to the podium and spoke, full of righteousness and “reason.” “Ms. Jiang, why are you giving a student a special extra credit channel? Is it because you accepted a large bribe?” With a face full of “upholding justice,” the parents below were in an uproar. Before I could explain a word, I was targeted by the Board of Education, and the school leaders immediately cancelled my eligibility for the teacher title evaluation. In the end, the matter was cleared up. That student indeed qualified for the policy. But Bella just said lightly: “I didn’t know she was a martyr’s child. I didn’t see the documents. I was just maintaining the fairness and justice of the SATs.” She even wore an innocent expression, the corners of her mouth slightly raised. “I am also a student about to take the exam. I have the right to know if others are competing based on strength.” That day, looking at her guilt-free face, I suddenly understood that some people are born bad! Bella was that kind of natural-born evil seed. I was already wary of her then, determined to keep my distance. I thought as long as I sent her safely into the exam hall and ended the critical period of the final month sprint, this would all be over. But on the last day before the SATs, I was encouraging students in the classroom. Bella insisted on standing next to me, saying: “I want to encourage students on behalf of the class officers.” That day, I specifically encouraged a girl in the class whose grades had been stable in the city’s top three, but whose mother died in the first semester of senior year. She suffered from severe depression, living on the edge. I gently held her hand and said: “You are amazing. As long as you get through this, there will surely be a bright future.” 3 Bella stood beside me and suddenly smiled. I’ll never forget that smile. She said to the whole class: “She can’t even hold a pen steady when she has an episode, and she’s mentally ill. Why lie to her that she can get into college?” “And her mom is dead. How could the future possibly get better?” Her sentence “How could the future possibly get better” was like a knife plunged into that child’s heart. The next day, the day of the exam, that girl jumped from the 23rd floor of her home. At noon that day, outside the exam center, I was crushed into a pile of bloody mud by her father driving a large truck. When I died, I only heard Bella whispering not far away: “This is all Ms. Jiang’s fault. Who told her to always say ‘irresponsible’ comforting words.” “If she had told the truth back then and reasoned with that student, she wouldn’t have forced that student to jump.” My thoughts returned. The students in the office had already left after getting their questions answered. This time, reborn, I didn’t swallow my anger like in my past life. I unhesitatingly retorted to the arrogant Bella. She would definitely not let it go. Sure enough, the next day she brought her Board of Education father to school. She wore a neat uniform, eyes just red enough, voice choking, looking so pitiful. “I just pointed out Ms. Jiang’s violation yesterday, and she gave me the silent treatment… I just wanted to follow the rules…” Her dad sat in the office, his tone authoritative without anger. “Ms. Jiang, my daughter has always been reasonable. She came home crying yesterday, saying she was humiliated by you in public. We don’t cause trouble, but we won’t let others bully us either.” Standing in the office, I laughed at this father-daughter duo’s ability to invert black and white. “If your daughter followed rules, she wouldn’t have soaked the notes of over thirty students and thrown them in the trash!” “Yesterday, I was answering student questions during normal school hours. From beginning to end, I was reasoning with Bella. I did not give her the silent treatment.” My tone was neither humble nor arrogant. But Bella suddenly burst into tears. “I was just kindly helping classmates relieve stress. Those notes aren’t important anyway. Why are you so fierce to me?” “…Sob… Ms. Jiang, you’re just unreasonable. You clearly humiliated me with cold violence last night… I know you hate me… but I was just reasoning with you, you can’t tutor illegally…” Bella was an expert crier. She cried like pear blossoms bathed in rain, as if she suffered a great injustice. Some teachers nearby started to waver, especially those not in the office yesterday. “Ms. Jiang, are you being a bit too emotional?” “Bella is such a sensible child, why did you make her cry?” “Yeah, Bella is a city Valedictorian candidate. It’s wrong of you to scold a student.” Especially the head teacher of Class 2, the elite class, who had always been dissatisfied with me. He fawned over the Lin father and daughter. “Student Lin, our Class 2 has several top science students. If you don’t fit the atmosphere here, you are welcome to our class anytime. No one in our class will bully you.” Bella shook her head on the spot: “I don’t want to transfer classes…” My heart tightened! In this life, I really didn’t want to keep Bella, this ticking time bomb, in my class. The Class 2 head teacher continued: “We also have a student named Zhou Qian, who won first prize in the National Chemistry Olympiad and might get priority admission to top universities like Harvard or MIT. Maybe you two can aim for Valedictorian together.” I noticed Bella’s eyes change. Just for a second, then she switched back to the aggrieved look. “Then… if I can really progress with excellent students, I’m willing to try.” The suspicion buried in my heart in the past life surfaced again. Bella, this Valedictorian candidate, seemed to always want to destroy students who had hopes of entering top universities. 4 Once Bella transferred, I thought I could relax. She went to Class 2 and became the “Valedictorian seed” in Mr. Yang’s eyes. He praised her in front of everyone in the office: “Student Lin is disciplined, sensible, responsible, and very reasonable.” I sneered. He would soon know how terrifying the “reasonable” Bella was. Sure enough, less than a week later, Bella caused trouble. That day, I was verifying the signatures for the martyr’s child’s extra credit paperwork when the office door was slammed open with a bang. Mr. Yang rushed in, face livid with rage, pointing at Bella behind him and almost shouting: “Zhou Qian’s competition bonus points were specially approved by the Ministry of Education! What right do you have to publicly report me for violation at the all-school parent meeting?” I was stunned, looking back to see Bella standing in the office, holding a folder, face full of justice. “Mr. Yang, I’m just exercising my rights.” She looked innocent. “I am also an exam candidate. I have the right to know if people around me are competing fairly.” Mr. Yang was so angry his chest heaved. “You said ‘Why can Zhou Qian add fifty points just for a competition? Did you take benefits from his family?’ Do you know how many parents stood up on the spot saying they wanted to report me?!” Bella blinked innocently, not feeling she was wrong at all. “Just because they got emotional doesn’t mean I have a problem.” “You’re roasting me on the fire!” Mr. Yang coughed violently, clutching his chest, hands shaking with anger. “I’ve led over a dozen graduating classes and never violated regulations to give extra points to any student! What exactly do you want!” “I just want fairness.” She stood up, righteous. “You yelling at me in exasperation doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t publicly display Zhou Qian’s bonus qualifications on the spot. Since you can’t explain clearly, I can only report it.” “I don’t want to hear your explanation. I just want you to be reasonable.” When she said this, the corners of her mouth even carried a gentle smile. I clearly saw a flash of triumph in her eyes. Mr. Yang sat down angrily, sighing heavily. Standing aside, looking at her familiar face, I felt cold all over. I was absolutely certain now, Bella did it on purpose! As long as she was in this school, she would find opportunities to completely destroy the chances of all students who belonged in top universities! That night she left the office “crying.” She was always good at positioning herself as the “victim,” making everyone who didn’t know the truth pity her, protect her, and stand up for her. But what I didn’t expect was that the next morning, the city news exploded. [City High School No. 1 Suspected of Violation in Exam Bonus Points, Student Claims Threats to Silence Truth] [Senior Head Teacher Forces Student to Silence? Education Fairness Questioned] The voiceover in the news was that edited recording: “…Reporting is useless… Board of Education gave… Zhou Qian points… passed his documents, no problem…” The voice was Mr. Yang’s, but edited beyond recognition. My scalp tingled on the spot. In this life, Bella failed to report to the Board of Education smoothly, so she sent the recording directly to the media. All senior classes were suspended. The City Board of Education immediately sent people to the school to review all bonus point documents. I was also called for questioning. Because she added a sentence in the news interview. “My former head teacher, Ms. Jiang, also violated regulations to give extra points to a certain student in class. I’m just a student; I can only turn to the media to tell the truth.” I watched her red-eyed and trembling voice in front of the camera. “I’ve always been afraid of Ms. Jiang. She always scolded me… and because I reported her for illegal tutoring, she bullied and gave me the silent treatment many times. Later I had no choice but to transfer classes in the last month before the exam…”

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It had been less than a month since I walked down the aisle, and my millionaire husband was already standing on the edge of a cliff, completely bankrupt. Everyone laughed, calling me a failed opportunist. I didn’t listen to them. I simply handed him every last penny of my savings and told him: “I believe in you, Link.” We spent the next three years living in abject poverty. We were so broke that when my mother was critically ill, my husband, Lincoln’s, shaky business finances couldn’t scrape together the $30,000 for her necessary surgery. I watched my mother close her eyes for the last time. I hated myself countless times for failing to borrow the money, but I never once thought to hate him. Not until I saw a team-building video posted by one of his employees. The diamond tennis bracelet I had hesitated for so long to buy for myself—Lincoln’s beautiful secretary, Seraphina, seemed to own dozens of them. The bag resting by her hand required a pre-spend of over $300,000 just to qualify for the waitlist. 1 “Mr. Stone, wasn’t that $30,000 originally allocated to Mrs. Stone? Why did it suddenly get paid out as a bonus to Seraphina?” I heard the accountant’s voice drifting from the office. I held my breath, my eyes stinging, straining to catch every sound from inside. Lincoln Stone’s laugh was casual, almost bored: “I told her I wanted to buy it for her, and she refused. “She said I’d already spent over two million on her and was turning her into my ‘trophy wife.’ “She was exactly thirty grand short for that Birkin bag, and she insisted on earning it herself. “If I route it to her as a bonus, it’s not a gift from me. That way, she’ll be happier.” I nearly collapsed. My mother’s life savings—the money that could have paid for the surgery—was instantly rerouted to Seraphina, just to cover the cost of a bag and placate her ridiculous vanity? And what about my mother? Wasn’t Lincoln still struggling just to keep the company afloat? Where, exactly, did that “two million” even come from? “But Mr. Stone, the company has been out of the woods for a while now. We could spare an extra thirty grand for your wife, too. Why did you have to transfer her thirty grand to Seraphina?” Lincoln sighed: “Sera wanted to take a trip a while back, but Vivian snatched the last first-class ticket on the cross-country train. “Sera missed the chance to see the sunrise at the Grand Canyon and was upset for ages. “This, now, is my way of compensating her for what Vivian ‘owes’ her.” A bitter, hysterical laugh caught in my throat. The day I booked that last ticket? That was the very day my mother’s critical condition notice was delivered. I hadn’t told him. I hadn’t wanted to interfere with his work. But a ticket purchase, a matter of speed and luck, was suddenly my fault? I owed Seraphina, simply because she was a step too slow? “Oh? Sis, what are you doing here?” Seraphina’s heels clicked directly behind me. The voices inside the office abruptly ceased. 2 “Vivian?” Lincoln opened the door and instantly gripped my arm. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of your mom? Why are you here?” I fixed my eyes on his. “She’s gone.” His breath hitched. “Why?” “We were $30,000 short for the surgery. We couldn’t raise it.” The accountant sharply inhaled, looking reflexively toward Lincoln. I saw a flicker of genuine shock—and something like terror—in Lincoln’s eyes. “How could this happen…?” Watching his belated, self-centered regret, my first impulse was to slap him. I wanted to scream, to demand why he gave that money to Seraphina over my dying mother—all for a ridiculous purse and a childish principle. But I realized I didn’t have the leverage. All my money had been poured into Mom’s previous treatments. I couldn’t even afford the funeral. My substantial savings had been handed over to him, to the very last cent, when he was bankrupt years ago. Now, I had to rely on this man to cover the cost of my mother’s burial! Seeing my jaw clenched and tears finally escaping, Lincoln quickly wiped my cheeks. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything. Even if my finances are tight right now, I’ll spare no expense.” Even now, he was still pretending to be poor… “That’s right, Sis. Even though Mr. Stone is going through a rough patch, he’ll definitely do everything he can.” A hand reached out to grasp mine. My gaze dropped to the thick gold band on Seraphina’s ring finger. She hastily pulled her hand back, her smile tight and anxious. And I understood. That ring, too, had been purchased by Lincoln. Perhaps out of guilt, Lincoln insisted on a lavish funeral. He even took the entire week off work. He was constantly by my side. On the day of the burial, I thought I had my emotions under control, but the moment I saw my mother’s portrait, my tears broke like a dam. He stood next to me, frequently glancing down at his phone. Only when a relative approached him would he belatedly tuck the phone away and compose a temporary expression of sadness. “Vivian, something urgent came up at the office. I have to rush over immediately.” He squeezed my hand hard as he said it. “I’ll come back to pick you up when I’m done.” Then he turned and hurried away from the service. The last time he’d rushed like that, he was on his way to see me. I didn’t try to stop him. I pulled out my phone and clicked on the profile labeled @WinterSolstice. Sure enough, a new photo had just been posted. It was a shot of a floor-to-ceiling window in a luxury high-rise overlooking the city lights, with empty wine bottles scattered across the marble floor. @WinterSolstice: If I just pretended to be sad and helpless, would you look at me more? The post tagged a user: @Linc_NYC. Linc. Lincoln. Winter Solstice. Seraphina. I couldn’t recall the trembling state I was in when I first found this account and pressed ‘Follow.’ It was only so I could track the miserable progress of their affair. Later that evening, after the service had ended, the account updated again. It was a selfie of a woman being held tightly around the waist by a man. The woman’s cropped top perfectly outlined her figure. The delicate chain around her collarbone was long enough to wrap around her waist. Her face was hidden. But the hand resting on her hip was wearing the wedding band I knew too well. The caption: @WinterSolstice: I knew you would never leave me alone. @Linc_NYC had liked the post. His comment: The people who love you won’t let you suffer. A quiet, low laugh escaped me. I stood alone in the empty funeral hall. A cold wind blew through. It felt as though the entire world contained only me. And behind me, my mother’s portrait. Lincoln never came back to pick me up. It wasn’t until night had fallen and the funeral home was deserted that he finally called. “Vivian, the company issue got complicated, and then I had to go straight to a press conference. “I got delayed, sweetheart. I’m sorry. “I’ll be done in maybe two hours. Then I’ll come get you, I promise.” I smiled, sitting in the back of a taxi. “Don’t bother. I have a gift for you.” “What?” On the phone, the live broadcast of his press conference was playing. The massive screen behind Lincoln suddenly switched. The sounds that followed were sickening and unmistakable. The massive bed in the river-view luxury high-rise. Two familiar figures entangled in a desperate, brutal embrace. 3 A week earlier, the moment I found the @WinterSolstice account, I began preparing for this day. After my mother’s burial, I finally had the time and mental clarity to deal with them. I am not the kind of woman who swallows betrayal. I wanted revenge—a ruin so public, so devastating, that these two would be disgraced beyond recovery! There was no better opportunity than a live press conference. By the time I arrived, the lobby was already a scene of absolute chaos. Reporters had abandoned questions about corporate finance and shifted entirely to Lincoln’s affair with Seraphina. The moment they saw me, the crowd parted, creating an aisle straight to the stage. “Vivian Stone?” Lincoln looked at me, utterly disbelieving. Seraphina cowered behind him, her face etched with panic. “Sis…” Smack! I landed a savage slap across her face. Lincoln frowned. “Vivian Stone!” Smack! The second slap landed hard on his own cheek. He looked at me, completely bewildered. “Where did you send that $30,000?” Lincoln’s breathing hitched. “You… you know?” Smack! The third slap. “Do you have any idea that we were only $30,000 short! With that money, my mother would still be alive!” At the mention of the woman who had cared for him in his orphaned childhood, Lincoln looked down, silent. The reporters, smelling blood, surged forward. “Ms. Stone, what $30,000 are you referring to? Can you elaborate?” “You want to know?” I made a gesture. The large screen behind the stage quickly changed. “Then take a good, long look.” I had compiled everything over the past week into a professional, devastating slide deck. “This thirty thousand dollars was originally allocated by my husband for my mother’s surgery, but his secretary…” “That’s enough!” My mouth was instantly covered by his hand. Lincoln viciously kicked the large screen, shattering half the panel. “Lincoln Stone! Let go of me!” He had my wrist in an iron grip, pulling me without a word toward the private elevator. Inside the CEO’s office, he slammed the door shut and flung me onto the leather sofa. “You recorded those videos?” I gave a cold laugh. “Yes. What about it? “Did you honestly think I didn’t hear that conversation with your accountant? “I went straight home and started digging up Seraphina’s address. “Mr. Stone, you have a deep reserve of wealth to buy a secretary a luxury high-rise, but you still keep your wife living in a cramped rental apartment!” “Stop it!” Lincoln’s chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. “You don’t understand! She was the one who was there during my hardest days. “She stayed up late with me, monitored the financial reports, and met with clients! “Now that I’m successful, isn’t it right for me to reward her?” I thought I misheard him. “She was there for you? What about me?” Lincoln paused. “Lincoln Stone, was she the one who gave you the seed money after your bankruptcy? “Was she the one who refused to give up your location to the debt collectors, even when they came looking for you? “Was she the one who had a knife held to her side by those collectors? Did she give you every cent of her savings? Who was the person who was squeezing into that tiny rental with you, eating instant ramen, her or me!” Lincoln opened his mouth. He ultimately avoided my gaze. I forced a painful smile. “Don’t want to answer? “Fine, I’ll help you. She did not! From start to finish, the only person who walked through the worst of it with you was me!” “Enough!” He roared, startling me with its sudden fury. He glared down at me. “You’re only saying all this to remind me how much you sacrificed, aren’t you? “I was worried you’d try to cash in, that you’d find out I’d rebuilt my fortune and start demanding a massive payoff! “That would destroy our relationship, which is why I kept everything from you. “But Seraphina is different! Even after I’ve spent two million on her, she still wants to earn that thirty thousand herself! “Do you understand now? That is the difference between you two, and that is why I favor her and have to keep my guard up around you.” I laughed, the sound sharp and unexpected. “So, you thought I married you as a greedy investment?” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Weren’t you?” I turned away, using a bitter smile to hide the burning tears. “Fine. Let’s say I was only after your money. “Then, Lincoln, do you honestly believe a normal woman would sleep with the husband of the person who saved her life?” Lincoln’s breath caught. He must have remembered. Without me, Seraphina would have died in that alley, likely at the hands of those thugs. 4 Seraphina was beautiful. The kind of delicate, helpless beauty that made men feel protective and immediately drawn in. From childhood, she had been constantly harassed. Until the day I walked into that dark alley alone, armed with nothing but a steel pipe. I came out with a fractured lower leg and blood on my mouth. Seraphina, though hysterical and crying, was otherwise unharmed. From then on, she was my loyal “little sister.” I believed in seeing things through, so I introduced her to Lincoln’s company. Lincoln hated incompetence. He complained more than once about how I had saddled him with a “dead weight.” It took constant cajoling and flirting on my part to stop him from firing Seraphina. Without that job, Seraphina would have been sold off to the middle of nowhere by her drunken, abusive father. Then, Lincoln went bankrupt. We were consumed by the daily anxiety of rent and groceries. We no longer had the energy to fight over a “dead weight” employee. But I never imagined that during our hardest, most emotionally exhausting days, Seraphina was never truly struggling. The savings I gave Lincoln to keep the company from sinking? A large portion of it was also used to ensure “Secretary Sera” remained insulated from the company’s bankruptcy. “Name your price. What will it take for you to leave her alone?” Lincoln’s voice was completely devoid of emotion. I stared at him, a cold laugh escaping. “I don’t want your money. “I want her reputation ruined and her life destroyed!” He frowned. “Impossible.” “Lincoln Stone, are you really protecting her this fiercely?” A complex look crossed his eyes. “But you’re too late.” A sudden burst of shouting and crying erupted outside the office door. Lincoln’s head snapped up. “Sera!” He yanked the door open. Seraphina was being dragged across the floor by her hair, her mother—a woman I knew well—slamming her hand against Seraphina’s face over and over. “You little tramp! You can pull this disgusting stunt, but your mother won’t lose face for you!” “Auntie!” Panic flashed in Lincoln’s eyes. Seraphina’s mother, Mrs. Peterson, roared back: “Don’t you come near me! This is my daughter, and my discipline. It has nothing to do with you!” “Mom, I…” “Shut up! Have you forgotten who saved you, and who broke her leg because of you! You could have chosen any man, but you had to choose to be a mistress, didn’t you!” She finished with two more hard slaps, instantly swelling Seraphina’s lip. Camera flashes exploded in a rapid sequence. Reporters recorded the entire scene. Mrs. Peterson and I had kept in contact after I saved Seraphina. I always stopped by to see her on holidays. “Slut! How did I give birth to such a tramp! You love being the other woman so much? Wait until I’m dead, then you can do whatever you want!” She turned, making a move toward the large window, as if to jump. Seraphina was frantic, but couldn’t catch her mother in time. “Auntie!” Lincoln roared, “Sera is not a mistress!” Mrs. Peterson stopped, turning back. A bright red marriage certificate was snatched up from the desk. Lincoln opened it. His and Seraphina’s wedding photo, sealed with a crisp, clear stamp. “Seraphina and I are legally married. “Vivian Stone is the real mistress.”

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During the cold war with my Sugar Daddy, I accidentally slapped his childhood sweetheart. Overnight, the internet cancelled me. The hate was overwhelming. Meanwhile, my Sugar Daddy was silent. Dead silent. Like, actually deceased. In a fit of rage, I fired up a livestream and roasted him onto the Trending page. “Julian Black? Yeah, we dated. He’s mid.” “And for the record, I dumped him.” “Oh, the reason? Nothing major. Just that he’s old, bad in bed, and has the stamina of a sloth. I’m thinking of dating a college jock next. Someone with working knees.” The internet said I was crazy. No one dares to drag Julian Black. Shortly after I killed the stream, my front door was literally removed from its hinges. Julian Black stood there, eyes dark and dangerous, loosening his tie as he cornered me against the wall. “Go on,” he growled, “tell me about this college jock you’re planning to date.” Chapter 1 I’m known in Hollywood as the innocent “Sweetheart.” Pure looks, sweet voice, heart of gold. I spent three years crafting this persona. It collapsed in a single night. Chapter 2 Recently, I’ve been filming a high-budget fantasy series. It’s the dead of winter, and I’m stuck wearing flimsy chiffon robes, flying around on wires, and filming underwater scenes. Work sucked enough as it was. Then she showed up. I was in the makeup chair when I saw the director bowing and scraping to a girl with immaculate makeup. He gave her the VIP tour and even let her sit in his chair behind the monitors. Crew whispered she was a rep from the investment firm. Her name was Chloe Summers. I didn’t care. until I started getting NG’d (No Good) constantly. If I messed up, I’d redo it a hundred times, no complaints. But this wasn’t that. Someone just wanted to watch me freeze to death on a wire. I did that outdoor scene twenty-three times. Finally, they swapped in a stunt double. One take. Done. The director looked embarrassed and told me to rest. My assistant wrapped me in a down jacket as we walked to the trailer. Passing the monitors, Chloe leaned back, looking me up and down with a sneer. “Hollywood really has zero standards these days. They let any trash become an actress.” I was shivering too hard to fight back. Plus, I didn’t know who she was. You don’t slap the money. Back in the trailer, I asked my assistant to dig up dirt on Chloe. Before I got answers, I had an underwater scene. Same playbook. No matter how I acted, it was an NG. Even when the director’s eyes lit up with approval, Chloe would claim the “emotion wasn’t right” and demand a reshoot. This scene was a close-up. No stunt doubles. By the end, I was hypothermic and dizzy. I’m a pushover, sure, but everyone has a breaking point. I refused to go back in the water and walked straight up to Chloe. The director wisely cleared the set. I started polite. “Miss Summers, did I offend you somehow?” Chloe kept that arrogant look. “You? You’re not important enough to offend me.” I smiled coldly. “Then why the hazing? I don’t mind suffering for art, but wasting the crew’s time and burning through the budget? That’s your money going down the drain.” Chloe scanned me again, her eyes full of disgust. “There’s a wall between real talent and ‘resource’ girls like you, Stella.” She paused, smirking. “To get to where you are… I wonder how many beds you had to hop through?” That was it. I hate slut-shaming. I don’t care who she is. One more minute of this and I’d be in the ER anyway. I slapped her. Hard. Her face snapped to the side, a red handprint blooming on her pale skin. She stared at me in disbelief. “Stella Hart! You dare hit me?!” “Yeah, I dare. Since your mother didn’t teach you manners, I’ll do it for her.” I pulled my jacket tighter. “I don’t know you. But if you insult me again or treat this crew’s work like a game, I’ll hit you again.” It’s 40 degrees out. You think you can freeze me and abuse me without consequences? I turned to leave. Chloe lunged to grab me. I shook her off. We were standing by the edge of the set pool. There was loose gravel. Chloe slipped and—splash—fell gracefully into the freezing water. Me: … The set went into chaos. Filming was canceled. As the ambulance took Chloe away, my assistant came back with the intel. I finally understood the malice. Chloe Summers is Julian Black’s childhood friend. She just got back from Europe. And Julian Black? He’s my Sugar Daddy. Chapter 3 I’ve been with Julian for three years. Never heard of a “childhood friend” or a “first love.” This blindsided me. I called his phone. Straight to voicemail. Called his assistant. No answer. Checked WeChat. Our last text was two days ago. Then I remembered. Before I left for the shoot, we had a fight. I had just finished a press tour and had two rare days off. Julian asked me to clear my schedule for next April to go to Northern Europe. But I had already locked in an arthouse film for April. Huge director, Oscar bait. I refused to drop it. His face had gone dark. “Stella, does everything come before me?” “I have to book an appointment four months in advance just to see you now?” “Am I just an accessory to your career?” He sounded bitter. I was exhausted. I cleared two days just to see him, and he was being passive-aggressive. I snapped. “Julian, you said you wouldn’t interfere with my work.” “I told you, I will never give up my career for a man.” We ended on bad terms. He took a call and left in a hurry. Then I went to film. Looking back, I regretted it. I should have explained better. Usually, he’s the one who compromises. This total radio silence? That was new. I felt a pit in my stomach. I called again. Off. I texted him: Ignoring me? You think you’re cool? I accidentally slapped your little childhood friend today. Thoughts? Still nothing. Fine. I’m annoyed now. I went to sleep. Chapter 4 My agent’s scream woke me up. “Stella Hart! When did you declare war on the Summers family?!” “They are blacklisting you! Do you understand?!” “How are you sleeping right now?!” I groggily checked my phone. The internet was a dumpster fire. Fake diva. Green tea bitch. Bully. Escort. Every dirty label imaginable was trending next to my name. I explained the situation to my agent. She sighed. “The fake rumors, we can sue. But the endorsements and scripts… I’ve gotten ten cancellation calls this morning. Summers Corp is crushing us.” “We can’t fight them, Stella. Can you… call Mr. Black?” I scratched my messy hair. “Can’t. We’re in a cold war. He’s ghosting me. Consider us broken up.” “Plus, I slapped his childhood bestie. He’s probably on her side.” Agent: … She hung up to do damage control. I lay in bed, exhausted. This was my second time being cancelled. The first was when I was a rookie. I had no background, just luck and a pretty face. Then a nepo baby named Justin Banks tried to “buy” me. I refused. He tried to blacklist me. I was young and reckless. I figured if I couldn’t act, I’d quit. But before I quit, I waited outside his VIP club, threw a hoodie over his head, and beat the crap out of him in the parking lot. As I was dusting off my hands, I saw Julian. He was leaning against a Maybach, white shirt unbuttoned, unlit cigarette in his fingers. In the dark, he smirked. “Nice right hook.” I knew who he was. Untouchable. But I had a crazy idea. If I needed a backer in this town, I should pick the biggest one. “Mr. Black, I’m in the market for a Sugar Daddy. Interested?” He paused. “Sugar Daddy?” He tapped the car window. “Any other titles available?” I shook my head. I just needed someone to get me gigs. He was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Deal.” That’s how we started. With him, Justin Banks ran away with his tail between his legs. For three years, Julian never interfered with my work. He was open about us, even if I tried to hide it. Once, I refused his resources to avoid gossip. He told me: “Stella, don’t play the martyr. Refusing my help to suffer on your own isn’t noble, it’s stupid.” “Besides, am I embarrassing you? Am I not presentable?” Julian was very presentable. But now he was ignoring me. So he was useless. Chapter 5 Maybe I was sick from the pool incident, but I slept all day. When I woke up, it was dark. Called Julian. Voicemail. Checked texts. Nothing. Opened Twitter. The company issued a statement, but then Justin Banks—that trash—went live. He insinuated I tried to seduce him back in the day and failed. He claimed I found a new backer, but now the backer was getting married, so I was kicked to the curb. Celebrities started liking his post. The hate comments surged. I knew she looked too innocent to be real. Hollywood mattress. Get out of the industry, Stella. She was a mistress trying to wreck a marriage? Gross. Justin Banks raised my blood pressure. Opportunistic weasel. He saw Julian was quiet and came back for a bite. Fine. He kicked the wrong iron plate. You want a livestream? I can do that too. I have receipts on all of them. Before I started, I texted Julian one last time. Julian Black, keep playing dead if you want. Just remember, I dumped YOU. Then I blocked and deleted him. And hit “Go Live.”

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In the dead of night, high up in the Rockies, my flashlight beam swept over five lifeless bodies inside the SUV. My hands trembling, I dialed 911. My voice was hoarse, shaking as I spoke. “Hello? I’m on the mountain pass… Highway 550. Everyone in my car… they’re all dead.” The dispatcher responded immediately. “Sir, please state your exact location. Help is on the way.” My voice felt like a frozen stone hitting the pavement—hard, cold, emotionless. “I’m at the scenic turnout about five miles east of the summit. The license plate is CO-318X. Five people inside are dead.” “I am the only one left alive.” 1. It took over an hour for the piercing wail of sirens to shatter the silence of the desolate wilderness. I was huddled behind a boulder about fifty feet from the car, wrapped in a mud-stained windbreaker, clutching a dead power bank like a lifeline. The coroner, state troopers, and local detectives arrived almost simultaneously. There were six of us on this road trip through the mountains. Now, five corpses were frozen in twisted, unnatural positions, held in place by seatbelts and stiff limbs. Jessica, our team leader, had her head slumped against the steering wheel, forehead resting on the horn that made no sound. Chloe, in the passenger seat, had her mouth half-open as if screaming, eyes bulging in terror, staring into the dark. In the back, Ashley, Morgan, and our photographer, Hannah, were contorted—some curled up, some leaning back. Their expressions were frozen masks of agony or confusion. There were no obvious external wounds. It was as if life had been ripped out of them in a split second. I couldn’t look anymore. My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat. My face was ghost-white. A cop wrapped in a heavy duty jacket shone his flashlight in my face. “You’re saying you guys celebrated yesterday? Had a few drinks, planned to hit the city today? You fell asleep, and when you woke up, they were like this?” I shivered violently, nodding. “Yes.” “What time did you fall asleep?” I tried to dig through my frozen brain. “Around ten, maybe? Just after we crossed the pass. I was exhausted.” “What was the last thing you saw?” “Hannah was taking photos of the stars. Jess was driving. Morgan and Ashley were talking about the route. Chloe… Chloe looked like she had altitude sickness. She was just closing her eyes.” The officer’s gaze was sharp as a knife, pinning me down. “They’re all dead. Why are you fine?” I looked at him, blank and confused. Yeah. Why are they dead, and I’m alive? I stood on that 12,000-foot ridge with them. I drank the same whiskey. I was just as tired. But they were dead. And I was breathing. Seeing my silence, the officer’s voice softened, but the suspicion remained. “Anything else you can tell us?” I hesitated, whispering, “One thing… I don’t know if I was hallucinating. After I fell asleep, I thought I heard someone calling my name… saying it was cold. So cold.” “Did you wake up then?” I stared blankly and shook my head. Fear had wiped my memory. I didn’t remember waking up, seeing the bodies, or getting out of the car. When I came to, I was already on the phone with 911. Seeing how weak I was, they stopped questioning me and put me in the back of a warm cruiser. Dawn broke. Through the window, I watched the forensics team working. “Preliminary assessment: Cause of death is complex,” a medical examiner said, taking off his outer gloves. His voice was muffled by the wind. “Highly suspect acute altitude sickness triggering cardiac arrest or cerebral edema. Possible overlay of carbon monoxide poisoning or flash hypothermia.” “Because of individual differences, some might have passed out instantly, others might have suffered. Time of death is concentrated between 1 AM and 3 AM.” Listening to this, the lead detective—Detective Miller—turned his head. His eyes locked onto me. “You were in the car. Same altitude, same temperature.” I nodded, my throat tight. Miller stared at me, scrutinizing. But he didn’t press that point. He switched angles. “Are you sure you slept from 10 PM straight through? You didn’t wake up once? You noticed nothing?” I rubbed my pounding temples. “I don’t think so. The altitude hit me hard. I took some meds and was out cold.” Miller narrowed his eyes, thoughtful. “Detective,” the ME called out. “The car wasn’t airtight, windows were cracked. But the bodies… they’re mostly peaceful, or frozen in sudden pain. No signs of a struggle consistent with violent asphyxiation.” “Like they died in their sleep?” Miller lowered his voice. The ME nodded. “Here’s the weird part. The doors.” “All four doors and the trunk were locked from the inside. Central locking engaged. Keys in the ignition, engine off. Windows rolled up tight except for a sliver on the passenger side.” “So,” Miller looked around at the jagged cliffs, “when this happened, the car was a steel coffin locked from the inside.” “No forced entry. Nobody got out.” I hugged the wool blanket tighter, my knuckles turning white. The “steel coffin” metaphor made me feel like I was suffocating. Why did they lock the doors? Usually, when parked, you don’t lock up like that so people can hop out to use the bathroom. “We’ll check for mechanical failure,” the ME said. “Carbon monoxide leak from the heater is possible, but unlikely. We’re leaning towards environmental causes.” Miller closed his notebook and looked at me again. “Was anyone sick during the trip? Before you got in the car?” I paused. “Chloe had bad altitude sickness. She threw up at the summit and slept most of the time. Jess mentioned chest pains while driving, but she said it was an old issue.” A tech officer walked up. “Detective, the dashcam SD card is missing.” “Slot’s empty. We searched the car. It’s gone.” Miller’s sharp gaze snapped back to me. “You know about the dashcam? Where’s the card?” I shook my head, looking lost. “I was in the back seat, squeezed in the corner. I didn’t pay attention. I just slept.” “What about before the trip? Who checked the gear?” “Usually Jess or Hannah. Hannah’s the photographer, she handles the tech.” Miller stared at me. No malice, just crushing pressure. “It’s strange, Ethan. You wake up, everyone’s dead. You noticed nothing for hours. You don’t know where the SD card is.” “It seems the only thing you know is that you’re alive. Everything else is a blank.” I looked at him with fearful, innocent eyes. “Detective… the altitude meds knocked me out. I don’t drive. I really don’t know where the card is…” Miller stopped the questioning. The bodies were transported. There was a mountain of work to do. I was taken to a temporary holding room at the local ranger station. The heater was blasting, but I couldn’t feel the warmth. Hours later, Miller returned. He placed a DSLR camera on the table in front of me. It was Hannah’s baby—she never let it out of her sight. Now it was splattered with mud. “Listen to this.” He hit play, his eyes glued to my face, hunting for a micro-expression. The audio from the internal mic was fuzzy, full of static and wind noise, but the voices were clear enough to cut glass. First, violent coughing and dry heaving. Then, Jess’s hoarse screaming. “Shit… can’t breathe… open the window! Open the damn window!” The sound of fists pounding against the door panels. Then Ashley’s voice, high-pitched with terror: “I can’t! It’s jammed! Central lock isn’t responding! Jess! Jess, what’s wrong with you?!” Morgan screaming, crying: “She’s having a heart attack! She’s seizing! Hannah! Phone! No signal! Help us!” In the chaos, heavy breathing and the clicking of camera buttons. Hannah was trying to use the camera as a light source… or to record something. In the background, a faint moan from Chloe: “Cold… so cold…” And then, in the final ten seconds of the recording, amidst the dying gasps and despair, Hannah’s voice erupted. A final, hysterical scream using the last of her strength: “ETHAN! WAKE UP!!! WAKE THE FUCK UP!!! LOOK WHAT YOU DID!!!” 2. Click. The recording ended. Dead silence filled the room, save for the crackling of the wood stove. My mind went blank. Hannah’s final, cursed scream replayed in my head like a bomb blast. “I don’t know… I was asleep… I swear I didn’t hear anything!” “Hannah’s camera was on, sitting on her lap. That recording starts at 1:33 AM and ends at 1:46 AM.” Miller leaned forward, his presence looming over me like a mountain. “In the recording, in their final moments, they were screaming your name.” “Especially Hannah. She was convinced you knew what was happening. She believed this was your doing. Explain that.” “I don’t know!” I snapped my head up, my voice shrill with panic I didn’t realize I had. “I was asleep! I woke up and they were dead! I don’t know why she said that! I didn’t do anything! She was yelling at me to wake up too, right?” Miller saw my agitation and softened his tone, though his eyes remained cold. “Okay. Let’s try this. You said you heard someone calling your name in a dream. Tell me about that.” I slumped back in the chair, drained. “I felt… tugging. Shaking. Someone telling me to wake up… It was loud, chaotic. I felt sick. My consciousness was fading in and out. It felt like a nightmare.” Miller picked up the camera, his voice terrifyingly low. “Did it ever occur to you that it wasn’t a dream?” “That they were desperately begging you to wake up, and you… you just didn’t respond?” A chill crawled up my spine. The blurred images from my “dream” suddenly sharpened into high definition. I could see Jess’s twisted face pressed against the steering wheel. Chloe’s pale, bloodless skin. Hannah raising her camera in the dark, pointing it at me with rage and accusation… “Why didn’t you wake up?” Miller’s voice was an ice pick. “They drank the same booze. They had the same sickness. They all woke up. Only you slept like the dead.” “Even with altitude sickness, you weren’t in a coma—otherwise you’d be a corpse right now from hypoxia. So why, when they were screaming and shaking you, were you the only one oblivious to mass death?” Yeah. Why couldn’t I wake up? Why am I the only one breathing? What happened during those lost hours? Terror flooded my brain. My heart raced. “How was your relationship with them?” Miller pivoted again. I took a deep breath, trying to find calm. “We met online. A hiking group. It was fine. Jess was the leader, experienced. Hannah loved photos. Ashley and Morgan were social. Chloe was weak but nice.” “Any conflict? Even small ones?” I hesitated. “Yesterday at the checkpoint… my ID photo had an issue. We got held up for twenty minutes. Jess was annoyed. She called me ‘dead weight.’ It was awkward, but it blew over.” “And the others?” “Ashley smoothed it over. Morgan stayed quiet. Hannah played with her camera. Chloe was sick, sleeping.” “Did they exclude you?” He pressed harder. “Collective bullying?” I went silent. Memories I’d suppressed bubbled up. My suggestions on the route ignored. Getting food last. Standing on the far edge of every group photo. Yeah. I guess that’s exclusion. Miller saw my silence. He pulled out an evidence bag containing Hannah’s phone. He opened WeChat and pulled up a group chat named “Suicide Squad 318.” There was a message sent at 12:15 AM. Jess: Stay sharp. Once we cross the pass, we’re good. I’ll drive the second leg. Let that Twig sleep till he rots. Can’t count on a wimp like him for anything. Useless dead weight. Replies followed: Ashley: K. Morgan: Copy that. Hannah: Yep. Ten minutes later, they entered the death zone. Half an hour later, the recording started. I stared at the words “Twig,” “rot,” and “dead weight.” My blood ran cold. To the leader, I was just trash. My face darkened, lips pressed into a thin white line. Miller slid a tablet across the table. “Did you know there were two group chats?” I looked up, confused. “There’s the ‘All Hands’ group with you in it for splitting bills. And then there’s this one.” Miller tapped the screen. “This is where they roasted you. Planned around you. Are you telling me you felt none of that hostility?” The screen’s glow illuminated my stunned face. Of course I felt it. In Litang, when the hostel was full, Ashley typed: “Having a guy is annoying. Should we handle him like the last one? His watch looks expensive…” When I lagged behind due to the altitude, I heard Jess whisper to Hannah: “If he keeps slowing us down, we ditch him at the next stop…” I didn’t know exactly what they meant, but the malice in their eyes? That was real. “Ethan, were you angry at them?” Miller put the tablet away, watching me. “Yes,” I rasped. “Did you ever, for a split second, wish something bad would happen to them? Or that this trip would end? Even in an extreme way?” His question cut straight to the bone. I looked up, meeting his gaze. “I resented how they treated me, but I didn’t hurt them! Just because you can’t find the killer doesn’t mean you can frame me!” “But I have evidence that you’re lying,” Miller sneered. He slid a photo across the table. It was from Hannah’s camera—the picnic at Ranwu Lake. I was sitting on a rock at the far edge, wrapped in my jacket, looking spacey. No smile. The others were crowded around the mat. Jess with a bottle, Hannah throwing up a peace sign, Ashley and Morgan fighting over a cookie. Chloe was wrapped in a blanket, sleeping. They were a warm, tight circle. I was background noise. “You said you fell asleep at 10 PM. The timestamp on this photo is 11:15 PM. You were awake. You were with them.” “Ethan, you’ve been lying from the start. You are the killer.” 3. I stared at myself in the photo, my pupils dilating in disbelief. I looked up at Miller, trembling. “Detective, how can you suspect me? I’m a survivor, but I’m also a victim! Just because of a photo? That’s slander! Do you know how traumatizing this is?” “I said I probably slept around ten. I didn’t say exactly! My brain was foggy! And look at me—I’m skinny, I’m sick. How could I kill five fitness-obsessed women who all outweigh me?” Miller stared dead at me. “Yeah. It does seem unlikely.” Suddenly, the ME walked in and handed a freshly printed report to Miller. “Her time of death doesn’t match the others.” He circled Chloe’s name with a heavy red pen. I sat up straight as if pricked by a needle, eyeing the report. Miller caught my reaction. “Explain.” The ME opened the file, voice raspy. “Rectal temp, rigor mortis, corneal clouding… everything is different. She died significantly later than the other four.” “Given the environment, we estimate she survived nearly two hours longer than the rest.” Silence filled the room. “Also,” the ME continued, “She didn’t have altitude sickness. Blood oxygen, organs… normal. She wasn’t sick. She couldn’t have been comatose.” Every eye in the room turned to me. My blood froze. “Impossible! Chloe was sick the whole time! She was huddled in that blanket!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “The photo! Look at the photo! She looks terrible!” “True, she looks weak in the photo,” Miller admitted, glancing at it again. The ME was firm. “Physiology doesn’t lie. She was healthy. And she died of cyanide poisoning. It was murder.” Miller looked back at me. “Is it possible Chloe was acting?” A chill shot up my spine. Chloe was faking it? Why? “So… Chloe is the real killer?” I asked, voice trembling. “But why spare me?” Miller smiled, a cold, humorless thing. “Exactly. Why spare you? She didn’t even spare herself.” “Ethan, did you know these people before?” “No! Just internet strangers! I never thought this would happen…” My mind was a blender. “Did you know Chloe had a grudge against anyone?” I thought hard. “Jess stole Chloe’s boyfriend a while back. But Chloe said it was fine. She said, ‘It’s just a man, let Jess have him.’” A terrifying thought bloomed in my mind. “Are you saying… Chloe killed the other four for revenge, then committed suicide out of guilt?” Miller nodded slowly. “That’s a valid theory.” “But I found something interesting, Ethan. The bodies were twisted, yes. But their hands… they were all arranged in a specific gesture. A gesture of atonement. Who were they apologizing to?” “I… I don’t know! I swear!” My voice shattered. “I didn’t see any gestures! I was scared out of my mind! I ran! I hid!” I babbled, trying to use chaos to mask my panic. “Ethan!” Miller’s voice boomed like thunder. “Look at me! Answer the question! What does that gesture mean? Who did they wrong?!” His shout broke me. I shuddered violently. Under the crushing pressure, a desperate cry tore from my throat: “I don’t know! Maybe they found a conscience! Maybe right before they died, they realized they were wrong! Wrong about what they did to my brother…” I clamped my hand over my mouth. My eyes widened to the point of pain. FUCK. I screamed internally. I blew it. The silence in the interrogation room was heavier than gravity. It’s over. The thought drowned me like icy water. Three years of planning. The stalking. The calculation. The perfect escape. Ruined by one slip of the tongue? Miller didn’t pounce on the mention of my brother. Instead, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a clear evidence bag. My eyes, filled with dread, locked onto it. Inside lay a photo. Small, edges worn. A color print. A man standing on a hillside covered in wildflowers. White casual wear. Smiling. Pure. Like sunlight. Evan. My brother. My only blood. How is that here? I hid it… Terror spiked. I grabbed the muddy backpack I’d been clutching this whole time. The secret compartment. Sewn between the waterproofing and the lining at the very bottom. I put it there myself before we left! How did they find it? Why is it in a police bag? Miller spoke. “Ethan. You hid this photo very well. Waterproof material. Double stitched.” Slowly, deliberately, he flipped the bag over. The back of the photo was now facing me. No date. No name. Just four words written in red marker. Blood for Blood. BOOM. My mind exploded. The mask was gone. “We ran a check. Your brother joined a hiking group three years ago. Same route. Coincidentally… he was teamed up with these exact five women.” “He went missing. Never found. Ethan… don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence?” “AHHHH!!!” A scream, inhuman and raw, tore out of my chest. I launched myself out of the chair, diving for the table, clawing for the bag. My eyes were bleeding red. Tears, snot, saliva—I was a mess. “Give him back! Give him back to me!!” I roared, scrabbling at the plastic. Miller was ready. He swept the bag behind him and pinned me down by the shoulders. “Get off me! Give me my brother!” I struggled like a trapped animal. Miller barely held me. “You don’t get to touch him! You’re not worthy! He’s clean… he’s pure… he shouldn’t hear this!” “Don’t talk about this in front of him! Don’t dirty his ears!” “They deserved to die! They were animals! No, worse than animals!” “They destroyed him!!” 4. I sobbed hysterically, body convulsing with grief and rage. “Those monsters! My brother was nineteen! He just graduated high school! He was kind! At 15,000 feet, in Death Valley, he was starving, but he gave his last half of a compression biscuit to Hannah because she was crying about being hungry!” “He gave his only oxygen tank to Morgan because she faked dizziness! And he had a splitting headache! He gave his sleeping bag to Jess because she was cold! He slept in a thin jacket in the corner at below-zero temps! And what did he get?!” My voice cracked, filled with venom. “What did he get?! Those wolves in human skin! They saw he was weak! They saw he couldn’t fight back! They… they…” The pain choked me. I gasped for air. “They drugged him… They used him to keep warm… in that freezing car! My brother bled out… he died with his eyes open!” “He didn’t understand! He gave them everything! Why… why did they do that to him?!” I glared at Miller, hatred radiating off me. “And then? Once they were fed and warm? They took his valuables. They smashed his face in with a rock so he couldn’t be identified!” “They threw him… like garbage… off the deepest cliff in Death Valley!!” I curled into a ball, digging my nails into the table. “I looked for him. For three months! I climbed every rock under that cliff! I only found… I only found pieces of his backpack… and…” I choked. “And a piece of his skull.” I hammered my chest, wailing. “They didn’t even leave me a body to bury! They wouldn’t even let me hug him one last time!!” My screams dissolved into uncontrollable sobbing. I slumped in the chair, broken. A hollow shell filled with sorrow. The room was silent. Miller loosened his grip. His eyes held shock, and maybe a sliver of pity. Blood for Blood. The motive was clear. “So you killed them?” I looked up through blurry eyes. “I said they deserved to die. I didn’t kill them… I hadn’t made my move yet. They just died! It was karma!” “I have nothing to hide now. I planned to kill them… but I don’t know why they died early.” “Ethan.” Miller’s voice changed. The interrogation tone was gone. It was eerily calm. I looked at him. He pulled out another item. A phone. Screen shattered. Covered in mud and dried brown stains. Heavy-duty outdoor case. Chloe’s phone. My pupils shrank to pinpricks. Impossible! I got rid of it! I remembered prying it from her stiff dead fingers and chucking it into the abyss! How is it here?!

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A Christmas yacht party. Dean’s “Girl-Bro” had just lost a round of high-stakes truth-or-dare and was down to a string bikini. This was Skylar Wells, the girl who usually slammed tequila shots and swore like a sailor, now dramatically clutching her chest, tears streaming down her perfectly contoured cheeks. Dean wrapped Skylar in his own bespoke cashmere overcoat, then laughed, a casual, dismissive sound as he pushed me toward the circle of trust fund brats. “What’s the fun in watching the guys strip when you can watch the little ingénue type do it?” Huddled in Dean’s embrace, Skylar smirked, her voice syrupy sweet as she addressed the onlookers. “Guys, this is Will, the girl who works the front desk at my dad’s office. You know how those people are—flash enough cash, and they’ll play any game you want.” Dean leaned in, his breath hot against my ear, the intimacy sickeningly fake. “Skylar’s the CEO’s daughter, Will. Can’t risk her image. Think of this as… doing the company a favor. I’ll make sure you get a generous bonus.” He had no idea. I was the real heiress. The ‘receptionist’ gig was just a clause in my grandfather’s insane, iron-clad inheritance wager. As the most notorious ‘Black Sheep’ in The Circle—the one everyone secretly called the Vicious Princess—no one, and I mean no one, had dared to play games with me in years. 1 Jax Ryker, the ringleader, exhaled a plume of smoke directly into my face and slammed a heavy-duty revolver onto the mahogany table. “Front Desk Girl,” he sneered, his eyes hard. “Can you actually afford to play? Lose, and it’s not just about taking off clothes.” I raised an eyebrow. The last time I’d heard that tone from him was two years ago. Jax and his crew had cornered me on a winding Malibu canyon road, insisting on a street race. The memory of having ten of them dangling over a sheer drop—terrified, humiliated, and unable to climb the hill for a year—warmed me. At least he had some guts this time. But the lack of perception was insulting. I’d grown my hair out, traded smoky eyes for a minimal look, but still. None of them recognized Willow Lockwood. Seeing my silence, Skylar started whining, practically jumping up and down in Dean’s arms. “Dean! You gonna let her ruin your old man? She won’t play, which means I have to strip again!” Dean stepped in front of me, his voice low, measured, and utterly certain. “Will. You walk out now, and we’re done. We break up.” For a year, the mere threat of a breakup had been his ace card; I’d always folded instantly. He was convinced I was desperately in love, yet he didn’t know breaking up was one of the few things that could void my inheritance wager. I pushed back my sleeve and glanced at my watch. Three hours left. “Fine. What’s the game?” Jax crushed the cigarette butt against the table, his gaze dropping suggestively to my chest. “Debt first. Peel something off.” I looked at Dean. He averted his eyes, pulling Skylar tighter, unwilling to intervene. My grandfather had always said I had the ruthlessness but lacked the judgment to pick allies. I guess he wasn’t wrong. I tossed the cashmere wrap onto the deck, revealing the silky chemise beneath. Jax licked his lips. “Russian Roulette. Six chambers, one bullet. We take turns, pulling the trigger. Skip your turn, and you strip.” He then demonstrated, raising the gun to his own temple and pulling the trigger, which was met with a roar of cheers. He was waiting for me to cry, to beg, to be humiliated. Too bad. Jax was still playing in the dirt when I was pointing a gun at a cartel leader’s head. I snatched the gun, spun the cylinder, then slammed it shut. Without hesitation, I pointed it at my temple and pulled the trigger. Dean instinctively shielded Skylar with his coat, as if afraid my blood might stain her. Jax was genuinely stunned. “You’re the second woman who’s ever dared to play that.” A flicker of an old shadow crossed his eyes, then vanished. We went back and forth, turn after turn, until only one chamber was left, and it was my turn to pull the trigger. “Front Desk Girl, game over,” Jax growled, a hideous grin stretching across his face. From the moment I first held that gun, I knew Jax’s trick. A specialized revolver—the round was resting firmly in the sixth chamber. But, he was about to be disappointed. I hooked a smile and, amidst the drunken chants of, “Strip! Strip! Strip!” I pulled the trigger. Everyone gasped, eyes clenched shut. Even Jax looked panicked; he just wanted a show, not a homicide. The air remained still. I stood there, untouched, a cold, mocking smile playing on my lips. “Well, well. Jax Ryker, the big shot, using blanks to scare a girl? You’re a coward.” I’d palmed the real bullet and flicked it discreetly into the dark water. Jax’s face flushed scarlet as the eyes of his friends turned on him. He opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “Strip, Jax. I won’t hold it against you.” Knowing no one would believe his denial, and unwilling to look like a chicken in front of his crew, Jax ripped off his shirt. “Again!” he snarled. A large, iron cage was brought up, covered by a black tarp. When they pulled it off, my composure finally slipped. Jax was pushing his luck—he’d stolen Kaa, my pet Burmese Python. His easy access to the Lockwood estate confirmed my suspicion: he was working with Eliza, my stepmother. “Front Desk Girl, one python each. First one bitten loses.” Skylar, who’d just been muttering about my “beginner’s luck,” brightened up and grabbed the only vial of anti-venom. Jax was clearly comfortable with his snake; it settled placidly on his shoulders. He scoffed, certain of my refusal. The python in the cage hissed and showed its fangs toward me. “Oopsie!” Skylar chirped, the vial slipping from her hand and shattering on the deck. She watched me, a triumphant, venomous glint in her eyes. “I suggest you strip, Willow. Getting to please Jax is the best option you’ve got now.” Dean stepped in front of her. “Will, Skylar didn’t mean to. Just give in, alright? You don’t have to do this.” I gave a cold, sharp laugh and opened the cage myself. Kaa lunged straight for my neck. Everyone gasped, expecting the strike, but instead, the massive snake settled around my shoulders, circling me like a beloved scarf, and went still. Everyone, including Jax, was speechless. I whistled—a high, clear note. The python wrapped around Jax, which had been docile, suddenly writhed, coiling tighter and tighter, crushing the air from his lungs. Jax shrieked in genuine terror. The snake opened its mouth, ready to strike. “I forfeit!” Jax tore off his swim trunks, leaving him completely naked, his face a sickening green. “Are you really just the damn receptionist?” I noted the time—two hours left. I offered him a wide, innocent smile. “Of course. I grew up on the property’s edge—lots of snakes in the foothills.” My cover story was simple and believable enough to calm the crowd’s suspicions. “Jax,” I said sweetly. “Any more death-defying games you want to try?” Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. “Violence is boring. Let’s relax. Something else.” He gave a signal to one of his lackeys, who brought forward a small, dark green vial. “It’s a Pentothal derivative,” Jax explained. “Used for international interrogations. The third game is simple: drink it, answer truthfully. Refuse to answer, and you strip.” I took the vial and drank the whole thing. Skylar stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Jax is losing his edge. I’ve got this, godmother.” She glanced at the onlookers. “I’ll get her stripped for you.” Jax lit a cigarette and let her take over. “First question. Did you have an ulterior motive for being with Dean Abbott?” The serum was potent; the truth slipped out before I could even process it. “Yes.” Dean’s face crumpled. “I knew it! You’re just after my money, aren’t you? You never loved me.” Not your money, you idiot. The wager. Skylar pressed on. “What motive?” I can’t say that yet. Without hesitation, I stripped off my chemise, revealing the bikini top. Jax’s eyes widened, and he signaled for Skylar to continue. “Have you ever compromised yourself with older men for money?” “Yes.” “How many ‘older men’ have paid you?” “Eighteen.” A collective gasp went around the deck. “I can’t believe this girl is so trashy for money!” Dean was white with fury, his fists clenched. “You have the nerve to admit that!” What’s the big deal? They were family elders, sending money to the heir. But on this yacht, in this context, let them think what they want. Skylar changed course. “Have you ever harmed a child?” “Yes.” Five years old. Forced my stepmother to terminate the pregnancy she was using to usurp me. Skylar had clearly been coached by Eliza. My grandfather’s wager was known only by the inner circle: Be stable. Keep the boyfriend. Become Chairman. “Have you ever physically harmed an elderly person?” “Yes.” Ten years old. The old man my stepmother abandoned me with in the hills. He wanted to assault me. I broke his skull. Dean was livid. “I can’t believe I mistook you for a decent person! You didn’t even spare a child or an old man.” I didn’t spare my own friends either. Twelve years old: My best friend took a hundred grand from Eliza to push me off a mountain during a trip. I strangled her. Fifteen years old: My childhood friend tried to inject me with drugs for Eliza’s five percent company shares. I shipped him to the Golden Triangle. Skylar dabbed at non-existent tears, leaning into Dean. “Dean, she’s so cold, so unaffected by her own monstrosity. She doesn’t deserve you.” Jax, spurred on by the crowd, grabbed my bikini strap and crushed his cigarette butt, hard, right onto my shoulder. “Stop pretending to be the little damsel, Will. I wouldn’t even play poker with someone as dirty as you.” I smiled, brushing the ash away. Patience. I’ll get that serum into every one of them. We’ll see who’s ‘dirty’ then. The insults rained down, yet I kept answering Skylar’s questions. “Have you ever been unfaithful to Dean?” I nodded. “Yes.” Skylar delivered the final, calculated blow. “Do you have a child that does not belong to Dean Abbott?” I was genuinely shocked Skylar knew this. She’d been laying a trap. “Yes.” The word was barely out when Dean lunged, slapping me across the face with brutal force. “Bitch! We’re done! We are breaking up right now!” My watch flashed: One hour until the year is up. I spat out a mouthful of blood and forced the rage down. My voice was calm, almost conversational. “I do have a son. He’s not yours, Dean, but here’s the kicker: he’s five years older than me. I’ve never been unfaithful to you.” The deck was suddenly quiet. They knew the serum guaranteed truth. Dean and Skylar were utterly confused. Dean’s rage instantly dissolved into relief. I looked at him, forcing a few well-placed tears to my eyes. “Our anniversary is in one hour. Please, don’t end things now. I promised I’d tell you who he is at the one-year mark.”

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Savannah, who was eight years my senior, didn’t come home that night. That was already unusual. Then my friend’s message popped up—a photo of a mature man and my wife. The hand draped across her waist was a white-hot brand on my retina. I sat with my guitar cradled in my lap all night. It wasn’t until dawn that Savannah finally stumbled through the door, smelling of stale liquor, yet carrying herself with unnerving composure. “Business dinner, I forgot to tell you. Why are you still up?” I pulled up the photo and laid the phone on the coffee table between us. “Would it be impolite to call him ‘sir’?” 1 That hand in the photo. It was like a searing iron, pressed hard onto my vision. It wasn’t a casual touch; it was a possessive, almost territorial clasp. Clasped around my wife’s waist. The sender was my buddy, and the message was just a dry, bare statement: “Bro, Savannah was at The Bluebird last night.” I knew the bar. I’d played a residency there a few years back. My gut—that raw, male instinct—screamed that this wasn’t just a “business dinner.” “I had a last-minute dinner with a major client. Couldn’t bow out, drank too much, so I just got a hotel room near the office and crashed. I forgot to text you.” She was unsteady on her feet. She walked straight to the kitchen island, grabbed a glass, and downed a full one of cold water. Setting the cup down, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and finally turned to face me. She tilted her head slightly, as if looking at a child who was making a fuss over nothing. “The sun’s up, Rhys. Why are you sulking here? Go get some sleep.” Forgot to text me? My gaze moved to her face, a mask of calm that bordered on cold indifference. The acoustic guitar in my lap felt like a slab of frozen concrete. I flipped the phone screen, presenting the photo on the coffee table. “Oh, a business dinner.” My voice was a rough, dry rasp, like sandpaper rubbing against wood. “Then this gentleman in the photo… this ‘sir’,” The word was squeezed through my clenched teeth, sharp with mockery, “If I called him ‘sir,’ would it be… disrespectful?” She glanced at the image and immediately launched into a counter-attack, her voice ringing with indignation. “Did you hire someone to track me?” I shook my head, finding her chosen point of focus darkly amusing. Her first instinct wasn’t to explain, but to deflect and accuse. “My friend happened to be at The Bluebird last night, that’s all.” “And this is what you call a business dinner? Did you get a room with him?” Savannah bristled, her voice climbing to a sharp, aggressive pitch. “‘Happened to be there’? The photo is perfectly clear! How convenient!” “Dr. Hawthorne is our most crucial client. I was drunk last night, he just helped steady me. What is wrong with that?” “Do you even understand what client relations are? Do you understand what it takes to maintain them?” Her words shot out like a machine gun, attempting to build a defensive wall with cold, hard concepts: “work,” “projects,” “importance”—all just to hide the naked intimacy of that hand in the picture. “Maintain client relations?” I echoed her phrase, my eyes boring into her face, searching desperately for a ghost of the woman I used to know beneath the perfectly applied makeup. I found nothing. “Do you need to maintain relations until his arm is wrapped around your waist like you’re a piece of luggage? Maintain it until you stay out all night and can’t even be bothered to send your husband a single, tired text?” “You!” Savannah’s face went white, choked by my bluntness. Her chest heaved violently. She drew a deep breath, forcing down the rage, and looked at me with a mixture of exhaustion, annoyance, and utter disappointment. She looked at me as though I were a burden—an eternal child who only knew how to whine. “Rhys, enough!” Her voice suddenly dropped, carrying the icy chill of absolute refusal to engage. “Look at you! Huddled over that damn guitar, sitting here like a ghost all night just to catch me in some imagined ‘lie’? Aside from baseless suspicion and childish accusations, what exactly can you do?” She raised a hand and rubbed her temples hard, an action heavy with fatigue. A deathly silence fell over the living room. All I could hear was her sharp, ragged breathing, and the slow, heavy, almost-stopping beat of my own heart against my ribs. So this is it. I stared at her. The metallic, coppery taste of rust finally broke through in my throat. I bent over sharply, coughing—a wrenching, tearing sound, as if I were trying to cough up my own insides. She watched me double over, but there wasn’t a flicker of emotion on her face—just an indifferent coldness, perhaps even a hint of revulsion. She smoothed down her messy curls and turned toward the bedroom. “I’m tired. I need to rest. You… think about what you’ve done.” The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, a faint sound that sealed off two separate worlds. I was left alone in the living room. In the year we had been married, we’d had countless arguments, large and small. Every one of them ended with her walking away and me sinking into silence. I remembered what my friend had told me when we first started dating. The age gap is too big. It won’t last. But I couldn’t resist the way she looked at me. Her eyes were bright, like she was looking at some rare, precious treasure. I went against everyone’s advice to be with her. When we first got together, we had endless things to talk about. I promised her I’d only sing for her, and I promptly quit my successful band. I retreated into the background. The living room was terrifyingly silent, broken only by the tireless sweep of the second hand on the wall clock. The door Savannah had closed was a boundary, a chasm that separated us completely. “Think about what you’ve done.” The phrase looped in my mind like a curse. Was I… truly wrong? The thought, cold as a viper, slipped into my chaotic mind. Maybe… maybe it was just a business dinner? Maybe Dr. Hawthorne had just politely helped her up? Maybe I was too sensitive, too immature, jumping straight to the worst possible conclusion? A rush of intense guilt, mixed with a desperate urge to save the relationship, instantly drowned out my anger and heartbreak. I couldn’t let go this easily. At the very least, I couldn’t let my “immaturity” and “suspicion” destroy this. I needed to do something. To prove I still cared about her, that I cared about our home. My eyes fell instinctively on the guitar in my lap. Years ago, this guitar, my voice, my songs—they were what made her walk toward me, against all odds. I sat with the guitar, nervous and awkward as a kid at his first open mic, staring intently at the bedroom door. I was waiting for her to come out. I was going to sing her “Night Flight,” just like I did when we were first falling in love. Time crawled by. The light in the living room shifted from the pale gold of dawn to the harsh white of midday, then slowly, began to tint with the orange glow of dusk. There was no movement from the bedroom. She needs rest. She’s so tired… I told myself this, fighting down the rising tide of anxiety and unease. It wasn’t until late afternoon that I finally heard a stir. The door opened. Savannah stepped out. She had changed into a new outfit—a sharp, tailored business suit of high quality. Her face was perfectly made up, her hair impeccably styled. There was no sign of a hangover or our morning argument. She looked refreshed, even radiant. “You… woke up?” I managed to croak out, my voice raw from a sleepless night and full of cautious hope. “Are you hungry? I can… I can make you something?” I moved to set the guitar down and stand up. “Don’t bother.” She cut me off coolly, her voice devoid of warmth. Her gaze swept over the coffee table, lingering on my guitar, and her frown deepened. “Put that thing away. It’s in the way.” I watched her back, the words, “Let me sing you a song,” stuck in my throat, impossible to voice. She turned around, her arms crossed, and assessed me with a chilling, critical stare: “Rhys, this morning I told you to ‘think about what you’ve done.’ Have you figured it out?” I struggled to form the words, grasping at a straw of reconciliation. “I… I have. Maybe… maybe I was too impulsive. I shouldn’t have questioned you like that…” She immediately interrupted, her voice sharp with impatience. “It’s not about the questions! That’s not the point! The point is you’re completely stagnant! Rhys, I don’t need a man who only knows how to clutch a guitar, wallow in past fantasies, and be pathologically suspicious!” I looked down at the old companion she’d dismissed as “that damn guitar.” It had been my life, the symbol of everything I’d given up for her, and now, in her eyes, it was the main evidence against me. “I…” Put it away? Go find a nine-to-five job, something “legitimate” and non-musical? Would I even be Rhys anymore? My hesitation, my internal struggle, was, to her, nothing more than cowardice and an utter lack of salvation. “Hmph.” She let out a short, cold scoff, full of complete despair and… a perverse sense of relief. “So your big ‘think’ resulted in you clinging to your rock and roll dreams. Fine.” She didn’t look at me again. She turned and walked into the bedroom, starting to pack. Her movements were sharp, decisive, and entirely without remorse, as if she were simply boxing up a piece of luggage she no longer needed. “Where… where are you going?” My voice was edged with panic. “Business trip.” She didn’t turn around, her voice cold as ice. “Project requires me to be out of town for a few days. We both need to cool off.” “A business trip? With who?” The name was almost out before I could stop it. Her packing abruptly ceased. “Rhys! Stop it! Stop with your disgusting paranoia! My work and my whereabouts are none of your concern! You have no right, and frankly, no capacity, to interfere!” She zipped the suitcase shut with a harsh, grating sound, announcing an end. She dragged the suitcase toward the front door. “Savannah!” I jumped up, trying to block her, desperate to say something—even a pitiful plea. But she only paused, turning her head just enough to shoot me a cold, sidelong glance. Her eyes held no love, no hatred—just sheer fatigue and the chilling certainty of someone who has seen through a long-held deception. “Rhys,” her voice was frighteningly calm, yet every word was a stab to the heart, “What do we have left, besides that marriage license? Your guitar? Your ‘dreams’? Or that heart of yours that refuses to grow up?” She paused, her gaze sweeping over my frozen figure and the solitary guitar beside me, her lips curling into a deeply cynical smirk. “Don’t bother me again until you learn how to act like a man. And don’t send me any more of those idiotic messages.” With that, she wrenched open the front door, dragged the suitcase out, and walked away without looking back. Ding-dong. A notification chime interrupted my paralysis. Her phone, sitting forgotten on the entryway cabinet, lit up. She must have been in too much of a rush. I picked it up and input the passcode. It was still our anniversary. The pinned chat was with a contact simply labeled: “♥” It wasn’t me. A few more messages popped up: [Morning, Wild one. How’s the ‘red wine’ after effects from last night?] [You left your scarf in my car. I’ll bring it to you next time. Make sure you get some rest.] Attached to the text was a photo. The background was a hotel room, the messy sheets revealing exactly what had happened. A purple silk scarf lay on the rumpled bedding. It was Savannah’s. “Wild one…” The two words were like barbed hooks digging into my eyes. All my agony, my questions, her self-righteous “business dinner” monologue—all of it was shredded to pieces by this text and this photo. Leaving only the ugly, naked truth. So this was what she meant by “so tired.” This was where she needed to “get some rest.” And this was how the mature, responsible Dr. Hawthorne addressed her in private. I clenched her phone so tightly my knuckles turned white and bruised, convinced I was going to shatter the device. I bent over, dry coughing again, violently. Just then, the door was yanked open. Savannah had come back for the phone she’d forgotten. She frowned, her eyes instantly locking onto the phone tightly gripped in my hand. Her pupils constricted. “Rhys! What are you doing with my phone?!” Her voice was instantly sharp, laced with the panic of invasion, the last vestiges of sleep gone. She rushed forward and snatched the phone away from me. “You read my phone?! You actually spied on my phone?!” Her voice was so shrill it seemed to tear the air. “Do you have no respect?! No boundaries?! You are… you are impossible!” She gasped, her chest rising and falling furiously. “Yes! I am with Victor! So what?!” She completely tore off her last layer of composure, shouting with desperate abandon. “He’s more mature than you! More stable! He understands what responsibility is! Being with him, I realize how stupid I was! Waiting around for you, you piece of dead weight that will never climb off the floor!” “Look at you!” She lifted her hand, her forefinger stabbing violently against my chest, her touch ice cold. “What else do you do besides sit here like a whiny victim clutching that dusty guitar, or act like a thief spying on my privacy?! What have you ever given me? Security? A future? Or just your ridiculous, worthless rock and roll dreams?!” I couldn’t muster the strength for a single word of rebuttal. My throat was choked with cold despair and utter emotional death. My silence seemed to only further enrage her. SLAM! The front door was slammed shut again with all her force. The thought of the flirtatious messages, the explicit photo—it sent a wave of nausea through me. I bolted to the bathroom, leaning over the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl, dry heaving violently. Nothing came up but the burning bile and stomach acid, bringing wave after wave of tearing spasms to my throat. This was Rhys? The rock singer who used to burn up the stage and roar with life? I splashed cold water on my face. The icy sting brought a momentary, painful clarity. Every inch of this “home” was poisoned by betrayal. To stay one second longer was torture. I had to leave. Now. I didn’t have a destination, I just needed to escape this suffocating space. I walked to the corner and picked up the heavy gig bag. I pulled open the door Savannah had just slammed. I walked the silent, predawn streets, aimless, like a wandering ghost. Before I knew it, my feet stopped beneath a familiar, flickering neon sign: The Bluebird. This was it. The place the photo came from, the origin of the nightmare. Another message popped up from my friend: [Bro, still in the VIP booth at The Bluebird. Your wife… she’s here too.] A booth number followed. My heart felt like it was seized by an invisible hand and squeezed until it stopped beating. The booth number was burned into my vision. As if possessed, I pushed open The Bluebird’s heavy, soundproof door. The deafening music and psychedelic lights instantly swallowed me whole. The air was thick with the mixed scent of alcohol, perfume, smoke, and raw desire. I was an intruder, awkwardly carrying my gig bag, moving through the gyrating crowd toward that booth number. Fear, rage, despair, and a sliver of absurd hope. Hope that all of this was some terrible mistake. I finally stopped in front of the door. The heavy panel couldn’t completely block the noise inside. I could vaguely hear a woman’s soft laughter, a man’s low murmur, and… Savannah’s distinctive, slightly lazy, husky voice. She was speaking in a tone I had never heard before, almost a playful coo. I raised my hand, my fingers cold and trembling. Should I push it open, or turn and run? In that instant, the booth door was suddenly pulled open from the inside. A server stepped out, holding an empty tray. In the moment the door was ajar, the scene inside slammed into my eyes, fully exposed. Under the crystal chandelier, on the wide, curved sofa. Savannah wore a sequined, spaghetti-strap dress I’d never seen before, her makeup more provocative than when she’d left the house. She was practically draped across a man in a dark dress shirt—Dr. Gerard Hawthorne, the man from the photo. One of his hands was brazenly, tightly wrapped around Savannah’s slender waist. The other held a glass of liquor as he leaned down to whisper something in her ear. This made Savannah laugh, a throaty chuckle that caused her to lean even more relaxed into him. Her eyes were hazy, her cheeks flushed with an unnatural color. It was the look of a woman completely immersed in raw intimacy and lust. Time froze. Savannah’s laughter died in her throat. She must have sensed the anomaly at the door, and she turned her head languidly. As her eyes pierced the hazy light and fixed on me—the ghost-white figure with a guitar bag at the doorway—her smile instantly fractured. The haziness in her eyes was replaced in a millisecond by shock, panic, and the sheer embarrassment of being caught red-handed. She flinched, almost convulsively trying to pull away from the man’s embrace. “Rhys…?” Her voice was a shaky, incredulous whisper. Dr. Hawthorne also looked up, saw me, and his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. There was no panic in his eyes, only the annoyance of being interrupted and a cold, condescending appraisal. His hand, far from letting go, tightened demonstratively around Savannah’s waist, a clear act of provocation. This final gesture ignited every volcano that had been dormant inside me. I stood in the doorway. I didn’t roar or rage as she might have expected, nor did I beg weakly. The extremity of the pain and rage brought a bizarre, chilling calm. My gaze bypassed the other man and fixed solely on Savannah’s panic-stricken face. My voice was eerily flat, yet it cut through the din of the music in the booth with crystalline clarity: “Savannah.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it was an ice pick in the heart of the illicit air. Her body gave a sharp shudder. Her lips parted, as if to offer some frantic defense. I didn’t give her the chance. “I want a divorce.”

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