Category: English

After marrying my childhood friend, we treated each other with polite respect. He was a man of few words, and I was cold. We hadn’t even consummated our marriage yet. What I didn’t know was that my childhood friend could hear my thoughts. In the bedroom, I looked at him, freshly showered, with a blank expression. But inside, I was thinking: [Will I faint if we “make pancakes” together?] 1 [It would definitely feel amazing. How did that book Peach showed me describe it… something about losing focus.] [I think it was even “pan-fried with water.”] Caleb slipped and almost fell. I stepped forward to steady him: “Are you okay?” [Why doesn’t the towel fall off? Why wrap it so tight? One look won’t kill me.] [He’s got great muscles, and long fingers too.] “I’m fine.” Caleb spoke quickly, as if urgently trying to stop something. He tugged at his towel: “Sorry, I couldn’t find my bathrobe, only this towel…” [Of course you couldn’t find it.] [I threw it away.] [It should be getting shredded at the dump right about now.] [Tomorrow, I’m tossing the towel too.] I let go and said calmly: “Be careful next time.” “…Okay.” 2 Caleb changed into pajamas and got into bed. I flipped through my book, my peripheral vision drifting towards him. He was wearing dark pajamas, long sleeves and pants. [Tank tops are better, easier to cop a feel. Pity I only dare to touch a little, afraid he’ll wake up.] [Sigh, I really want to drug him with sleeping pills.] [Then I could do whatever I want.] I stared blankly at the words on the page. Just as he sat on the bed, Caleb lifted the covers and got out again. I was puzzled: “Aren’t you sleeping?” “Haven’t been sleeping well lately. Going to take a sleeping pill.” I didn’t think much of it and continued reading. When Caleb returned, he had changed clothes. He was wearing that tank top. He explained: “Too hot.” I replied indifferently: “Mmh.” Caleb lay down. Maybe it really was too hot; the blanket only covered his navel. One arm rested under his head, his broad chest and defined muscles impossible to ignore. Better than a manga protagonist. He fell asleep quickly. Thoughtfully, I turned down the AC. After reading a bit more, I turned off the light and went to sleep. In the dark, Caleb silently opened his eyes, looking at Lily beside him with a complex expression. She was fast asleep, eyes closed tight, breathing shallowly. No copping a feel, no “pan-frying.” Just Caleb staring until dawn. The next day, I walked out of the bedroom bleary-eyed. Auntie Wang was making breakfast. The delicious smell woke up my appetite. I sat down obediently. Today it was sweet potato pancakes and soy milk. Auntie Wang asked with a smile: “Is it good?” My mouth was too busy to answer, so I nodded vigorously. “Don’t choke.” She brought me a cup of soy milk. “My kids don’t like my cooking.” Talking about her children, Auntie Wang couldn’t help but sigh. I comforted her: “They don’t know what’s good.” Auntie Wang genuinely liked Lily. Although she looked cold, every time she ate something delicious, her eyes would light up instantly. It gave her a sense of accomplishment. “By the way, where’s Caleb? He’s not up yet?” “He took a sleeping pill last night.” Sleeping pill? Auntie Wang recalled cleaning up this morning. The sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet didn’t look touched. But the lid on the instant coffee wasn’t screwed on tight. 3 I didn’t expect Caleb to sleep until the afternoon. Sleeping so long, yet he still had dark circles under his eyes. [His sleep quality really sucks. Good thing I didn’t touch him last night, or he would have slept even worse. I better behave in the future.] Caleb, who had his back to me, suddenly turned around, staring at me darkly for a long time: “I slept very well.” “?” [What’s it to me?] Caleb ignored me. [Men are so complicated. Annoying.] Caleb slammed the door shut. Bang. In the evening, the high school group chat became active. The class monitor was organizing a reunion. My best friend Peach called: “Lily, you’re going, right?” “Yeah, I happen to have time.” Peach and I met in high school and coincidentally went to the same college. We’ve always been close. “What about your husband? Is he coming?” The phone volume was loud. I looked up at Caleb opposite me. He opened his mouth. [Don’t say yes. I don’t want to bring him.] Caleb closed his mouth. He shook his head gently. I replied to Peach with satisfaction: “He’s not going.” Peach seemed relieved on the other end. “Good that he’s not coming. Jake is coming too. You remember him, right? Your high school boyfriend. He’s been single since you broke up. Heard he still wears the bracelet you gave him.” Peach’s voice came through clearly. “…It’s fine.” I replied dryly. “Okay then, next Tuesday at 7 PM. Be there or be square.” The call ended. Seeing Caleb calm and composed, the faint unease in my heart vanished. [What am I worrying about? Even if I really cheated, he wouldn’t care. How could he get upset over such a small…] “No!” Caleb’s face suddenly turned cold. Startled, I stared at him blankly. [What’s his problem?!] Meeting my gaze, Caleb’s brow twitched, and his expression relaxed: “I meant Auntie Wang’s cooking isn’t good today.” Auntie Wang, rushing over with a spatula: “?” 4 Before leaving on Tuesday. Caleb spent forever preening in front of the mirror. From head to toe, everything was exquisite. He was already good-looking with a model’s figure. Dressed up like this, he was even more eye-catching. [Peach says when men dress up, 80% chance they’re cheating.] Caleb paused, hairspray in hand. He awkwardly put down the spray. Turning back, his gaze fell gloomily on my bare shoulders. “It’ll be cold tonight. Take a shawl.” “It’s 85 degrees tonight.” “…Drive safe.” When I arrived at the reunion, the private room was full. Peach waved me over. I sat next to her. She nudged me, signaling me to look sideways, whispering: “Look at his hand.” Jake had shed some of his youthful awkwardness, chatting confidently with others. As he raised his glass, his sleeve slipped, revealing that worn bracelet. It was a trinket I bought across the street from our school years ago. In high school, Caleb was in the class next door. Our relationship was average, barely maintaining the bond of growing up together. We hardly interacted at school. But Caleb’s mom often asked him to bring me things, and he waited for me outside my class every day. Eventually, everyone knew about us. And misunderstood our relationship. I explained a few times, but no one listened, so I stopped bothering. Later, those rumors disappeared. Because of Jake. He clarified for me whenever he could, more actively than I did. Under his incessant nagging, classmates got annoyed or bored and gradually stopped gossiping about me and Caleb. After school, to thank Jake, I treated him to bubble tea across the street. That was the first time I didn’t go home with Caleb. Hearing my words, Caleb didn’t say much, just nodded slightly and left. Jake and Caleb were complete opposites. He was enthusiastic and outgoing, never hiding his emotions. Happy was happy, unhappy was unhappy. At eighteen, he confessed to me. I didn’t really understand what liking was or wasn’t. But on his thirty-fifth confession, I said yes. Jake pestered me to say I liked him. Worn down, I said: “Yeah, I like you.” After saying it, I saw Caleb. He stood against the light at the door, his handsome features shadowed. His black hair looked fluffy and soft in the sunset, gilded with gold. His expression was indifferent, unreadable. I felt a bit embarrassed. Jake stood with one hand in his pocket, holding my bag with the other—the bag had a bunny plushie Caleb gave me. He smiled brightly and recklessly: “Caleb, Lily and I are together now. I’ll walk her home from now on. Thanks for before. Lunch is on me sometime.” Caleb stared unblinkingly at Jake, lips pressed into a straight line. Even someone as dense as me sensed the tension. I walked over, took Jake’s hand, and said to Caleb: “Caleb, I’ll be home late. Tell my parents.” “…Okay.” After that, I never went home with Caleb again.

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It was the night Devon’s on-screen romance with his co-star, Anya Wells, went viral—again. I ripped open a bag of sea salt and vinegar chips with enthusiasm, clicked on the fan-made compilation video, and started weeping openly over their “sweet, destined love.” Devon sighed beside me. “It’s all just promotion, Jo. It’s not real. Don’t get upset.” I lifted my tear-drenched eyes. “I’m not upset. I genuinely think you guys have amazing chemistry.” The video’s soundtrack swelled as every on-screen kiss flashed by, each one looking utterly consuming and impossible to stop. They looked like two people who were truly meant to be, which only fueled the fandom’s favorite comment: The timing is everything. If only his girlfriend had never been in the picture. I took a deep, shuddering breath. “Devon,” I said. “Let’s break up.” I watched his eyes widen in stunned disbelief. It hit me then—this was the seventh year of my relationship with Devon Shaw. He was finally a household name, the big star, and I was just the “plain, undeserving civilian girlfriend” the public—and his fans—loved to hate. When a female colleague was attacked by rumors, Devon would shield her, offering careful, public comfort and concern. But when I was the one being shredded by the online mob for dating him—labeled the “extra baggage” and the “stale older woman”—he just told me calmly: “Look, the audience is obsessed with me and Anya. They’re still invested in the characters. Try not to overreact.” But now that I was finally taking his advice and stepping away, why did he suddenly look so panicked? 1 Devon looked like he hadn’t processed my words. After a long silence, he said flatly, “I need to hear the real reason, Josie.” I shrugged. “That is the reason.” He stared into my eyes, thinking he saw right through me. “It’s about the shoot, isn’t it, Jo? You’re getting paranoid and insecure again?” He emphasized the word again. It was true. My lack of security had always made me fret and spiral. Especially over the last two years, right as Devon’s career took off. He’d join a set and suddenly, texts wouldn’t be returned and calls wouldn’t be answered. Where he was shooting, who he was working with—he never told me anything. Most of the time, I learned about his life by refreshing Twitter and watching paparazzi leaks from the set. In those short videos, holding, hugging, and passionate kissing were just part of the job. I would often watch them, my mind uncontrollably conjuring up intimate scenarios of him with other women, and then I wouldn’t sleep. Maybe I was just too small-minded. A few times, when I couldn’t stand it, I called him, only to be met with Devon’s cold, immediate hang-up. When we finally saw each other, his first response was always to criticize me: “I’ve told you so many times. I have to commit to the role. I have to be completely immersed in the script, and I can’t be distracted by outside people or things. As a professional actor’s girlfriend, you have to understand me, you have to support me. You can’t just cause trouble. Get it?” 2 I had tried my best not to cause trouble. There was only one time I’d truly slipped. We hadn’t seen each other in over three months, and I missed Devon desperately. I checked his schedule in advance, making sure he had the day off to come visit the set. I waited in line for three hours to buy his favorite artisanal pastries. But then a sudden, torrential downpour hit New York. The production crew quickly moved a major rain-soaked scene to that day. Because of my unscheduled arrival, Devon couldn’t get into the headspace for his kiss scene, and the director called for multiple retakes. Devon was usually polite and charming to everyone, never losing his temper on set. He apologized profusely to the crew for the delays. But he saved all his rage for me. He even threw the box of pastries I’d bought. “Jocelyn, who told you to come here? Take your damn junk and get out!” Tears blurred my vision. “Devon Shaw, you’re an asshole! You only ever yell at me! I saw you were busy, and I immediately went to the break room to wait. How was I causing trouble? I’m done with this! We’re breaking up!” Hearing the word “break up,” Devon froze for two seconds. He clenched his fists, forcing down his anger. He shoved me into a chair and kissed me—a desperate, rough, hungry kiss that was half kiss and half savage bite. “We can fight, but don’t ever threaten to leave me again.” Today, Devon was trying the same move. I took a step back. He missed. Devon rubbed his temples, patiently explaining, “Anya is a newcomer. She’s young, it takes her a minute to snap out of character, okay? Is that wrong? She’s a colleague, and she was crying, so I offered comfort. Is that wrong? Can you please stop being so suspicious? You make me feel like a total jerk. I’m under so much pressure…” He rambled on and on. I didn’t hear a word. My mind was stuck on the live stream from earlier today. Devon and Anya had stared into each other’s eyes, and both had burst into tears. I didn’t understand. In the show, the couple got their happy ending. The show was a massive hit, earning critical acclaim. So why were they both crying? Devon had instinctively raised his hand to wipe Anya’s tears, paused mid-air, and then awkwardly switched to patting her on the head. That one tiny detail was enough for the CP fandom to churn out countless videos. The caption: Your tears are still wet on your face, but I no longer have the right to wipe them away. Before, I would have been consumed by jealousy and demanded that Devon grovel. But not now. It turns out that when a relationship truly reaches its end, it really is like stagnant water. There are no more waves to be made. “You’re right, Devon. You didn’t do anything wrong. But I still want to break up today.” 3 My stubbornness finally depleted Devon’s patience. He was rushing to catch a flight and didn’t have time for this drama, so he threw out his usual parting shot: “Just go cool off for a while.” It was his most common solution to our problems. He’d just wash his hands of it. The next time we met, we’d kiss and make up, and we’d both pretend the argument never happened. To him, silence meant resolution. But with me, every incident was carefully cataloged. A few days later, I signed a lease transfer agreement for my flower shop. “Ms. Reid, your business is always doing so well. Why are you giving it up?” the new owner asked. I looked at my shop, feeling a deep, wrenching sadness. I had poured years of my life into this place. “Because I’m leaving New York soon.” Devon and I were both from Santa Monica. Years ago, he moved to New York to chase his dreams, and I quit my job and followed him. In the beginning, we were dirt poor, living in a ten-foot windowless box where the monthly rent was six hundred dollars and the windows barely peeked above ground level. Passersby were always peeking in. New York was so luxurious. And we were like rats living in the sewer. The winters here were bone-chilling. I bought a secondhand space heater, and one night it malfunctioned and started a fire. When Devon heard the news, he borrowed a friend’s car and drove seven hours overnight to get back. He’s a man who puts almost all of his emotion into his acting. He’s usually distant and cool in everyday life. But that night, he held me and cried so hard he was practically hyperventilating. “Josie, this is my fault. I’m making you suffer. I promise I’ll make it big. I’ll make so much money, and I’ll love you and cherish you forever!” Seven years later. Devon’s career had soared, and our problems had multiplied. It was unavoidable. I’m a person who is cripplingly anxious about intimacy and security. And Devon is an actor. His job required filming intensely intimate scenes, shoving his entire soul into another identity, and imagining himself falling in love with another person as his character. Once, he had a fiercely passionate kiss scene with an actress. It was a crucial, famous scene that marked the climax of the characters’ emotional entanglement. They kissed until they were both crying, spontaneously embracing and kissing for a long time, not even hearing the director yell “Cut!” They ended up falling onto the bed, bodies pressing close, tearing at each other’s clothes. The things that happened after were not in the script. It was a subconscious reaction born of genuine, raw emotion. The director applauded wildly. “That’s fantastic! We’re keeping that—they really committed to the feeling!” As fate would have it, that day was Devon’s birthday, and I had come to surprise him with a gift. Honestly, seeing that scene was agonizing. But what could I do? It was his job. Even getting mad or being jealous made me look like a hysterical idiot. That lack of security made me anxious, sensitive, and obsessively controlling. I checked his phone while he was showering. He caught me. He was furious. “Jocelyn, what is wrong with you? Don’t you have anything better to do? Don’t you have a life?” A brutal trio of questions. He was the one who had convinced me to quit my job and move to New York, claiming he loved how attached I was and that he’d support me forever. After that fight, I took all my savings and opened this flower shop. I came every single day, rain or shine. I made myself busy. That way, I wouldn’t have time to obsess over who Devon was kissing today, how intense the sex scenes were, whether he was getting a physical reaction, or if he’d fall out of character and genuinely fall for someone else. 4 Rush hour was over. The subway car on the way home was empty. Two girls sat next to me, staring at a phone with goofy, lovesick smiles. “Wanna bet? Devon and Anya have definitely caught real feelings off-camera. Those subconscious touches don’t lie.” “Doesn’t Devon have a girlfriend?” “Come on. Think about it: on one side, a girlfriend he’s been with for seven years, who’s stale and old news. On the other, a gorgeous, vibrant new actress. If you were Devon, who would you choose?” I subtly pulled out my compact mirror and checked my face. I was once the homecoming queen, damn it. I couldn’t be that stale, could I? Actually, Devon only went public with our relationship because I forced him to. Initially, he said he didn’t want his personal life discussed in the media. So no one in the industry knew he had a girlfriend. Women pursued him, people tried to set him up, and there were even offers for favors. I finally lost it. “Is it that you don’t think it’s necessary, or is it that you’re ashamed of me and don’t want to give up your single status?” Devon called me irrational. But he still posted a statement on Instagram announcing my existence: Happy 7th Anniversary to my girl @JosieReid Late that night, both #DevonShawAnnouncesRelationship and #DevonAnya were trending simultaneously. Because their CP fandom had immediately published a viral post— You are my frenzy, existing outside the order of the mundane world. The post summarized every ambiguous moment between them since they started working together. In the thread, they were positioned as star-crossed lovers, and I was the villain, the bully standing in the way of their destined union. The fans claimed Devon was only with me out of a sense of obligation, not wanting to break up with a “boring, mediocre girlfriend.” Anya logged onto Instagram late that night. She liked the post, then quickly unliked it, and then posted an explanation claiming her “thumb slipped.” A textbook move. Then she specifically tagged me: @JosieReid Hey, sis! Don’t worry about it. Let’s grab brunch soon! As if we were close friends. I’d never even met her. Devon told me not to overthink it. “Anya’s just a sweet, simple kid. She was probably just trying to smooth things over so you wouldn’t feel awkward.” I asked subconsciously, “She’s simple. And what about me?” “You?” Devon curled his lip into a slight smile. “Come on, Jo. Why are you comparing yourself to a young girl?” His tone was gentle, almost affectionate. Anya was only two years younger than me. 5 The girl next to me unplugged her headphones. I heard a familiar voice. Then I realized: today was the press conference for Devon’s new movie in Los Angeles. It was streaming live. I clicked into the live feed. Recently, Anya had been facing major public backlash. Rumors were swirling about her past—high school bullying, trading favors for roles, and flirting with her male co-stars. At the conference, Anya addressed the rumors for the first time. Within moments, she was sobbing, unable to speak. Devon was there the entire time, shielding her. For every invasive question from the media, for every malicious comment in the live chat, Devon was right there to fire back. He spoke with serious gravity: “Online bullying is a terrible thing. It causes irreparable harm to people…” I started to laugh. I laughed until the tears started welling up and my nose began to sting. I buried my face in my hands. The tears streamed down through my fingers. “Are you okay?” the girl next to me offered a tissue. “Thank you…” Crying on the subway was embarrassing. I got off early. It was all Devon’s fault. Ever since he went public, his and Anya’s fans had relentlessly attacked my comment section. Stop hoarding him, give the King to someone who is actually worthy. The unloved one is the third wheel. You’re really just extra, sis. If you, the little bitch, hadn’t been in the way, our OTP would be together! Break up now, or we’ll keep bullying you until you do. More extreme fans had doxed me, sent me gruesome messages, and even staked out my apartment building. I used to read about people who committed suicide because of online bullying. I felt sad, but I also didn’t quite understand it. Couldn’t they just unplug, ignore the anonymous hate, and focus on their own lives? When it happened to me, I finally understood the terror. It was truly horrifying. Devon was on location at the time. Calls went unanswered, and messages vanished into the void. By the time he wrapped and came home, I had been struggling with insomnia for two weeks. I had even visited a doctor to get medication for my nerve issues. Devon just held me and offered a shallow comfort: “It’s okay, Jo. Don’t worry. They’re just still invested in the show.” That night, he left for his next scheduled trip. I always thought his behavior was just his personality. He was a little insensitive to other people’s feelings, not great at comforting, but it wasn’t a huge deal. It wasn’t like he stopped loving me. But watching the screen right now, seeing Devon vehemently defending Anya, saying online hate kills people… Watching him sitting in the corner, constantly handing Anya tissues and speaking softly to comfort her, making her laugh through her tears… I felt like the biggest joke in the world. 6 I booked a flight back to Santa Monica. The day before I was scheduled to leave, I followed my doctor’s advice and went for one last follow-up appointment. Psychiatry was on the top floor. A long hallway was roped off, surrounded by a crowd of people. I walked over to look. They were shooting a movie. I wasn’t interested and turned to leave, just as my eyes met Devon’s across the crowd. I also saw Anya standing right beside him. I remembered—Devon had mentioned a while ago that his next role was a doctor. He hadn’t mentioned it was a reunion with Anya. But it didn’t matter. I no longer cared. The moment our eyes locked, Devon frowned and subconsciously took two steps toward me. I walked away without looking back. Anya glanced over, catching the sight of my long-haired back. She asked Devon, “Who was that? Your girlfriend?” “Yeah.” “Checking up on you?” Devon gave a slightly embarrassed smile. “I guess so.” Anya pouted, muttering, “Dating a civilian is such a hassle. She’s checking up on you even at the hospital. This is the first time anyone has ever treated me like a mistress. What’s her deal?” “That’s not what she’s doing.” Devon kept looking in the direction I’d walked. “She’s just a little jealous, a little insecure. She’s not targeting anyone.” During the break. Devon opened his text messages and saw that his last exchange with me was over two weeks ago— When do you wrap? I need to talk to you. He’d read it but hadn’t replied. He must have forgotten. It was normal for him not to contact me when he was filming. But it was very abnormal for me not to contact him. I used to send him constant, useless updates. Like I found a great steak place, or that New York was windy, or I saw a cute dog. He never seemed to mind. This sudden shift in my attitude must mean she was still mad from our last fight. Why was she so angry this time? Remembering the look in my eyes, Devon worried I’d misunderstand, so he decided to explain himself. … I sat waiting for my number to be called. My phone started ringing incessantly. So annoying. I realized I’d forgotten something important. I hung up, went into my contacts, and blocked the number. Then I opened my messages, found Devon Shaw, and hit Delete Contact. Much better.

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It was the last day of my thirty-fifth year when I discovered my professor husband was cheating. He came home late, as usual, after his weekly lab meeting, but in the dead of night, he was writhing in agony, clutching his stomach. His tailored dress shirt smelled unmistakably of heavily spiced Creole food. Alistair Stone, my husband, had a notoriously delicate digestive system. He hadn’t touched anything that rich or spicy in the two decades I’d known him. I called his research assistant. That’s when I found out a new female student, Sera, had joined the group that day. Alistair had gone with the group—and indulged her—by eating at a trendy, notorious seafood spot known for its fiery Jambalaya. “It’s nothing, really,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, “but Professor Stone has a sensitive stomach. Could you make sure he doesn’t eat anything like that again?” A hesitant um came from the other end. “Mrs. Stone, to be honest, Sera doesn’t even qualify for the research group.” 1 Sera. The name wasn’t unfamiliar. A strange, sickening thought exploded in my mind. Alistair was lying in bed, still resting, his brows tightly furrowed in pain. We had been married for so long, we were too familiar with each other. Too complacent. I easily unlocked his phone. The lab group chat was benign. Everything looked normal. Except for the direct messages. Alistair: You can’t fall asleep in the next meeting. Sera: Well, it was boring! I promise I’ll watch you next time, Professor. Watching you keeps me awake. Alistair: Good. Sera: “Professor Stone” sounds so old. Can I call you “Ali” or maybe “Little Professor”? Alistair: Hmm. Whatever you like. Sera: Mwah! (heart-eye emoji) I pulled up her profile picture and matched it with the photo on his desk. It was her. Sera, the girl I knew. A cold, heavy knot formed in my chest, lodged between my ribs, making it hard to breathe. Alistair woke up as the last of the evening light faded. I handed him a glass of water, placing it alongside the open screen of his phone, displaying their chat. Even as he was recovering, Sera had sent him a barrage of trivial questions. “Little Professor, are we going for Creole again tomorrow?” “Ali, I can’t write this paper. Can I hire you to ghostwrite it for me? I’ll give you second author credit!” She was only a senior in college, not even enrolled in a graduate program. By any rational measure, she shouldn’t have been in his master’s-level research group. “Make her leave,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “She knows nothing. She’ll drag down your team’s progress.” I took a deep, controlled breath. “I can pretend this never happened.” Twenty years of history. I was doing my best to let him save face. Alistair’s gaze finally settled on the faintly glowing screen. He squinted at me. “Eliza.” He didn’t use my nickname, Liz. It was formal, cold. “If I hadn’t married you, you’d still just be a girl selling bouquets on a street corner.” 2 I had always been the ideal academic wife. Compliant. I followed Alistair’s instructions precisely. The next day, I pinned up my hair and set up my flower stall right outside the gates of Westhaven University. On the elegant wrapping paper of every bouquet, I thoughtfully taped copies of Sera and Alistair’s most incriminating text messages. I was a familiar face at Westhaven. Over the years, I’d been in and out of Alistair’s department, and the students and faculty all knew me. As soon as I appeared, one of Alistair’s former graduate students walked over, his expression concerned. “Mrs. Stone, what are you doing out here? Is everything okay? Did something happen between you and the Professor?” I handed him a perfectly wrapped bouquet. “Oh, nothing much,” I replied, my smile serene and brittle. “Your professor just needs to support a second household now.” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a theatrical whisper designed to carry. “And frankly, I worry about him. Young girls are demanding. I hope he doesn’t burn out.” I weaponized every ounce of bitterness, using veiled, sharp language to hint at the disgusting truth of Alistair and Sera. Within twenty-four hours, the whispers about Professor Stone and his pet student had exploded into full-blown campus gossip. The second time I wheeled my floral cart onto campus property, a group of intimidating, rough-looking men rushed over and stomped every single flower into the pavement. “Listen, lady,” the biggest one said, his voice gravelly, “someone told me to tell you this: Know when to quit.” Of course, I didn’t listen. That same day, I moved my hysterical tears from the campus security office all the way up to the Dean’s suite, and finally, I called the State Ethics Commission hotline. Alistair was immediately called in for a meeting with the Provost. That evening, Alistair didn’t linger at the university. He came home early. “Eliza, that’s enough.” I let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Enough? We’re just getting started, Alistair. You were capable of that disgusting act, and now you’re suddenly worried about the noise?” He sighed heavily, tossing his briefcase onto the sofa. His whole demeanor was a wall of cold frustration directed at me. “Eliza, if you hadn’t pulled these stunts, everything could have been negotiated.” He looked at me with an expression of profound disappointment. “If our marriage ends, it will be the result of your own doing.” He was blaming me? He blamed me for the volatile, explosive response that ruined the surface harmony of our ruined twenty-year relationship? He, the unfaithful one, was standing on some fabricated moral high ground, accusing me of being a hysterical maniac whose erratic behavior drove him away? “Alistair, did I force you to cheat?!” He sneered. “Eliza, have you forgotten who brought Sera into this house?” My heart slammed against my ribs. A terrifying, gut-wrenching nausea swallowed me whole. Sera was the girl I had sponsored, the girl I had fostered. The girl I had brought home and protected like a daughter for nearly a decade. “Alistair, you are truly repulsive.” For the first time, we saw utter strangeness in each other’s eyes. That night, Alistair packed a bag and moved out. Sera was with him. 3 I smiled up at Alistair on the stage. I had warned him. I wasn’t going to make this easy. Security personnel were scrambling to control the crowd. The Westhaven graduation ceremony, coinciding with the university’s centennial, was already a massive event. Reporters, photographers, and hundreds of students holding up their phones were all focused on Alistair and me. He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the faculty lounge. “Eliza.” The moment of panic had vanished from his face, and he was back to being Professor Stone: calm, controlled, and infuriated. “You know what day this is. What in God’s name are you playing at?” Of course, I knew. It was the day of the ceremony, and the centennial. Many high-profile alumni were attending, including one key person who held the deciding vote on Alistair’s bid for Vice Provost. That man was Dr. Emeritus Maxwell “Max” Reid, a titan in both academia and politics. My connection with Dr. Reid’s family went back to a single bouquet of roses I sold years ago. It was Valentine’s Day. Dr. Reid, absorbed in his research, had completely forgotten about his wife. The old woman, in a huff, stormed out. They ended up arguing over a single rose right in front of my stall. I intervened, handing the very last rose to Dr. Reid’s wife, adding a compassionate, necessary lie. “Your husband asked me to save this specific one for you.” Dr. Reid smoothed things over with his wife, and our relationship was forged. Mrs. Reid loved flowers, so every week, Dr. Reid came to my stall to buy her a fresh bouquet. Then, one ordinary evening, a drunk man randomly ran up and started vandalizing my stall. The person who grabbed the drunk man’s fist as it swung toward me was Alistair. He had absolutely no fighting talent. After a few clumsy moves, his face was cut, but he managed, through sheer nerve, to chase the man away. He stayed to help me clean up the wreckage. That’s when he ran into the reliably punctual Dr. Reid, who had arrived to buy his wife’s flowers. Alistair, covered in dirt and blood, ended up talking to Dr. Reid about research, theory, and his academic philosophy. It wasn’t until they were chatting like long-lost friends that Dr. Reid realized Alistair was a master’s student at Westhaven. Dr. Reid immediately broke his long-standing rule about not taking on advisees and brought Alistair under his wing. From then on, the weekly task of buying flowers for Mrs. Reid fell to Alistair. Once a week turned into two or three times. Eventually, it was daily. He bought roses. He also bought purple irises. Those were my favorite flowers. The day he graduated and Dr. Reid secured him a faculty position, he stood before me, holding a massive bouquet. “What, are you here to challenge me for my corner?” I joked, looking at the vibrant irises in his arms. Alistair Stone knelt down and proposed. Everything felt inevitable. After we married, I worked from home, writing novels. That’s when Alistair found out I had a graduate degree in literature. Selling flowers was just a side hustle. After all, the publishing industry was brutally competitive. Now, the flowers were the same, but the person was not. It was a hollow, desolate feeling. But thank God. In this lifetime, he was the only miserable thing that had happened to me. The only piece of trash. It wasn’t too late to start over. 4 “Eliza, I’m giving you a chance. Go outside and clear my name.” Alistair’s anger was palpable. I found the request hilarious. In this cheating marriage, I should have been the one engulfed in righteous fury. Instead, because I hadn’t collapsed in tears and self-pity, because I was fighting back to feel better, the guilty parties—Alistair and Sera—had managed to cast themselves as the victims. “What exactly do you want me to say?” I asked. “That I was betrayed by the girl I sponsored and raised? That my husband slept with his nominal foster daughter and student?” I met his gaze. Time had been incredibly kind to Alistair; two decades hadn’t left a single mark on his distinguished face. “Eliza, know when to quit,” he repeated, his brow furrowed. That sentence again. What did I have to quit? I’d seen my husband’s hostility. I’d seen the girl I raised as my own daughter crawl into his bed. I’d seen the ugly display of betrayal they offered me. “Alistair, you don’t get to tell me what to do.” I laughed until the tears started. That knot in my chest refused to go down. I grabbed Alistair’s academic gown, ripping the seam. Beneath it, I saw a familiar dress shirt. The one Sera had said she bought for her boyfriend. They’d been involved for much longer than I realized. “Alistair, I will not let you off easy! And Sera—I’m not the kind of person who keeps quiet when wronged.” I screamed the words, frantic and desperate. “I will ruin your career! And Sera? I pulled her up from hell, so I’m going to drag her right back down. I will make sure her parents and everyone she’s ever known finds out that the ungrateful, backstabbing leech slept with her foster father!” A flicker of something—fear, or surprise—crossed Alistair’s eyes. He clamped down hard on my wrist. “What have you done?” His grip tightened, his knuckles white. I thought my hand would break. I smiled, a manic, wild thing. “What can I do?” “I just want her dead!” Before he could react, a much louder, more violent commotion erupted from the auditorium. Alistair ran out, frantic. On the stage, a middle-aged woman was screaming obscenities—”whore,” “slut,” “home-wrecker.” Below her, Sera was curled up, taking blow after blow, one slap after another. 5 Sera’s mother, Brenda, was a formidable fighter. The security guards stood frozen for a moment. Sera’s face was already red with welts. Her graduation gown was ripped, revealing the dress underneath—the exact same outfit she had texted to Alistair just days before. “What are you doing? Pull her off!” Alistair shouted. The guards finally moved in, and Brenda let go easily, offering little resistance. As her eyes met mine, I gave a small, satisfied nod. It was enough. The beating wasn’t severe. Even a police examination would barely register a minor injury. But in this setting, on this day, Sera’s reputation as the mistress would stick to her forever. Her supposedly bright future was over. The tight knot in my heart eased, if only slightly. Alistair clutched Sera close, shielding her. He looked at me, his eyes colder than I’d ever seen them. “Eliza, you’ve gone too far.” I gave a cold laugh. “I’ve gone too far? If she’s going to be a mistress, she needs to be able to take a beating.” He turned to leave. “Alistair,” I called out, “if you take her out like this, you’ll never clear your name.” He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Eliza, isn’t this exactly what you wanted?” he said, his voice laced with venom. “You wanted proof that I cheated? Proof that Sera and I are… real?” “Well, as you wish.” After Alistair left, the students began to filter out. The looks I received were a mix of pity, confusion, and blame. This whole spectacle—it felt like I had gained nothing, only momentarily vented my rage on Sera. And in the process, I’d confirmed Alistair’s devotion to her and finalized the failure of my own marriage. In the struggle, Brenda hadn’t escaped unscathed, with a few cuts on her face. She hunched over, a fawning smile pasted on her face. “Mrs. Stone, I did what you asked. About my son’s college fund…” “Don’t worry,” I said. “I keep my promises.” Brenda’s youngest son had just started high school. Sera wasn’t Brenda’s biological daughter. She was the result of Sera’s father’s affair with a woman in the village. Because of this, Brenda had never accepted her, making Sera’s childhood a living nightmare. I met Sera when she was ten. The family was sending her to work in a factory to support them. When I visited the school as a donor, she knelt directly in front of me. Her eyes were resolute. She wanted nothing more than to read, to study, to make something of herself. I saw a ghost of myself in her. If someone had just extended a hand to me back then, perhaps my path wouldn’t have been so relentlessly difficult. Because I empathized with my younger self, I chose to shelter Sera, to give her a bright future. I sponsored her. When I learned the full extent of her abuse—especially the part about her sleeping in the pigpen—I gave Brenda a substantial sum and brought Sera home to raise her myself. For over a decade, we were not mother and daughter, but we were closer than most. I could have perhaps accepted Alistair cheating with anyone else. I could not accept the girl I considered my daughter climbing into my husband’s bed. Especially not the night I confronted her about their texts. She wore a flimsy lace slip and flaunted her triumph, right in front of me. “Eliza, you may have raised me, but all the money I eat and wear comes from Little Professor!” Her gaze was disdainful as she looked me up and down. “Honestly, I pity Little Professor. You look like this, and you’re such a bad cook.” I slapped her across the face. She ran crying to Alistair. Afterward, looking at my slightly red palm, the pain was mixed with an insidious, rising thrill. I realized: I only feel good when they hurt. I dragged her out of the abyss, hoisted her up from the pit. It was only fair that I send her back myself. 6 Alistair stayed by Sera’s side in the hospital for three days straight. A few days later, I received a choked-up phone call from Brenda’s son. “Aunt Eliza, I have nowhere else to go. Please, you have to save my mother!” From his fragmented story, I pieced together the truth. Alistair had used his influence. Sera had filed a police report, and her injuries were classified as Second-Degree Assault. Enough to detain and fine Brenda heavily. Alistair’s lawyer had dropped a line before leaving: If Brenda named others involved, the charges might be reduced. Brenda’s son wept. “Aunt Eliza, Mom told me to tell you that she won’t say anything.” I reassured the boy and guaranteed his mother would be fine. Alistair was only using Brenda to send a message. His true target was me. Predictably, his call came almost immediately. “I’ve talked to the university. You will attend a press conference this afternoon and clarify everything.” He added, chillingly, “If you need a psychiatric diagnosis, I can arrange the paperwork.” Westhaven was clearly preparing to protect Alistair at all costs. I laughed quietly. “And what happens if I refuse to cooperate?” His voice was tight with suppressed fury. “Eliza, don’t force my hand.” “I don’t want things to devolve into a scorched-earth scenario between us.” Peaceful? I laughed until tears streamed down my face. Ultimately, I agreed to the press conference. On the drive over, I scrolled through the headlines. Westhaven Wife’s Meltdown: Jealousy or Mental Illness? Professor’s Wife to Kneel and Apologize to Foster Daughter/Student to Save Marriage? Abused or Adored? Leaks Detail Professor’s Wife’s Alleged Physical Abuse of Foster Child. When I arrived at the venue, it was packed with reporters. As soon as they saw me, they swarmed. The flashbulbs were so bright I could barely keep my eyes open. “Mrs. Stone, did you physically abuse your foster daughter?” “Mrs. Stone, do you have a severe mental health condition? Is that why you targeted all women near Professor Stone?” “Mrs. Stone, Professor Stone says you’re here to apologize on your knees to the student. Is that true?” I smiled sweetly. “Kneeling and apologizing? Well, then you better get ready to film. I wouldn’t want you to miss the moment.” I bypassed the crowd and headed to the backstage lounge. Alistair was gently feeding Sera water. Sera, pale and fragile, instinctively hid in Alistair’s arms when she saw me. “Mrs. Stone,” she whispered, timidly. “The Little Professor was just giving me water because I’m thirsty. We’re doing nothing wrong. Please don’t worry.” She added a few theatrical coughs. I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. You’re already hugging. I suggest you go mouth-to-mouth. It’s cleaner and more hygienic, after all.” Sera’s eyes turned red. She pleaded, “Mrs. Stone, I respect that you funded my education, but my dignity won’t allow you to slander me.” “The Little Professor and I have always been pure and respectful. Nothing like the nasty things you imagine.” “Eliza, remember why you’re here,” Alistair warned. He put down the cup. The three of us took our places in front of the assembled reporters. Sera took the microphone first. She played the role of the innocent, wronged victim perfectly. “Mrs. Stone, I remember your kindness over the years, but you have defamed and slandered me and the Professor. If you do not offer me a traditional apology—a formal bow and a peace offering—today, I will reserve the right to pursue further legal action.” A cup of hot tea sat steaming in front of me. Smash! The scalding tea and my palm landed on Sera’s face at the same time. She screamed, clutching her cheek. Her carefully constructed image of the pure, delicate flower instantly shattered.

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Three days after I died, Aaron Sullivan got the call to ID my body. He carelessly held another woman in his arms and said, “If she’s dead, she’s dead. Call me after she’s cremated.” After my body was sent into the furnace and turned into ashes, the staff called Aaron again. He clicked his tongue impatiently. “Got it. Coming.” 1 When Aaron arrived, it was already two hours later. His clothes were a bit messy, with a glaring lipstick stain on his collar. It wasn’t hard to tell he just came from a ‘battlefield.’ Finding the staff, he sneered, “Where are Chloe Shen’s ashes? Didn’t you call me to pick them up?” After confirming his identity, the staff handed him the box containing my ashes. Aaron took it carelessly, his eyes full of mockery. “Is this really Chloe Shen’s ashes? You didn’t just scoop up some cat or dog remains to fool me, did you?” The staff was shocked. “Mr. Sullivan, these are indeed Miss Shen’s ashes. There are records. Would you like to see them?” Aaron curled his lips. “No need. I trust you.” I breathed a sigh of relief. For some reason, I was dead, but my soul remained. Thinking about it, maybe it was because I hadn’t been properly laid to rest. Now that Aaron believed I was dead, even if he hated me, for the sake of our past, he should bury me casually, right? But before I could be happy, the next second, Aaron suddenly exclaimed. The urn slipped from his hand, and my ashes scattered on the ground. Aaron smiled cruelly. “Oops, slipped.” Saying that, he extended his foot, grinding his shoe sole wantonly on my ashes. My breath hitched. Meeting his half-smiling eyes, I opened my mouth but couldn’t make a sound. Until my ashes completely disappeared into the cracks of the ground, mixed with dust. Only then did Aaron withdraw his foot satisfied. Amidst the staff’s shock, he laughed, “Remember to tell Chloe Shen, this trick is very novel, but also a failure.” “My mom’s death anniversary is in a few days. She better go obediently to my mom’s grave to atone. Otherwise, even if she’s really dead, I don’t mind digging up her body myself to whip it.” The last few words were full of chill, making people tremble with fear. But I knew he really could do it. I was suddenly glad my body had been cremated. Otherwise, that scene would be very ugly. Before the staff could argue with him, Aaron was called away by a phone call. Strangely, my soul followed him. Forced to sit in the passenger seat, I listened to him chatting with the woman on the other end. I knew that voice. It was Bella Su, the adopted daughter of the Sullivan family. When Aaron and I were still in love, she came to me and asked me to leave him. I refused, so she started targeting me, spreading rumors in my company, and having people corner me. After Aaron found out, he taught her a harsh lesson and threatened to kick her out if she dared to bully me again. Bella finally behaved herself. Mentioning me, the expression on Aaron’s face turned colder. “Why mention her? Bad luck. It’s not like she’s really dead.” “What if she really died? Aaron, what would you do?” Bella’s probing voice came over. 2 My heart tightened, and I subconsciously turned to look at Aaron. If it were the old Aaron, let alone death, even a scratch on my hand would make his heart ache unbearable. He said I was his treasure and would pamper me in his palm for a lifetime. But now, Aaron sneered, “Then I would definitely hold a banquet for three days and three nights, and set off fireworks all over the city to celebrate.” I widened my eyes in disbelief. Only now did I understand that Aaron hated me to this extent. Hated me so much that my death was something worth celebrating for him. But Aaron, I really died. You just don’t believe it. The car stopped at a bridal shop, and Aaron strode in. He was so eager, just like the day he brought me to the bridal shop after we secretly got our marriage license. At that time, he couldn’t wait to see me in a wedding dress. He excitedly held me in his arms, saying I was the most beautiful bride in the world. But now, he looked at Bella in a wedding dress with the same tender eyes. Brushing away the broken hair by her ear, he said softly, “Beautiful.” Bella lowered her head shyly and smiled. When she looked up again, there were tears in her eyes. “Aaron, I finally waited for you.” I was full of shock, watching helplessly as Bella kissed Aaron’s face. I couldn’t wait to stop all this. But my hand passed right through Aaron’s body. I stared blankly as he put the ring on Bella’s middle finger. How could he? Why Bella? She was the one who killed his mother. Aaron! I opened my mouth, throat hoarse, filled with grief and indignation. I watched all this numbly. Bella looked in the mirror excitedly and suddenly asked, “By the way, Aaron, is she okay?” We all knew who “she” referred to. Aaron was expressionless, even a bit annoyed. “What could happen? Just a petty trick.” “Then for our wedding, shall we invite her?” Aaron lowered his eyelashes, hiding the emotions in his eyes. Suddenly, the corner of his mouth curled into a malicious smile. “Of course we have to invite her. She’s a key figure.” I instantly understood. Aaron wanted me to witness his wedding with my own eyes. After all, this was the scene I had always looked forward to. Because we didn’t get Mrs. Sullivan’s approval back then, we only got the license and didn’t hold a wedding. Later, a wedding became my extravagant hope. 3 Because Mrs. Sullivan died. Heart attack, incurable. The night she died, the last call was to me. So, Aaron naturally suspected I angered her to death. On the day of Mrs. Sullivan’s burial, he forced me to kneel in front of the grave for a day and a night. It rained heavily that day. We looked at each other in the rain. His eyes were full of gray defeat and hatred. He said, “Chloe Shen, from now on, we are mortal enemies.” Since then, I went from Aaron’s lover to his enemy. He hated me, humiliated me, but wouldn’t let me leave him. He even brought women home overnight. Seeing my red eyes, he chuckled and patted my face, mocking, “Chloe Shen, is it hard? But you asked for this. Who can you blame?” I tried my best to explain, but it only made Aaron worse. He didn’t doubt his conclusion because he knew Mrs. Sullivan didn’t like me. She even threatened never to let me into the Sullivan family in this life. Aaron argued with her many times for this, even breaking with the family just to be with me. But the woman he loved killed his biological mother. How could he accept it? Sending Bella away. Aaron seemed to just remember me. He mercifully pulled me out of the blacklist, tapping the steering wheel with one hand and dialing my number with the other. After a while, I watched his relaxed brows gradually furrow. Watched him slap the steering wheel as if venting. “Chloe Shen, daring not to answer my call, you’re looking for death.” But little did he know, I wasn’t refusing to answer his call. I could never answer again. Half a month later, Aaron finally returned to our home. He violently pushed open the door, shouting, “Chloe Shen, get out here.” He pushed open door after door but never found me. Aaron’s already gloomy face became even darker. While ordering his subordinates to find my whereabouts, he said sinisterly, “Chloe Shen, since you want to run, you better run far. Otherwise, when I catch you, I will definitely break your legs.” 4 However, the woman whose legs he wanted to break was right in front of his eyes. Not long after, a subordinate sent a location. The expression on Aaron’s face gradually became terrifying. I looked confusedly and realized it was Julian Ji’s home. “Mr. Sullivan, the Madam’s last call was to Mr. Ji. But Mr. Ji said he hasn’t seen the Madam. We suspect he kidnapped her.” Aaron said coldly, “Wait for me there.” Aaron raced all the way to Julian’s house. With a sullen face, he kicked the closed door hard. Once, twice. On the third time, the door opened. Julian looked calm, with dark circles under his eyes. “What’s up?” Aaron sneered, “You hid my wife, and you ask what’s up?” Julian remained expressionless, as if he had no attachment to this world. “I didn’t hide her. She’s already dead. Didn’t the crematorium notify you to pick up the ashes?” “She even got you to help her act? Heh, seems Chloe Shen is determined to hide from me this time.” Aaron didn’t believe I was dead. He stubbornly thought this was still my trick. He looked up into the house and shouted, “Chloe Shen, don’t think you can escape my mom’s death anniversary just because Julian protects you. I’ll count to three. If you don’t come out, don’t blame me for being ruthless.” Three, two, one. As the words fell, Aaron kicked Julian fiercely and ordered his subordinates to search the house for me. Julian was kicked to the ground, a trace of anger appearing on his calm face. “Aaron Sullivan, Chloe Shen is already dead. You picked up the ashes yourself. Have you forgotten?” “She’s dead, dead for several days.” Julian angrily grabbed Aaron’s collar, pinning him against the wall. Aaron looked gloomy and mocked, “At this point, you still want to hide her. Julian, you really are deeply devoted to her. Pity, she’s been worn out by me long ago. When I get bored, if you still like her, maybe I’ll consider giving her to you.” “But not now. She still has to kowtow and atone at my mom’s grave. Can’t keep you company.” Julian flushed red from his face to his neck. He gripped Aaron’s collar tightly and gritted his teeth, “Aaron Sullivan, you’re a fucking bastard.” He punched Aaron in the face violently. Aaron grunted in pain. For a moment, the two exchanged punches and kicks, wrestling together. Elders used to say people have no feeling after death. But for some reason, I felt my chest swelling, as if it was about to explode.

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After I died, Julian would burn tons of spirit money for me every year during the Ghost Festival. As a result, I developed a lavish spending habit in the underworld. Then suddenly one day, he stopped. I waited and waited, failed to visit his dreams multiple times, and finally concluded he had forgotten about it. Because I never thought to save, I racked up billions in debt to the Underworld Bank just to maintain my lifestyle. In a fit of rage, I literally came back to life. 1 Of course, I wasn’t really alive. The King of Hell, worried I wouldn’t pay back my debt, made an exception and let me return for a visit. So, he had his minions whip up a body identical to my old one. Having not been human for a few years, suddenly having a physical form felt weird. I stumbled my way back to the mortal world and headed straight for Julian’s villa. But I was stopped by security. They said the person living there was a Mr. Shen, but his name wasn’t Julian Shen. Perhaps seeing my disheveled state and taking pity on me, they gave me a business card and told me to call the number. It took some effort to track that person down. I ended up at a five-star hotel where an engagement party seemed to be taking place. But when I saw the man on the poster at the entrance, I froze. Julian was getting engaged to someone else? Well, I had been dead for five years. It was normal for him to move on. But even so, he shouldn’t have forgotten to burn money for me! He has no idea how high inflation is in the underworld! His family runs a huge business; surely he could spare a little cash for me to squander down below! I remembered when I died, trembling in pain in his arms. Seeing Julian just crying uncontrollably, I used my last ounce of strength to say— “Since I died because of you, remember to burn lots of spirit money for me every year.” I was an orphan. I dated Julian for a few years but we never married. I was genuinely afraid of being broke in the afterlife. Seeing him nod, I finally closed my eyes in peace. Now, only a few years later, he’s got a new love and forgot the dead one, huh?! I was about to storm in and give Julian a piece of my mind when a clean male voice sounded behind me. “Are you looking for me?” 2 I turned around and saw a guy in his early twenties. Tall, handsome, and oddly familiar. seeing I didn’t answer, he added, “Uncle Chen called and said you went to the Shen estate looking for me?” I realized Uncle Chen must be the name on the card. I scratched my head awkwardly, looked at Julian on the poster, and said: “Yes, but I think I found the person I was actually looking for.” “You mean my uncle?” I paused. “Julian is your uncle?” “Yeah. He’s super busy today. I’ll take you inside first, and he can see you when he’s done.” He took my hand and led me inside. “What’s your name?” “Jason Shen. And you?” Without thinking, I blurted out: “Sarah Song.” I don’t know if it was my imagination, but Jason stiffened for a second upon hearing my name before acting normal again. He took me to a VIP box on the second floor. No need to squeeze with the crowd, and the floor-to-ceiling window offered a full view of the stage. After the MC’s speech, the couple of the hour walked out slowly, meeting everyone’s gaze. It was the first time I’d seen Julian in five years. He must be pushing thirty now, but time hadn’t left a mark on his face. A tailored black tuxedo made him look even more mature and charismatic. If I remembered correctly, his fiancée was the heiress of the Moore family. Back then, both families wanted them to marry, but Julian insisted on being with me, the Cinderella. He even put his grandfather in the hospital over it. Who knew, five years later, Julian would end up with Tiffany Moore after all. If I had known, why did we struggle so much… 3 At the climax of the ceremony, people below shouted “KISS.” I pressed against the glass, watching the couple in the center, unconsciously holding my breath. I had imagined this possibility on my way here, but seeing it with my own eyes still hurt like hell. Reason told me I shouldn’t be like this. Julian had the right to a new life. I only came back to get my spirit money. What was I doing? Jason noticed something was off, leaned over, and saw me crying. He panicked. “Hey, what’s wrong? Talk to me, don’t cry.” I didn’t want to cry either. My emotions just went out of control. Helplessly, I forced a smile. “I’m fine, just… really moved. Truly.” “Really?” Jason seemed skeptical. I nodded. “Your uncle and aunt-to-be are such a perfect match. I haven’t seen such a joyous occasion in a long time. Got a bit emotional.” Jason was silent for a moment, then asked, “By the way, I haven’t asked. What business do you have with my uncle?” Below, Julian and Tiffany started toasting the guests. I watched, unconsciously scratching the glass. “Nothing special, actually. Just wanted to ask him a few questions.” “Looks like he’ll be busy for a while. Why don’t you tell me, and I’ll pass the message?” I turned around, looked at Jason’s evasive eyes, and asked, “You don’t want me to see your uncle, do you?” Jason didn’t expect me to be so direct. He laughed awkwardly and explained: “Not entirely. It’s just his engagement day, better not to disturb him…” I guessed Jason knew something. But thinking about it, he was right. I came from hell. I couldn’t exactly crash his big day asking why he stopped burning cash for me. “I wasn’t considerate enough. Sorry to bother you.” I dropped that sentence and quickly left the room. At the hotel entrance, Jason chased after me. “You haven’t eaten yet. Why leave so soon?” “I… I wasn’t chasing you away, don’t misunderstand.” Looking at this boy who couldn’t hide his thoughts, I found him amusing and wanted to tease him. “Actually, I don’t need to eat.” Jason replied, “Then where are you staying? I can book a hotel for you.” I couldn’t keep up with his train of thought, but it was a good question. Where was I sleeping tonight? The King of Hell only gave me three days. If Julian didn’t work out, maybe I could rely on Jason. 4 “I don’t want a hotel. Can I stay at your place?” I didn’t know why Julian gave the villa to Jason, but I really wanted to go back and see it. We spent our happiest years there. My request clearly spooked Jason. “What… what exactly do you want?” “Jason, you know who I am, right? Are you afraid I’ll ruin your uncle’s engagement? In that case, you should keep an even closer eye on me.” I didn’t know what Jason was thinking, but he actually took me back to the villa. Nothing had changed much. The painting I made still hung in the same spot. For some reason, I suddenly remembered Julian mentioning a friend who loved my art. I thought his friend had good taste, so I decided to paint a landscape for him. But I died before I could finish it. In the underworld, I often regretted not finishing that painting. Now that I was back, I wanted to finish what I started. I familiarly walked to the southernmost room on the second floor. Just as I reached for the handle, Jason stopped me. “You can sleep anywhere but here.” “I just want to look inside.” “No looking. Uncle forbids anyone from touching things in there, including me.” “He won’t know if you don’t tell him.” “No means no.” Jason was adamant this time. Afraid I’d try again, he dragged me downstairs. No matter how I explained, he wouldn’t budge. I was getting pissed. “Why are you so stubborn?” “Unless my uncle agrees.” “But didn’t you want to keep me away from him?” “Who knows what your intentions are.” “Jason, you really are annoying…” Before I could finish, the doorbell rang abruptly. I was standing right by the door, so I opened it annoyed. “Who is it?!” But the face greeting me was Julian’s…

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Ten years after the shelter I was responsible for collapsed, the Brigadier General’s wife personally sent me to a court martial. I served my decade, then retired from the service, changed my name, and went to ground on the edge of nowhere, a poor line cook and server in a dusty diner. I saw Sloane Hastings again in a documentary interview ten years later. The reporter shoved a microphone in my face, barely giving me time to register the lights. “Mr. Reese, General Hastings searched for you for a decade. Everyone is waiting for the two of you to mend things!” Just as the woman finished, Sloane walked in. Her uniform was impeccably tailored, crisp, and starched. She commanded attention the second she entered the room. A decade had passed, but she was still sharp, still stunning, though the brash confidence of her youth had been tempered by a quiet, formidable authority. She was a Brigadier General now—a star on her shoulder. She looked at me for a long time, and I could sense a thousand unspoken things hanging between us. But in the end, it was just a gentle greeting. “Rhys. It’s been a long time.” “Yeah. A long time,” I answered flatly, my face betraying none of the seismic shifts happening inside me. I thought of the massive casualty count from the shelter collapse, the disaster that had destroyed my life. I thought of how Sloane was the first to hand the investigative team proof of my alleged bribery. The moment the lie was exposed, my life was incinerated. My parents disowned me on the spot, and the victims’ families wanted nothing less than my death sentence in court. But no one knew that the one who enabled her little darling, Garrett Wells, to alter the blueprints, cut corners, and then fabricated the evidence to send me to prison, was the very same “devoted” Brigadier General standing here. 1 “Ash, why didn’t you tell me you were released?” “How have you been all these years?” I didn’t answer. I just tugged the sleeve of my oversized cotton jacket further down, trying to cover the dense cluster of needle marks on my forearm. Sloane was about to say more when the cook’s rough shout cut across the room: “Rhys! You daydreaming? Dishes up!” I grunted an acknowledgment, ducked past Sloane’s intense gaze, and turned away. In my peripheral vision, she started to lift her hand, but ultimately didn’t call out to stop me. The order was hers. Spicy Kung Pao Chicken, a plate of chili-seared beef, and a small flask of that rocket fuel whiskey unique to the border town. I frowned. She always hated spicy food. But I, always, had to have the heat. Too bad the stomach cancer meant I hadn’t dared to touch spice in months. I set the plates in front of her. My voice was monotone. “Your meal is complete.” I turned to leave, but her grip locked around my wrist. “Ash, these are all your favorites. Sit down… stay with me for a minute. Please?” I froze. I remembered the night before she submitted the “evidence.” She’d coaxed me to eat and sleep just like this. I woke up to a ten-year nightmare. “Just a few words,” she pleaded. I took a deep breath and sat down opposite her. She poured a shot of the whiskey and slid it to me. “The day you were released, I planned to be there. But everyone told me you were dead.” I let out a soft laugh. “I didn’t die, General. Sorry to make you worry.” Sloane snapped her head up. Her eyes were dark, fathomless. “Ash, what happened back then… I owe you an apology.” “Your father’s sixtieth birthday is in three days. He… he still thinks about you. Come back with me. I promise I’ll make things right.” Make things right. Ten years ago, to cover up her affair with Garrett Wells and to help him avoid prosecution, she hadn’t hesitated to fabricate evidence of bribery and send me to the military prison. And my parents, without a second thought, immediately disowned me. Her words triggered a flash of agonizing memory, and the familiar, gnawing cramp seized my stomach. I couldn’t help but stand up. “An apology? An apology for what?” “For your dirty business with Garrett? Or for how you fabricated evidence, and personally sent me to a cage for ten years?” My voice had risen. Too loud. Instantly, the curious, probing stares of the surrounding patrons shifted to us. I didn’t look at her again. I turned, lifting the thick, greasy cotton curtain of the kitchen door, leaving her completely behind. I thought I would never have to see Sloane Hastings again. After all, how much genuine remorse could a person feel after sending their spouse straight to hell? But early the next morning, as I started my shift, she was waiting at the front door. She rushed forward when she saw me, blocking my way. “Ash, you were the youngest engineering expert in the entire corps. Your talent shouldn’t be buried here.” I gave a cold laugh. “But wasn’t my life destroyed by you ten years ago? Doesn’t it disgust you to say that now?” Sloane’s throat bobbed. A fleeting, painful stiffness crossed her face. She started to explain, but I pushed past her and walked inside. She didn’t leave. She ordered a small plate of food and a pot of tea, and sat there, occupying a booth for the entire day. I ignored her, busy with my usual routine. Just before the end of my shift, my stomach suddenly seized up. I sucked in a sharp breath. My body staggered backward uncontrollably, my elbow catching a glass of a customer’s red wine. It splashed all over the woman. She leaped up, furious. Before I could even apologize, her palm smacked hard across my face. “Do you know what brand this jacket is, you idiot? You couldn’t pay for it if you bussed tables here for a goddamn year!” She wasn’t finished. She followed the slap with a kick straight to my stomach. I curled up on the floor, the blinding pain making my vision blacken. Then, she grabbed the bottle of wine from the table and poured it over my head. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. A searing cough, and I vomited a mouthful of blood. The scarlet liquid mingled with the red wine, staining my shirt and the floor beneath me. The woman still wasn’t satisfied. She raised her foot to kick again, but a powerful force shoved her back. Sloane stood over me, her uniform crisp, her eyes blazing red with a chilling intensity. “Try to touch him one more time.” The woman was clearly intimidated by the General’s fury. She muttered a few curses and quickly slunk out of the diner. Sloane spun around and crouched down, her voice trembling. “Ash, the blood…” I wiped my face. My fingertips were red and sticky. “Just wine,” I lied. I pushed away her attempt to help me up and staggered toward the back exit. I quit the job. The work was only to cover chemotherapy and medication. Since I wasn’t going to survive much longer, there was no point in continuing. Besides, my biggest wish now was to be as far away from Sloane and the Sinclairs as possible. Clutching my meager wages, I went to the military hospital to pick up my test results and get some painkillers. I had just gotten the report when I rounded a corner in the hallway and ran straight into a familiar figure. My adopted brother, Garrett Wells. And right next to him were Sloane Hastings and my parents. Garrett saw me first. The bag of prescriptions he was holding clattered onto the floor. He stared, eyes wide, as if seeing a ghost. “…Rhys? You’re not dead?” I looked at the bag on the floor. The words ‘Pathology Lab’ and ‘Garrett Wells’ were stark and sharp. I looked at his meticulously styled hair, his expensive clothes, and Sloane’s intimate proximity. What more did I need to understand? Even after ten years, seeing it with my own eyes, my heart still felt like it had been violently pierced by an ice pick. I managed a slight smile. “Tough to kill. Sorry I didn’t quite get there.” A flash of something dark and insidious crossed Garrett’s face before he turned on the waterworks, looking near tears. “Brother, I know you hate that I married Sloane.” “But you were divorced, and you made a mistake… she couldn’t wait for you forever, could she?” Sloane’s brow was deeply furrowed. She spoke with a strained calmness. “Dad and Mom are here. Ash, just swallow your pride. It’s Dad’s birthday tomorrow. They’ll forgive you.” I laughed bitterly. “You know the truth of a decade ago, all of you. Why should I apologize?” That’s when my parents finally noticed me. My father, Mr. Sinclair, looked much older, though his spine was still ramrod straight. My mother’s eyes, however, held only suspicion and scrutiny. “Why are you so thin?” Mother frowned, her voice sharp. “Did you get involved with something you shouldn’t have?” “You came out of prison and didn’t return to the base. That only means you’re guilty!” I paused, and then laughed until tears streamed down my face. Ten years. They didn’t ask how I was doing, or how my health was. Their first words were to accuse me of drug use. Father’s brow tightened at Mother’s words. “Your mother’s right! You’re alarmingly thin!” He lunged and grabbed my arm. “Come on! To the lab! You’re taking a drug test right now!” His voice was loud, instantly drawing a crowd. In the struggle, he shoved me. I stumbled and fell to the ground, my forehead slamming against the corner of a chair. Blood immediately welled up. The searing stomach pain returned. Cold sweat instantly soaked my clothes. Sloane stepped forward, her voice complicated, a mix of concern and judgment. “Ash, I didn’t notice yesterday, but you really… Listen to your parents. Go get the urine test.” “The least we can do is take you to rehab. It’s not too late to turn your life around.” Garrett, ever the concerned brother, weakly added, “Brother, I know you’re bitter, but don’t make things worse!” The same condescending tone. As if I were truly the criminal. I swatted away my father’s hand, unsteady as I stood. “Fine. I’ll go.” I limped into the urinalysis room. The result, of course, was clean. My parents looked embarrassed but offered no apology. They merely glanced at me and said stiffly, “Forget it. Your father’s sixtieth birthday dinner is tomorrow. Make sure you attend.” I stepped back, putting distance between us, and raised my hand in a crisp, perfect military salute. “Report, Commander. When you disowned me and published it in the papers ten years ago, I ceased to be a Sinclair.” “I won’t be attending your sixtieth. Happy Birthday, sir.” I turned and walked away from the hospital, ignoring their curses and attempts to call me back. On the morning of Father’s sixtieth, I threw up blood again. The pain was constant now. The spasms of agony made it almost impossible to stand. I knew my condition was worsening rapidly. Every day was torture. Perhaps I wouldn’t last another month. Sloane knocked on my door as I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. “General Hastings,” I leaned on the door frame, my voice hoarse. “You’re married. As a wife, coming to see your ex-husband so often is inappropriate.” Her eyes darkened. “Rhys, I know you hate me. We can talk about us later.” “But today is your father’s birthday. You have to be there. Let’s talk this out, as a family.” I didn’t want to go, but I was so weak that she half-forced me into her car. Once inside, Sloane frowned, continuously looking me over. “Ash, why are you so thin?” I rubbed the needle marks on my arm and gave a hollow laugh. “Stage IV stomach cancer. Would you believe me?” Sloane froze, then smiled weakly. “Don’t joke. You’re just exhausted.” “Yeah,” I turned my head to look out the window. “Just joking.” The birthday banquet was held at the Command’s reception hall. We arrived as the party was already underway. I retreated to a corner, a transparent ghost. My parents, too, maintained their distance, never introducing me to anyone. Garrett, however, acted as the proud Sinclair son, arm-in-arm with Sloane, greeting guests. I was redundant, from start to finish. As the banquet neared its end, a swarm of reporters suddenly rushed in, surrounding Garrett. “Mr. Wells! Is it true that General Hastings was once your brother-in-law?” “When did you and the General start dating? Was there any intimacy while Rhys Sinclair’s marriage was still active?” “Was Mr. Sinclair’s imprisonment related to an emotional dispute?” The flashbulbs were blinding. Garrett’s face was chalk-white. He suddenly sank to his knees in front of me, crying hysterically. “Brother! I beg you to forgive me! Sloane and I only got together after your divorce!” “Please don’t slander me in front of the press!” Mother immediately charged forward, slapping me hard across the face. “You demon! Do you hate your brother that much?!” Sloane helped Garrett up, her eyes on me filled with pure disgust. “Rhys, you refused my help time and again, only to attack Garrett like this? You absolutely sicken me!” I was stunned. I rushed to explain. “This wasn’t me. I swear I didn’t know anything about this.” Father was trembling with rage. “Bastard! Still lying!” “The last urine test came up clean, and I thought you’d changed, but you’re worse than ever—trying to destroy your brother!” He roared. “Aide! Bring the rod!” The heavy, dark ceremonial cane was brought forward. Father raised his hand and brought it down hard. CRACK! My jacket ripped. Skin tore open. Blood instantly seeped through the fabric. My throat clenched. I coughed up blood, but I grabbed the window ledge, refusing to fall. A flicker of distress crossed Sloane’s eyes. She tried to calm the situation. “Ash, just apologize. Swallow your pride. Garrett is your brother, he’ll forgive you.” “Apologize?” I lifted my head, my mouth tasting of copper. My gaze swept over every single one of them. “I didn’t do it. Why should I apologize?” Under the stunned gaze of everyone present, and the frantic clicking of cameras, I violently tore open my broken jacket, standing before them in nothing but a tattered undershirt. A dead silence descended upon the hall. My emaciated, skeletal torso was a canvas of fresh and old scars: whip marks, cigarette burns, dark bruises crisscrossing everywhere. On my arms, in addition to the chemotherapy ports, were the deep, dark indentations of being long-term bound. I pointed to the deepest scar on my chest and looked at Sloane. “This. This is from when I refused to take the fall for Garrett. You had people torture me until I broke and confessed to falsifying the data.” I turned to my ashen-faced parents. “You asked why I’m so thin?” I laughed, the sound hollow and full of release. “Ten years of wrongful imprisonment, and long-term abuse. I have stomach cancer. Stage four. I don’t have many days left.” “How could a diner waiter possibly hire military journalists?” The heavy cane clattered onto the floor. I took a step back, my spine pressed against the cold glass of the window. “Listen to me,” my voice echoed clearly in the auditorium. “It wasn’t cancer that killed Rhys Sinclair.” “It was my own parents, and my own wife.” Without a moment’s hesitation, I turned and leaped from the window…

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Prologue: The Whisper The truth didn’t start with the blood on my hydrangeas. It didn’t start with the sirens that shattered the pristine silence of Blackwood Estate, nor did it start with the terrifying footage of a man being taken apart like a Lego set. It started with a question, asked in the quiet, dusty aftermath of a funeral, over a plate of cold tuna casserole. Arthur Sterling was dead. The community was in mourning. The flags at the local high school were flying at half-mast. I looked at my son, Leo, who was pushing peas around his plate with a fork. He was twelve, that awkward age where limbs are too long and silence is a weapon. He had been one of Sterling’s favorite students. “Leo,” I asked, my voice sounding too loud in the empty kitchen. “Mr. Sterling… before he died, was there ever anything… off? Anything weird?” Leo didn’t look up. He stabbed a pea. “He used to give us private tutoring,” Leo said, his voice flat, devoid of the grief everyone else seemed to be performing. “He’d sit really close. Behind me.” I froze, the dishrag in my hand dripping soapy water onto the floor. “Close how?” Leo finally looked at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools. “He’d whisper,” Leo said. “Hot air. He’d press his mouth right against my ear. His lips would touch the skin.” “What?” I gasped, dropping the rag. The sound of wet fabric hitting the tile was a slap. “Did he do anything else? Leo, tell me.” Leo went back to his peas. “No. That’s all.” But as I stood there, a cold sensation trickled down my spine, icy and slow, like melting snow under a shirt collar. It wasn’t just the creepiness of the image. It was the intuition—that sharp, primal alarm bell that rings in the deep recesses of a mother’s brain. I realized then that the police were wrong. The neighbors were wrong. The newspapers, with their headlines about a “Senseless Tragedy,” were wrong. Arthur Sterling wasn’t a martyr. And the monster they were hunting? He wasn’t real. Chapter 1: The Red Morning Let’s go back to the morning the world ended. It was a Tuesday in late October. In the Pacific Northwest, October is less about crisp leaves and pumpkin spice, and more about a pervasive, bone-chilling dampness. The fog rolls off the Puget Sound and settles into the valleys, turning upscale gated communities like Blackwood Estate into scenes from a noir film. I woke up at 6:00 AM. Routine is my religion. I put on my silk robe, slid my feet into my slippers, and walked to the front door to retrieve the milk delivery. We still get milk in glass bottles here—retro, expensive, and performative. Just like everything else in Blackwood. I opened the heavy oak door. The air smelled of wet pine needles and ozone. I stepped onto the porch, hugging my robe tighter against the chill. I looked down at the welcome mat for the milk crate. It wasn’t there. I looked up, scanning the yard. And then I saw it. At first, my brain refused to process the visual data. It tried to categorize the object as something logical. A Halloween decoration? A dropped pumpkin? A mannequin head from one of the pretentious art installations the neighbors loved? It was resting in the middle of my prize-winning hydrangea bush. The flowers, usually a vibrant, genetically modified blue, were splashed with a dark, viscous crimson. It was a head. Arthur Sterling’s head. His eyes were wide open. Milky, glazed, staring fixedly at my front door as if he were waiting to be invited in for coffee. His mouth was frozen in a rictus of shock, lips pulled back to reveal expensive dental veneers. The skin at the neck was… ragged. I didn’t scream immediately. There was a moment of absolute, vacuum-sealed silence where the only sound was the thudding of my own heart in my ears. Then, the milk bottle in my hand slipped. SMASH. The sound of shattering glass broke the spell. I screamed. It wasn’t a movie scream. It was a guttural, animalistic shriek that tore at my vocal cords. It echoed off the manicured hedges, bounced off the three-car garages, and pierced the foggy morning silence of the entire estate. For months afterward, the neighbors—those gossiping harpies—would refer to me as “The Banshee of Blackwood.” They could afford to joke. They weren’t the ones who had to hose the blood of a “Teacher of the Year” off their driveway. Chapter 2: The Last Supper The Blackwood Estate security system is state-of-the-art. 4K cameras, motion sensors, night vision. We pay thousands a year in HOA fees for the illusion of safety. Paradoxically, that expensive surveillance provided the police with a front-row seat to a horror show. Detective Miller, a man who looked like he had been carved out of granite and cigarette smoke, sat in my living room later that day. He played the footage on his tablet, his face impassive. “Mr. Sterling attended a gala last night,” Miller said. “The Class of 2008 Reunion. It was held at the Club House, just inside the north gate.” I knew the event. Arthur Sterling was the guest of honor. He wasn’t just a math teacher; he was an institution. He was the “Olympiad King.” Parents fought tooth and nail to get their sons into his advanced calculus classes. He had a wall of awards in his office and a reputation that was bulletproof. According to the witness statements Miller recited, Sterling had been in high spirits that night. He was holding court, surrounded by adoring former students who were now tech CEOs, doctors, and lawyers. He was drinking aged scotch, his face flushed with the intoxication of power and adoration. “He was laughing,” Miller said, scrolling through his notes. “Witnesses say he was particularly chatty with the Cole brothers. Do you know them?” “The Coles?” I nodded. “They live two houses down. Sebastian and Julian.” “Right. Sterling was making jokes. He told Sebastian, ‘Look at you boys now. You’ve made it. You can even afford such a handsome nurse for your brother.’” The “handsome nurse.” Elias. Everyone knew Elias. Detective Miller tapped the screen. “Sterling declined a ride home. He said he wanted to walk off the scotch. He said, ‘I’m not that old yet.’ He walked into the fog at 11:15 PM.” That was the last time Arthur Sterling was seen alive by a human being. Five minutes later, the cameras caught him again. Or what was left of him. Chapter 3: The Anatomy of a Shadow The footage from Camera 04, which overlooks the weeping willow path near the community pond, was grainy but terrifyingly clear. 11:20 PM. Sterling is walking unsteadily. He stops to light a cigar. The flame illuminates his face for a split second. Then, a shape detaches itself from the darkness behind him. It’s a man. Tall. Lean. Wearing a dark hoodie, but the face is visible under the streetlamp. It was Elias. The Cole brothers’ caregiver. The movement was fluid, practiced. Elias didn’t rush. He stepped into the light, raised a heavy object—later identified as a machete—and brought the blunt edge down on the back of Sterling’s neck. Sterling dropped like a puppet with cut strings. No scream. Just a heavy, wet thud. Elias stood over the body for a second, motionless. He looked calm. Almost bored. Then, he grabbed Sterling by the collar of his expensive trench coat and dragged him into the blind spot of the camera, behind a dense thicket of rhododendrons. For ten minutes, the screen showed nothing but the swaying branches and the empty path. Ten minutes. I tried to imagine what was happening in that darkness. Ten minutes is a long time. It’s enough time to boil an egg. Enough time to listen to three pop songs. Enough time to take a human being apart. 11:30 PM. Elias reappeared. He was carrying something heavy. He made two trips. Trip one: The torso. Trip two: The limbs and the head. He walked with a steady, rhythmic gait, moving toward my property. He arranged the pieces on my lawn with the care of a gardener planting bulbs. Then, he turned around. He looked directly into Camera 05, which is mounted on my garage. He wasn’t wearing a mask. His face was illuminated by the motion-sensor floodlight. He was breathtakingly handsome. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, eyes that seemed to glitter even in the monochrome footage. He wiped a speck of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. And then he walked away, disappearing into the night. Chapter 4: The Perfect Suspect The police thought they had it easy. They had the face. They had the weapon (found in the bushes). They had the motive—or at least, a suspect who had been publicly mocked by the victim hours earlier. “We’re looking for Elias,” Detective Miller announced at the press conference the next morning. “He is considered armed and dangerous.” But I knew something was wrong. Because I knew Elias. Or I thought I did. Elias wasn’t just a caregiver. He was a local legend among the bored housewives of Blackwood Estate. He worked for the Cole brothers. Sebastian Cole was a high-profile stylist, the kind who flew to LA and New York for Fashion Week. His younger brother, Julian, was a tragic figure. A former prodigy, a PhD candidate from an Ivy League school, who had tried to kill himself six months ago. Julian had jumped from the second-story balcony of his brother’s penthouse in the city. He survived, but his legs were shattered. He was confined to a wheelchair, a brooding, silent figure with hair that hung over his eyes. After the suicide attempt, Sebastian moved Julian here, to the suburbs, for “peace and quiet.” They bought the old Henderson place—the one with the pool where a child had drowned in the 90s. We called it the Cursed House. But they needed help. Sebastian traveled too much. They needed a live-in nurse. They went through a few bad ones. One stole silver. Another was caught smoking meth in the gazebo. And then came Elias. Elias was an angel. He arrived a month ago. He was quiet, efficient, and devastatingly attractive. He pushed Julian’s wheelchair around the lake every afternoon. We would watch from our kitchen windows, sipping Chardonnay, admiring the way Elias’s t-shirt clung to his shoulders. “He’s too good to be true,” my neighbor, Karen, had said once during a book club meeting. “Who looks like that and wipes chins for a living?” “Maybe he’s creating good karma,” I had replied. Since Elias arrived, Julian had improved. We saw him sitting up straighter. The dark circles under his eyes faded. Elias massaged his legs on the park benches, seemingly tireless. So, when the police said Elias was the killer, we were shocked, but we believed it. The footage didn’t lie. But then the investigation hit a wall. A wall made of nothing. Chapter 5: The Man Who Wasn’t There Three days after the murder, Detective Miller came back to my house. He looked exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled like stale coffee and frustration. “Mrs. Vance,” he said, declining my offer of tea. “You live next door to the Coles. Did you ever talk to Elias?” “A few times,” I said. “Just hellos. He was polite. Soft-spoken.” “Did he ever mention where he was from? Family? Last name?” “No. Just Elias.” Miller rubbed his face with his hands. “Here’s the problem. We can’t find him.” “He ran away,” I said. “He took a cab to the north highway.” “We found the cabbie,” Miller said. “Driver named Old Man Henderson. He dropped Elias off at the edge of the badlands, near the state forest. We have dogs out there now. But that’s not what I mean.” Miller leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I mean we can’t find him. In the system.” “What do you mean?” “The Cole brothers gave us everything. The agency paperwork. The ID copy. The references. It’s all fake, Mrs. Vance. All of it.” “Fake?” “The agency doesn’t exist. The references are dead numbers. The Social Security number on his W-4 belongs to a woman who died in 1985.” Miller pulled out a photo of Elias—a screen grab from the surveillance video. “We ran facial recognition. FBI database, DMV, passport records, Interpol. Nothing. Zero matches.” He tapped the photo. “This man doesn’t have a birth certificate. He doesn’t have a credit score. He doesn’t have a high school yearbook photo. It’s like he popped into existence a month ago, killed Arthur Sterling, and then vanished into thin air.” “That’s impossible,” I said. “He lived next door. I saw him. He bought groceries at Whole Foods.” “Paid in cash,” Miller said grimly. “Always cash. No digital footprint.” I looked at the photo of Elias. That perfect, symmetrical face. The way the light hit his cheekbones. “So who is he?” I asked. “That’s the million-dollar question,” Miller said, standing up. “He’s a ghost. And ghosts are hard to handcuff.” Chapter 6: The Stylist and the Invalid The police turned the heat up on the Cole brothers. If Elias didn’t exist, surely his employers knew something. I watched from my window as the squad cars swarmed their driveway. Sebastian Cole, the stylist, looked impeccable even under interrogation. He stood on his porch, wearing a cashmere sweater, smoking a thin cigarette. He looked baffled, worried, but cooperative. “I found him through a friend of a friend,” I heard him tell the reporters who were camped out on the lawn. “I was desperate. My brother needed help. Elias seemed perfect. I didn’t run a background check. I’m an artist, not a private investigator. I just wanted my brother to be safe.” And Julian? Julian sat in his wheelchair in the window, looking out at the chaos. He looked smaller than I remembered. Fragile. His long hair curtained his face. The narrative was shifting. The media was painting the Coles as victims—two tragic brothers conned by a sociopathic drifter who infiltrated their home and then committed a brutal murder. “Poor Julian,” Karen said over the phone. “First the suicide attempt, now this. He was finally getting better, and his nurse turns out to be a butcher.” “It’s terrifying,” I agreed. “To think we let him walk around our kids.” But my son’s words kept echoing in my head. Hot air. He’d press his mouth right against my ear. And then, I started thinking about feet. Specifically, ankles. Detective Miller had asked me if I noticed anything odd about Elias. I had said no. I had said he was a good nurse because he massaged Julian’s legs constantly. “Why do you say that?” Miller had asked. “Because people in wheelchairs often have edema,” I explained. “Swelling in the ankles. Poor circulation. My father was in a chair for ten years. His ankles were always swollen. But Julian… his ankles were thin. Bony. Perfect.” “So Elias was doing a good job,” Miller had concluded. “Yes,” I had said. “He must have been massaging him hours a day.” But now, staring at the empty driveway next door, a different thought crystallized. Swelling doesn’t just go away with massage. Gravity is gravity. Unless… Unless the person in the wheelchair isn’t paralyzed. Unless the person in the wheelchair has been walking around when no one is looking. I grabbed my binoculars—the ones I told my husband were for birdwatching—and focused them on the Cole brothers’ living room. It was dark. But the TV was on, casting a flickering blue light. I saw Julian. He was in his wheelchair. But then, he reached for something on the high shelf. A book. He didn’t wheel over to the grabber tool. He didn’t call for Sebastian. He stood up. He stood up smoothly, effortlessly, on two strong legs. He grabbed the book, stretched his back like a cat, and then sat back down. My breath caught in my throat. Julian wasn’t crippled. And if Julian wasn’t crippled… then who was Elias? I thought about Sebastian’s job. He wasn’t just a stylist. He was a makeup artist. A special effects wizard. I remembered reading an interview with him in Vogue where he talked about “transforming the face.” The face is a canvas, he had said. I can make you look like a queen, or a corpse, or a completely different person. I looked at the photo of Elias on the news report. The sharp cheekbones. The slightly shadowed eyes. The perfection of it. It looked… contoured. I realized then that we weren’t looking for a man named Elias. We were looking for a masterpiece. A painting that walked. And the artist was right next door.

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My stepbrother, Adrian, hated me for ten years after his “white moonlight”—his first love—fell to her death. Even when I used despicable means to possess him completely, he never truly forgave me. Until I ran away to a war-torn country in a fit of rage and got caught in a riot. Adrian didn’t hesitate. He shielded me with his body and took the bullet meant for me. Dying in my arms, his last words were: “I spoiled you too much.” “I truly regret… being your brother.” Everyone said I was crazy. That I ruined Adrian—a man who was upright, noble, and full of promise. So, I knelt on the long stone steps of the temple for fifty years. Begging for a second chance. This time, I will let him go. I only pray for him to have a life of peace and happiness. 1 “Sophie, look at this filth you wrote. Doesn’t it make you sick?” “How could you… have these kinds of thoughts about your own brother!” A voice I hadn’t heard in a lifetime exploded in my ears. I opened my eyes to see Adrian holding my diary, his face flushed crimson with rage. That diary was filled with my twisted desires for him. Lust. Obsession. Sin. But instead of the crushing shame I felt the first time, I started sobbing with relief. I really was reborn. I was back to the day of our first big fight, the day he discovered my secret. Seeing him alive, vibrant, and breathing in front of me made my body tremble uncontrollably. Thank God. He’s alive. Adrian noticed something was off. His anger flickered, replaced by confusion. He pointed to the floor. “Take all of this… and burn it.” In my past life, hearing those words made me snap. I went hysterical, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him. Adrian was horrified. He fled, and from that day on, he drifted away from me. That forbidden kiss broke something inside me. My obsession grew darker, and my hatred for Lily—the girl who “stole” him—festered until it caused a tragedy. So this time, I wiped the tears from my face. I picked up the box filled with my diaries. “Okay.” “I’ll burn them.” 2 Those diaries held the record of over a decade of our lives together. My mom and Adrian’s mom were best friends. But my mom had terrible taste in men. She married an abuser. When I was five, my mom died from her injuries. My dad, a drunk, drove his car into a ditch on the way to turn himself in. Adrian’s mom adopted me. But tragedy struck again when Adrian and I started middle school. She passed away, leaving us alone in that big, empty villa with only a few servants. Adrian was only a few months older than me, but while I was a troublemaker, he was the responsible one. He spent his childhood cleaning up my messes. When I got gastroenteritis, he stayed up all night watching my IV drip. When I got into fights, he backed me up. When I was scared of thunderstorms, he’d drag his pillow and blanket into my room to keep me safe. Even after Lily died because of me, even when he hated me to the bone… When the riot broke out, he still shielded me without a second thought. My brother was perfect. The only problem was that he loved me as family. And I loved him with a guilty conscience. In my past life, our housekeeper, Mrs. Wu, wept uncontrollably when she heard of Adrian’s death. The driver, Uncle Zhang, pointed at my nose and cursed me. “Sophie, you’re insane! You’re cursed! Are you only happy when everyone around you is dead?” I remembered Adrian’s last words again. “I truly regret… being your brother.” He regretted it. And so did I. They said the temple on the north side of the city was miraculous. I wanted to pray that in the next life, Adrian would never meet me. But maybe my sins were too heavy. The Abbot refused to see me. So I knelt. Year after year. From black hair to white. The bloodstains on the stone steps were from my knees and forehead. Finally, when I was old and withered, the Abbot agreed to see me. He said: “What has happened cannot be changed, but perhaps a new life awaits.” “You are his fated calamity. If it is not resolved, all efforts are in vain.” He pressed a small silk pouch into my wrinkled hand. “It will guide you to the moment of rebirth.” When I woke up clutching that pouch, I knew it wasn’t a dream. This life, I won’t make the same mistakes. I’ll pay any price to keep my brother safe. 3 The next morning on the way to school, the car was suffocatingly silent. Neither of us mentioned the diary. As I got out, Adrian finally spoke. “You hurt Lily a few days ago. Go apologize to her today.” His tone was stiff. He expected me to throw a tantrum. But I just nodded calmly. “Okay.” Adrian looked surprised, but he didn’t say anything else. During lunch break, I went to find Lily as promised. I found her with Adrian. The afternoon sun was warm. The girl was laughing, playfully punching the boy on the chest. Then she saw me. She immediately shrank behind Adrian, clutching her bandaged hand, looking terrified. Adrian instinctively shielded her. “What are you doing here?” His voice was guarded. He’d already forgotten he told me to come apologize. I couldn’t blame him. I was crazy. My possessiveness over Adrian was legendary. He was handsome, gentle, and rich. Plenty of girls liked him. And I chased every single one of them away. I mistook Adrian’s tolerance for love. I deluded myself into thinking he felt the same way. Like in my past life, when I drugged his water. I forced him to cross the line. Even though he resisted, I read pleasure in his broken moans. I ignored the fact that it was just a physiological reaction. Lily was special to him. Even ten years after her death, he never forgave me. I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat and bowed deeply to Lily. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hurt you, and I shouldn’t have humiliated you in public.” “Can you… forgive me?” Lily glanced nervously at Adrian. Seeing he stayed silent, she whispered, “It’s okay. I forgive you.” I looked up and met Adrian’s eyes. They were swirling with emotions I couldn’t read. 4 In my past life, I hated Lily for another reason. I saw her hanging out with Tyler, the school bully. Tyler was Adrian’s nemesis. He loved making Adrian’s life miserable. I suspected Lily was a spy sent to toy with my brother’s feelings, so I targeted her. This time, I needed to know the truth. I needed to get these two back on track. So, I started pestering Lily, claiming I felt guilty and wanted to be friends. At first, she was wary. But eventually, she let her guard down. I asked her casually, “What do you think of my brother?” Lily’s ears turned pink. “Adrian… he’s helped me a lot. And he loves animals. He feeds the stray cats and pays for their vet bills.” “I think he’s really kind.” So it was true. They liked each other. Lily was the classic “tough weed” heroine—poor family, scholarship student, hardworking. My brother was the prince—handsome, top of the class, rich. A match made in heaven. Even knowing this, my heart felt like it was soaking in lemon juice. That night, Adrian knocked on my door. He didn’t come in. Last time he barged in, he found the diary. He was scarred. “I’m just looking at colleges,” I called out. “Nothing else.” Since my rebirth, I felt Adrian distancing himself. Even without the kiss, he couldn’t handle knowing his little sister lusted after him. And even without the kiss, I couldn’t stop loving him. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Why haven’t you been coming home with me lately?” I was surprised. Because I need to get used to life without you, I thought. Even looking at colleges, I was picking ones far away from him. He and Lily would go to the same top-tier university. I needed to be as far away as possible. I lied. “I get along with Lily. We walk home together to chat.” Adrian stared at me so intensely my scalp tingled. “Am I interrupting something?” I asked defensively. He frowned and flicked my forehead. “What are you thinking? There’s nothing going on.” He ruffled his hair, looking annoyed. “Whatever. It’s good… that you’re making friends.”

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1 When my bestie Lexi got pregnant, she decided she wanted to keep the baby but ditch the dad. She made me register a burner account to pose as her secret lover and text her husband a picture of a positive pregnancy test: [Your wife is carrying my child. Divorce her.] But my hand slipped. I sent it to my husband—our marriage was purely a business merger, by the way. Just as I was about to hit “unsend,” I saw the comments scrolling across my vision like a Twitch chat. [The villainess thinks sending this by mistake will make the Hero jealous? She’s literally digging her own grave.] [Testing the Hero with her best friend’s pregnancy test? Aside from humiliating herself, what’s the point?] [Forget being pregnant with someone else’s kid—even if this side-chick had ten male strippers in the living room, the Hero wouldn’t even blink!] [He only married the villainess for the family merger. The Hero will always love the scholarship girl, the true Heroine!] [The Heroine is about to return from overseas! The villainess is gonna be crying and begging not to get divorced in five minutes!] I stared at the floating text, lost in thought. I casually opened an app and clicked on a $500 “VIP Wellness Package.” If that’s the case… I might as well order ten male models to go with it. The day Lexi found out she was pregnant, she grabbed my hand and sobbed. “I want to divorce him. He said he doesn’t like kids, and he’s still shady with his childhood sweetheart.” “But he refuses to sign the papers. You have to pretend to be my side-piece and text him. Make him think I’m cheating so he’ll let me go!” Lexi flew overseas to clear her head. I pulled out my dusty burner phone and fired off the text intended for her husband. Me: [My baby is carrying my child. Divorce her!] Attachment: [Photo of positive pregnancy test.] I was nervous. It was my first time pulling a stunt like this. Lexi’s husband is a notorious hothead CEO in our circle. Rumor has it he hates liars. I got a reply almost instantly: [?] Me: [Can’t you read English? She’s pregnant with my kid. We’ve been together for over a year. Be smart and sign the papers.] He replied instantly: [No divorce.] Me: [Fine, enjoy raising another man’s kid then.] I waited half an hour, but there was no further reply. I forwarded the screenshots to Lexi and headed home from work. As soon as I walked in and flipped on the lights, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Hayes was sitting on the sofa in total silence, his long legs crossed, his expression dark. Those pitch-black eyes swept over me, his thin lips pressed into a tight line. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong. In the year Hayes and I had been married, he never came home before midnight. It was only 6:00 PM. What was he doing here? I opened my mouth to ask. But then, the comments started scrolling past my eyes again. [Is the villainess satisfied now? Using a fake pregnancy test to test Hayes? And pretending it was a wrong number? Does she really think the Hero cares?] [Aside from embarrassing herself, what did that accomplish?] [It accomplished something, lol. Now her reputation is cemented as a total slut!] Villainess? I’m the villainess? I sent the pregnancy test to the Hero… Hayes? Horrified, I whipped out my phone to check. That’s when I realized I had sent the text to Hayes. Panic set in. My hands shook as I texted Lexi: [Girl, I am dead meat. I didn’t send that text to your husband. I sent it to MINE!] “Who are you texting?” Hayes’ gloomy voice drilled into my ears. I took a deep breath. Watching his tall frame rise from the sofa, I was trembling. But I feigned indifference. “No one. Didn’t we agree when we got married not to interfere in each other’s private lives?” “I’m going to take a shower.” The moment I closed the bedroom door, I felt like I’d survived a near-death experience. I texted Lexi again: [I’ve decided to divorce him too. Let’s find a place to raise the baby together. You be the mom, I’ll be the dad.] Immediately, the comments started scrolling again. [This villainess is so boring. Honestly, even if she did have ten male models, the Hero wouldn’t care.] [He only married her for the business alliance. He’s still in love with the poor scholarship student, the Heroine!] [Bella is coming back to the US. The villainess is about to beg him not to leave her!] According to the comments, Hayes had been sponsoring the Heroine, Bella, since middle school. He spent millions on her education until she went abroad. But because this is a “Girlboss” novel, Bella wanted to be an independent woman. She went overseas to study and told Hayes not to be a simp and wait for her. One year ago, I got drunk and stumbled into Hayes’ hotel room. The next morning, the elders from both our families were banging on the door. Seeing the messy sheets, Hayes’ grandfather locked down the marriage immediately. [The villainess claims she walked into the wrong room drunk. LMAO. She totally set him up.] [Look at her acting innocent. She got what she wanted, forcing the Hero to marry her in front of everyone.] [That’s why the Hero hates coming home early.] [The villainess doesn’t know, but the Hero’s abs are reserved for the Heroine’s eyes and hands only!] I watched the text float by. I thought about how Hayes avoided me like the plague. If I got close, he’d frown and take three steps back. Since the wedding, aside from that night at the hotel… and that one time two months ago when I got drunk again… Unfortunately, I had no memory of either event. I could only fantasize about his abs in the dead of night based on blurry memories. Thinking about it made me bold. I opened a local service app. I bought the $500 VIP massage package. Then I ordered ten male escorts. It’s just abs. Whatever. Who doesn’t have them? 2 I finished my shower. Did my makeup. Put on a leather skirt, black stockings, and tied my hair in twin tails. Just as I pulled on my boots, my stomach lurched. I felt dizzy. Was I just too excited about the ten guys? Did the adrenaline cut off oxygen to my brain? I leaned against the wall. The comments appeared again. [Here she goes again. Faking morning sickness. So fake. She sees the Hero is home and just wants to throw herself at him.] [Ahhhh dammit, the Hero is actually walking over. The villainess is gonna seize the chance.] I struggled to lift my head. I saw Hayes walking toward me. He looked down at me from his height. “You okay?” “I’m… fine.” I covered my mouth, fighting the nausea, trying to dodge past him. But the dizziness hit hard. I blindly reached out, grabbing his tie, my hand landing on his abs. [I told you she was up to no good!] [Why is she grabbing his tie? That is such a blatant move.] [She’s touching his abs! Wait, why is her hand going lower? Is this premium content??] [She is such a faker! The Hero belongs to the Heroine!] The comments scrolled faster and faster. I gripped Hayes’ pants tightly. And then I blacked out. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. Hayes was sitting beside me, looking grim. The doctor, however, was beaming at me. “Mrs. He, you’re nine weeks pregnant. You need to rest more.” “If Old Man He finds out, he’ll be smiling ear to ear!” My jaw dropped. Pregnant? Am I pregnant? “Mrs. He, you look pale. Is something else wrong?” The doctor frowned and looked at Hayes. “Mr. He, your wife needs nutrition. You can’t just focus on work.” I glanced at Hayes. He was staring right at me. Our eyes met, and I felt guilty. That time two months ago… One shot, one kill? [The villainess is pregnant with the Hero’s kid? What about the Heroine’s baby? She’s flying back tonight!] [Don’t worry guys. She’s pregnant with the Hero’s kid, but in the Hero’s eyes, that’s the “wild man’s” baby from the text!] [Classic. The villainess played herself. Even if she confesses now, the Hero won’t believe her.] [She walked right into the line of fire to pave the way for the Heroine.] [It’s karma. A child conceived by drunk entrapment is just a bastard anyway.] Despair washed over me. Hayes didn’t say a word. The atmosphere in the room was suffocating. Until the doctor suggested calling Hayes’ grandfather. Hayes spoke slowly. “It’s only nine weeks. It’s not stable. Don’t tell Grandpa yet.” [Hahaha, the Hero said it’s not stable. Sounds like he wants to handle it himself.] [The Hero hates anyone touching him except the Heroine. Now the villainess is pregnant? She’s done for.] [Obviously. A woman who cuckolds the Hero will meet a terrible end.] [Does the villainess know the Hero is a total yandere? He likes keeping things in his basement… pools and plants… meant to lock her up and punish her.] 3 On the way home, I was a nervous wreck. I texted my bestie: [Lexi, I’m in deep trouble! Where are you? I’m coming to find you. Turn your phone on!!!] I sent message after message. I also Googled escape routes out of the country. As soon as Hayes’ car stopped at the villa, I jumped out without looking back, ran upstairs, opened my laptop, and started researching divorce procedures. After an hour of frantic research, Lexi finally called back. Her voice was raspy. “Harper, what kind of trouble?” I told her everything that had happened over the last two days. “I’m an architect, for God’s sake. After the divorce, we’ll go abroad. I’ll work hard to support you and the baby.” Lexi and I run in the same circles. We hated each other as kids. But in high school, when my family was on the verge of bankruptcy and I was being bullied, Lexi stood up for me. We’ve been inseparable ever since. “But… are you just going to give up on Hayes?” Lexi asked carefully. The comments rolled by. [The villainess is so stubborn. She loves the Hero to death but acts all high and mighty. Can she do anything besides fake it?] [She’s liked the Hero since high school. How could she give up so easily?] I gripped my phone tightly. My lips trembled. I like Hayes. I really like him. The summer of our senior year, the class monitor pushed me into a drainage ditch. He sneered, “I used to chase you because your family had money, and you acted so stuck up. Now you’re just a broke dog. You dare reject me?” He tried to force me to be his girlfriend, threatening to leave me to rot in the ditch if I refused. Hayes showed up just in time. He fished me out, soaking wet and smelling of sewage. He didn’t cringe at the stench. He went with me to the police. He demanded the bully apologize to me in front of the whole school. When I was at my most helpless and depressed, he appeared like a beam of light. I fell for him instantly. “We slept together. I got what I wanted.” I forced a smile. “But I love you best, babe. Being with you makes me happy. We’ll run away together, take the kid to the grocery store… it’ll be awesome!” I got more agitated as I spoke. “Unlike Hayes. I never even see him. Handsome face, nice body—useless if he’s never there.” I let out a cold laugh. “Twice in a whole year. Looked good, didn’t work good! I’m divorcing him immediately!” Crash. Something shattered behind me. I turned around. Hayes was standing in the doorway. A bowl of chicken soup lay smashed on the floor. Glass shards and golden broth were splattered everywhere, staining his expensive suit. “Hello? Harper? Why did you stop talking? What happened? Is it Hayes? Did he hit you? I’m coming back right now!” Lexi sounded panicked on the phone. My heart raced. “I’m fine. Don’t come.” I hung up quickly and shoved the phone in my pocket. Hayes remained in the doorway, frozen in the same posture. His thin lips curled into a dangerous smirk. “You want a divorce? “Don’t even dream about it.” I could hear his teeth grinding. He turned and called down to the housekeeper. “The master bedroom is dirty. Clean it up.” The housekeeper looked heartbroken at the spilled soup. “Oh my goodness, Sir, how could you be so careless? You simmered that soup for an hour! Was it too hot? “I told you I would bring it up, but you insisted on doing it yourself. Such a waste of your effort! Look, your hand is blistered.” The housekeeper’s rambling snapped me out of my trance. Hayes made the soup himself? [He made soup? The Hero is interesting. Probably wanted to slip some abortion pills in there, right?] [Hahaha, “The master bedroom is dirty.” That is such a burn on the villainess!] [The villainess should just leave sensibly. Don’t ruin the Hero’s night picking up the Heroine!] I trembled as I read the comments. The next second, Hayes got a call. His tone returned to normal. “Okay, I’ll be right there.” He hung up and glanced at me. As he turned to leave, my anger flared. I stepped over the broken glass and blocked his path. “Did I say you could leave? Since you heard everything… “The divorce agreement is being drafted. Sign it, then you can go.” 4 The housekeeper’s eyes went wide. She swept up the last shard and practically bolted from the room, closing the door behind her. “Why?” “Because you managed twice in a year.” I mimicked the tone of a wicked novel villainess and sneered. “Other men do more than that in a single night.” […What is she doing? Provoking him? Does she actually want a divorce?] [LMAO, she’s talking trash just to make him mad so he won’t go pick up Bella!] [Trying to make our Heroine wait at the airport all night? Such a toxic villainess!] [She just wants more intimacy! Hero, don’t fall for it!] [Wait… why is the Hero taking his clothes off???] Hayes threw his soup-stained jacket on the floor. His knuckles white, he undid the top two buttons of his shirt. He stepped toward me. “If that’s the reason…” He looked up, grabbing my wrist. “I can fix that.” 8:00 PM. I hadn’t been drinking this time. Neither had Hayes. Veins popped on his forehead. His hands braced on either side of me, his breath scorching hot. “Harper Hu.” He said my full name. Kisses rained down on me. [What is happening? What kind of weak Hero is this? One provocation and he folds?] [Relax guys. I bet a dollar he won’t go all the way. Men get heated, but his heart belongs to Bella! He’ll stop.] [Possibility: Since the baby is nine weeks, maybe he wants to… get rid of it naturally.] [True! No man wants to be divorced. If anyone is leaving, the Hero does the dumping.] My palms were sweating. My hand drifted toward his abs. The moment I touched him, Hayes groaned. And sure enough, he stopped. Arrow on the string, but he didn’t fire. “I have something to do tonight. Be good and don’t provoke me. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear what you said earlier.” He frowned, an unreadable emotion flashing through his eyes before disappearing. So… Even in this situation, Hayes could slam on the brakes. Instant cooldown. His phone rang again. A woman’s voice came through: “Hayes, I’ve been waiting at the airport for an hour. Are you coming? How much longer do I have to wait?” I recognized the voice. It was Bella, the Heroine. “On my way.” Hayes put his phone away, glanced at my suitcase, and ordered the butler: “Until I return, no one leaves this house.” It was pouring rain outside. Hayes rushed off. I watched his back, my heart sour. The comments were scrolling furiously: [LOL, the Hero cooled off. Told you he had no interest in the villainess.] [The villainess only got in because of her family status. If our Bella came from money, the villainess wouldn’t stand a chance.] [Don’t worry, the Hero is only interested in Bella! He’s rushing over there to get some real action!] I met Bella in freshman year. She was Hayes’ junior in college. She was different from us. She came from a rural village and worked incredibly hard. Every step Bella took was solid. Top of her class every year. Full scholarship, yet she still worked part-time. Brilliant and focused. plenty of guys chased her, but she only had eyes for Hayes. She said more than once in front of her suitors, “You know Hayes? He’s my standard.” The rumors about Bella and Hayes were everywhere on campus. [Bella got into Ivy League for Hayes, didn’t you know? Hayes has sponsored her since middle school. They are super close.] I secretly investigated Bella. I learned that due to a family feud in the He Group, Hayes’ father had failed, and Hayes was exiled to a remote mountain town during middle school. They called it “character building.” In reality, they wanted to make sure his family never recovered. That’s where Hayes met Bella. The comments said they saved each other. They met at their lowest points. So the first thing Hayes did when he reclaimed his power was sponsor Bella. In college, they worked on patents together. Co-authored papers. Until Bella went abroad. Hayes’ heart seemed to die. He did nothing but study and run lab experiments. Focusing on his career. His heart died. And mine died with it. I hated the idea of being the “other woman.” So I started online dating. Looking at random guys’ abs. I never expected that after graduation, I’d get drunk, mistake Hayes for… well, Hayes, and accidentally sleep with him. My phone screen lit up. Hayes sent a message to my burner account: [One million. Is that enough?]

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After my daughter left for college, I repurposed the two commercial units I owned in the complex into a community kitchen and after-school hub. I hired a designer for a full renovation and bought all new fixtures and furniture, dividing the space into distinct areas for seniors and for children. The pricing was the same for everyone—a flat rate of five dollars per person, help yourself, eat what you need. My intention was twofold: to give the kids of busy parents a safe place to land and to offer lonely, elderly residents a reliable, inexpensive meal and company. Everything was brand new. I hired two professional chefs for the kitchen, and every day at noon, we offered twenty different dishes, three kinds of soup, and five main courses. I truly felt like I was doing something good. Once we opened, business boomed. People loved the chefs’ cooking and were happy with the clean, bright environment. Neighbors would enthusiastically call me ‘Mama Sarah,’ and people from across the country would send gifts after reading about us online. Several students who had gotten better jobs would even make special trips back to visit me. Seeing their smiling faces warmed my heart, making every sacrifice feel worthwhile. Until Owen Maxwell and his family showed up. He walked in with his wife, one of them holding a child’s hand, the other pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair. He looked around at the bustling, harmonious scene, his gaze lingering on the community-sent banner that read Trusted Local Service, focusing for a long minute on the words. After a moment, he smiled. 1 The day Owen brought his son, his daughter, and his wife’s physically disabled mother in for registration, I was there personally. He was refined, wearing smart glasses, and his wife, Naomi, also seemed poised and spoke comfortably. I liked them immediately and decided to give them the tour myself. “The latest pickup for the after-school program is midnight,” I explained. “Of course, if there’s a special circumstance, we can arrange for an overnight stay. All our linens are changed daily, professionally cleaned and sanitized. Wi-Fi and utilities are complimentary.” “As for the kitchen, the menus are set by a certified nutritionist. You can choose a custom plate or stick to the daily special. The soup and staple courses are always free refills.” Since it was lunchtime, I took them over to the kitchen for a tasting. The special was three sides and a soup for five dollars. Our most expensive à la carte dish, the BBQ Ribs, was ten dollars—a generous portion. I introduced each item to them. Naomi nodded approvingly, but Owen remained quiet until we passed the restroom. He stopped and pointed to the toilet. “Sarah,” he said, using my first name, “that commode looks like a generic brand. Honestly, they’re often a safety hazard.” I paused. “Really? The contractor recommended it. I’ll call someone to have it replaced right away.” “It’s just that with so many seniors and kids, safety has to be the priority.” His tone lacked emotion, yet it felt strangely authoritative, like a command. I felt a prickle of annoyance but kept my face smooth, smiling and nodding. “You’re absolutely right. My oversight.” He signed up his two children and the elder for the full-service package. Since his wife had a demanding job, he usually handled the drop-offs and pickups. He’d occasionally grab lunch at the kitchen, too. Sometimes on the weekend, he’d even ‘help out,’ chatting with the chefs and scheduling a quick game with other parents in the parking lot. He’d bring in fruit to share with the seniors and kids. Before long, the neighbors were familiar with him, calling him ‘Owen’ or ‘Max.’ “Owen is a Regional Manager for a luxury hotel chain, he’s so knowledgeable.” “I know! He even gave me tips for my job interview.” “Just what you’d expect from a leader. Humble, kind, and genuinely engaging.” So many people praised Owen in their casual conversations that my initial discomfort faded. Maybe that strictness was just the nature of his five-star hospitality background. With a holiday coming up, I planned to pay my staff early and consult with the chefs about a festive menu. In a corner of the hub, Owen was talking to a group of neighbors. It looked lively. Curiosity drew me over. Each person held a document, and Owen was giving a presentation. “Look, we have plenty of grocery stores nearby, and the prices are reasonable. But when it comes to food, confidence is key. Especially in a collective gathering place, we have to prioritize food safety…” His logic was sharp, his pace unhurried. “Local produce isn’t actually expensive. But here at Sarah’s, the serving staff aren’t wearing hairnets. And some of the meat used is frozen, which simply doesn’t meet health standards for a premium service.” One neighbor spoke softly, “But Sarah’s prices are so low, and the food is delicious.” Owen adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. “Affordable, yes, but unsanitary and unhealthy? That’s the real problem. You’re entrusting your children and your parents to this service. If they get sick, that ‘affordability’ will cost you dearly. Since we pay for a service, we have the right to expect normal, healthy food. This isn’t charity from the owner, it’s our right as consumers.” 2 “I noticed the staff didn’t wipe down my table the other day,” another neighbor chimed in. “I told Sarah, and it took the attendant a long time to get over here.” I remembered that incident. It was Children’s Day, and we were swamped with several local preschools. We were short-handed, and the place was packed. I apologized later and gave him a store souvenir. I stopped in my tracks, watching them quietly. It was truly a moment of cold realization, a harsh reality check. I didn’t interrupt them. Instead, I walked to my private office inside the after-school section and pulled out the enrollment agreements. Right there was the section on the meal plan. To prevent future disputes, I had explicitly included a Food Sourcing Disclosure Statement. It clearly stated: “All produce is fresh. Meats may occasionally include quality frozen cuts to maintain low costs. The customer acknowledges and agrees to this sourcing.” Everyone had signed it. … The next day, the neighborhood online group chat was in an uproar like never before. Owen had posted his luxury hotel’s internal food safety guidelines, along with a formal “Proposal for Service & Safety Overhaul of the Community Kitchen & After-School Hub.” The three-thousand-word document covered everything from food handling and restaurant layout to ingredient sourcing and contract terms. He backed every point with screenshots of “expert consultation” and legal precedents. His summary listed four demands. First, he demanded that I stop using any frozen meat and only source fresh, daily-butchered cuts. Second, he demanded I publish a detailed cost breakdown for all ingredients. Third, he demanded I register with the local Food Safety and Regulation Department and obtain all necessary licenses. Fourth, he demanded I conduct professional staff training, hire more employees, and amend the contract to guarantee that I would not suddenly raise prices. The chat filled with agreement. “Total support! I’ve been saying this. My kid is growing, and those chicken tenders must be riddled with bacteria!” “Exactly, we don’t want a scene, we just want our parents and children to eat safely.” “To be honest, I’ve felt like the kitchen food wasn’t healthy for a while now.” “I agree, getting sick would be a nightmare.” I recognized the ID of the person who said the food was “unhealthy.” It was Paige, the neighbor who lived right above me. She had bought a whole tray of our pulled-pork sliders just last night, saying they were a weekend treat for her family. I tossed my phone aside and rubbed my throbbing temples. After the lunchtime rush, I called Owen to meet me. He looked exactly as he did that first day—polished, wearing a suit and shirt, polite and distant. “Sarah, you wanted to see me?” I slid the printed copies of his chat documents across the desk. “Owen, why did you put all this out there without speaking to me first?” He smiled slightly. “Sarah, this isn’t just my idea. I simply voiced what the community was thinking. The group chat is the most efficient and fair way for everyone to express their opinions. It’s transparent, unlike a private conversation.” “Fair and transparent?” I flipped open the document. “You’re demanding fresh, daily-butchered meat and more staff. Where does the cost come from? Did you consider that?” “I apologize.” 3 His expression didn’t change, and his tone remained flat. “That is a cost you, as the business owner, must solve. You can explore other methods of revenue generation or provide premium services.” He made it sound so simple. “I set these prices low because I wanted to ease the financial burden on the community. After calculating my costs, I’m practically breaking even. This is a benefit I’m extending to the residents. Do you know the logistical nightmare involved in obtaining all those licenses and official paperwork you’re demanding?” “I’d have to pay massive fees, and my costs would skyrocket. Did you consider that?” “Sarah!” Owen cut me off. “This is not a benefit.” “When you decided to open this business, you should have figured all of this out. Regardless of how high your costs are, you cannot disregard the residents’ rights.” I was furious. “So, you want to enjoy ridiculously cheap meals, but use the language of consumer rights to make me bear all the cost overruns and legal risk?” “Food safety is non-negotiable.” That hateful smile was still plastered on his face, but his eyes were ice cold. “You can dress it up with pretty words, but why didn’t you consider these issues when you opened the Hub? Adults must pay the cost of their actions. You’re older than me, you should know that much.” I struggled to remain calm and pulled the signed enrollment agreements from my drawer. “I have contracts. They explicitly address the sourcing of the food. Everyone read and signed this section willingly. They agreed to it.” Owen chuckled, flipping to the page I mentioned. He pointed to the clause, reminding me slowly: “Sarah, did you consult a lawyer? Legally, that kind of clause won’t hold up. Even if they signed it willingly, if this goes to court, your supposed evidence won’t stand.” There was a knock on the door. It was Leo, the neighbor who often bought our leftover meals. Seeing Owen, he looked visibly uncomfortable. “Sarah, I… just wanted to ask if there are any leftover pulled-pork sliders from lunch today?” Before I could answer, Owen jumped in. “Leo, I’m discussing the issues with the kitchen with Sarah right now. Don’t worry, once this is settled, you’ll have much higher quality meat to eat.” Leo’s face lit up with surprise. “Owen, you’re the best! I hope you succeed.” He hurried out, gently closing the door, even giving Owen a discreet thumbs-up—forgetting completely that he came in to buy food. That image hit me like a physical blow. … Their gambit failed. I posted a long message in the group chat, firmly rejecting their so-called “Proposal.” I told them explicitly that I opened the Hub and set the prices out of consideration for the community—a service barely breaking even. I framed it as the convenience and benefit I provided. If they were unhappy, they were free to use the expensive, fully regulated after-school centers nearby, or eat at outside restaurants, or simply stop coming here. In short, I would not concede an inch. The next day, the kitchen and after-school hub were still packed. Only a handful of families stayed away. But plastered to the door of my office was a formal notice. It was a joint statement from the residents, co-signed with a property management company, demanding that I comply with their Proposal, or they would pursue their legal rights. The name signed at the bottom was Owen Maxwell. I ripped the document off the door right in front of the diners and tossed it in the trash. After that, the atmosphere in the Hub died. People stopped talking when I approached, and they deliberately avoided eye contact. 4 Even the college students who came for cheap meals would sneak in and out. My employees, knowing the truth, started posting in the residents’ group chat, condemning the agitators. “What is wrong with you people? Sarah works herself to death, and you know how low her prices are—she barely makes a profit!” “Have you all forgotten how good she’s been to you?” Someone immediately shot back: “Of course, you’ll defend her—you work for her! What does she stand to gain if not profit? She’s not running a charity.” Finally, Owen stepped in to play the ‘mediator.’ He calmly told everyone to stop arguing, then specifically tagged me, demanding a statement. I stayed in the group but refused to respond. I watched them openly strategize about how to force my compliance, how to gather evidence, and how to contact a lawyer. “I’ll take the photos. I go to pick up my son every day, it’s no trouble.” “I’ll reach out to my cousin, he’s a corporate lawyer.” Everyone was eager to participate. Owen was directing the operation, coordinating the strategy. “Also, everyone needs to write a statement emphasizing that you were misled into signing the agreement by the owner.” “I’ve contacted a friend who’s a journalist. They’re very interested in the food safety angle. We can take this to the media if necessary.” Owen made sure to remind everyone: “We must be careful. We are simply defending our rights, not looking for trouble. Be discreet when gathering evidence, avoid being noticed, and record all communications.” Paige, who lived above me, was the most enthusiastic. “Owen, don’t worry, I saved a photo of the hair I found in my food last month. We can use that to prove it’s unsanitary.” I remembered that hair. It was her girlfriend’s, and she had joked at the time that she was glad we all had short hair, or we’d be blamed. She had even laughingly threatened to “extort” me. I drank myself to sleep. When I woke up, their deadline had passed. I hadn’t done a thing. Then, they sued me. On the day of the hearing, Owen and a dozen or so residents were there as the plaintiffs. I sat alone at the defense table. The court clerk read the names of the plaintiffs. My gaze swept over the familiar faces—Paige, Leo—and finally settled on Owen. After receiving the summons, the first person I called was an old friend who was a lawyer. He listened to my story, then paced his office, shaking his head in frustration. “I told you years ago not to do these things, Sarah. You can’t build a business on pure goodwill. No good deed goes unpunished.” I banged my hand on the desk. “Tell me the facts.” He fell silent for a moment. “It’s tricky.” He explained that Owen, as an experienced hotel manager, had precisely zeroed in on the service industry’s legal vulnerabilities. The claims he made were, on a legal level, difficult to refute. The clauses I’d written into the contract were, as Owen had suggested, non-compliant and legally invalid. His only advice was private mediation. I would have to concede to their demands, offer them some form of compensation, and they would withdraw the suit. Otherwise, I would face a hefty fine. I hung up the phone, expressionless. Concede? Why should I? I simply messaged the group chat: “See you in court.” The ongoing chatter abruptly stopped for a few seconds. Then, they exploded, tagging me with every kind of insult. Owen, however, sent a single, smug emoji. … The sky on the day of the trial was a heavy, suffocating grey. Owen had invited several reporters and online commentators to observe the proceedings. The gallery was almost completely full. The evidence they compiled was weaponized by Owen’s highly inflammatory testimony and immediately blasted across social media. He and the residents successfully packaged themselves as innocent victims who had mistakenly trusted a negligent, greedy owner. Their carefully curated evidence became daggers aimed straight at me. A barrage of photos detailed how my Hub was unregulated, unsanitary, and unhealthy. Owen read from the residents’ signed affidavits, describing how I had used their urgent need for childcare and low-cost meals to hoodwink them into signing illegal contracts. They accused me of leveraging ‘affordability’ to offer them dangerous food and a substandard environment. Finally, after the lawyers finished, it was the turn of the plaintiff and defendant to speak. Owen, always articulate, was no exception this time. “Your Honor, we didn’t want to go this far. We all live in the same community, we see each other every day, and we all want to build a better home and maintain our health,” he declared. “Not be lured into a financial and health trap.” “The defendant, Sarah Denton, operates under the guise of ‘Mama Sarah,’ basking in online praise, yet in reality, she’s jeopardizing people’s well-being. She weaponized our trust to lead us into a dangerous situation.” “We are not seeking financial damages. We demand an apology, and we demand food safety.” He spoke with forceful conviction, the performance close to tears. The gallery buzzed with sympathy, and the reporters scribbled furiously. My lawyer tried to present the signed contracts again. Owen’s lawyer immediately countered, citing the contract invalidity clause, effectively shutting him down. Just as my lawyer friend had warned, I had no chance of winning this case. From the beginning, I was utterly defeated.

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