Category: English

My adoptive father, Rhett Callahan, was the biggest rancher in the entire state—a true land baron of the West. The day he found out I was the lost heiress, he held me close, his eyes full of the vast, quiet sorrow of the plains. “You listen to your new parents, little Aura,” he’d rumbled, using the nickname only he used. “The people in Manhattan are sharper than your old man, a rough-cut cowboy. They’ll mold my Nu-nu into a delicate little princess.” I nodded, trying to be brave. I hauled the cooler filled with the prime, dry-aged beef he’d butchered himself and stood at the gates of the Prescott estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. When Evelyn Prescott, my biological mother, saw me, she wrinkled her nose. Jonathan Prescott, my biological father, scowled. Skylar Prescott, the girl who had taken my place, pointed a perfectly manicured finger at my chest and sneered that I was a savage from the sticks. My new parents ordered the housekeeper to use a scrub brush—I swear, it felt like steel wool—to scour the smell of the range off me. They forced me to sit through endless etiquette lessons and kept me hungry, claiming it would make me “delicate.” The Prescott world was nothing like I’d imagined. My eyes stung, and I finally sat down in the attic room they’d given me to pen a frantic letter. A week later, Dad’s reply arrived. “The measly Prescott Industries? Your Abba could buy and sell them for a coffee tab with the longhorns I own. Do not suffer their foolishness, Aura. Your Abba will be there in three days!” 1 Skylar snatched the thick envelope from my hand, the rough texture of the paper crinkling under her perfect grip, and then she slapped me. Hard. This time, I remembered Dad’s words. I wouldn’t stand for it. I clenched my fists and focused my eyes, locking onto Skylar like a lone wolf tracking a weak calf on the open range. My gaze made her skin prickle. She clutched the letter, taking a hesitant step back. “What are you doing? This is the Prescott house! If you dare to touch me—” Warm-up complete. I slid my right foot, dropped my center of gravity, and put all my core strength into my arms. With a yelp of pure panic from Skylar, her body traced a sharp, clean arc in the air before hitting the antique Persian rug with a sickening thud. A perfect, textbook hip-toss. Jonathan and Evelyn rushed in. Skylar’s expression twisted into a caricature of pain faster than a spooked mustang. “Mom, Dad, I only asked what Autumn was reading! She just… she tried to kill me!” They automatically ignored the bright red print of Skylar’s hand on my cheek. “Autumn Reed Prescott! Were those etiquette classes completely wasted? You resort to such crude violence against your sister?” My blood-stained year of experience in the Prescott house told me one thing: the more I argued, the more severe the punishment. I stayed silent, staring at my worn boots. Skylar wasn’t done. She dramatically waved the letter. “Look, Mom, Dad! She got a letter from her savage father!” My heart squeezed tight. If they saw Dad’s proud dismissal of their “measly” empire, their fragile upper-class egos would shatter. Jonathan and Evelyn squinted at the rough, looping script, which was written in Dad’s private ranch code—a language only we spoke. They couldn’t decipher a word. They tossed it to Skylar, who claimed to know “simple Western dialects.” Skylar read the characters, her voice dripping with venom. “Her poor adoptive father is clearly after the Prescott fortune! He’s telling her to steal as much cash as she can!” That was it. My dad was the largest landowner and stockman in the state, a bona fide hero of the range! He would never be reduced to a common thief! “You’re lying!” I managed to choke out half a word. Smack! Jonathan’s palm slammed across my face, the impact sending a ringing echo through my ears. “Haven’t you disgraced us enough? A Prescott heiress acting like some common brute who throws people around. You’ll skip dinner tonight. You can spend the evening kneeling in front of your sister’s room.” They guided a tearful Skylar away, their voices thick with exasperation and disappointment. “They’re the same age—barely ten. How can their personalities be so different?” Evelyn sighed. “If the whole adoption scandal hadn’t been picked up by the news, damaging our stock, I would never have brought Autumn back.” “Honestly, I wish she’d just been lost forever when she wandered off at six months.” As they comforted each other, Skylar twisted her head around and gave me a wicked, triumphant smirk. In this house, I was Autumn Reed Prescott. Only Dad called me Aura. I sucked in a shaky breath, my fingernails digging hard into the soft flesh of my thigh. Dad said girls raised on the range don’t cry easily. That night, I knelt outside Skylar’s polished oak bedroom door. My knees were starting to swell, and my stomach growled a miserable complaint. A sliver of moonlight fell through the window, and a big, ugly whip scorpion crawled next to me. I remembered being bored while watching the herd, and Dad teaching me how to find scorpions and race them. When that was boring, he’d teach me how to count our livestock—a cow for twenty grand, until I reached thirty million—and then I’d fall asleep, safe on his wide, warm shoulders. Just two more days. I’d see Dad soon. Drifting off, I gently cupped the whip scorpion and curled up, exhausted, by the door. 2 The next morning, Skylar’s piercing scream jolted me awake. She was staring at the whip scorpion in my hand, her face paper-white, tears streaming down her face. “Autumn… I didn’t make you kneel! Why would you bring this… this thing to scare me!” I saw the flash of cunning in her eyes and knew the performance was for someone else. Sure enough, a dark shadow fell over me. A large hand snatched the insect away. The next second, the whip scorpion was a two-part corpse on the polished marble floor. Jonathan Prescott’s face was grim. “Autumn, we have been too lenient with you.” Before I could speak, he waved his hand and summoned the head groundskeeper. “Bring Shadow over.” At the name Shadow, my pupils contracted, and an involuntary tremor ran through my body. A smug smile played on Skylar’s lips. “See, Autumn? Dad is just applying your rules. You can’t accuse him of favoritism.” I instantly dropped to my knees, clawing at Jonathan’s bespoke trousers. “Dad, I wasn’t trying to scare Skylar! I know I was wrong!” He glared at me, annoyed, and kicked my hand away. “We gave you a chance! Skylar even hand-stitched you a welcoming doll, and you deliberately tore it to shreds and told her to get lost!” “We assumed you inherited the superior Prescott genes and would adjust quickly, but it’s clear the rotten ideologies of your dirt-poor upbringing are ingrained in you!” The groundskeeper approached, respectfully leading a massive, heavily-muscled Rottweiler named Shadow. The man’s face wore a sickeningly eager smirk. I looked up at the dog. The last time, my ankle was shredded—the tendons barely healed. A familiar, throbbing pain started in my foot. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of the first day, when the Prescott family had collectively ripped apart any hope I had for a new home. They had thrown away the special, cured side of beef Dad had prepared. Skylar had brought the doll, pretending to be sweet, but the minute Jonathan and Evelyn left, she snatched the eagle feather Dad had tied to my belt—a mark of honor on the range—and snipped it into tiny pieces with her scissors, calling me a country bumpkin. I lost it. I tore her handcrafted doll to shreds. When the Prescotts sided with Skylar, I protested. “Where I come from, adult grievances don’t cross into the children’s arguments! We fight it out in the corral, and then it’s done! No hard feelings!” Dad had taught me that the vast land gave us the right to love freely and hate openly. Jonathan sneered. “Oh, you like to fight, do you?” He tenderly lifted Skylar, called the groundskeeper, and had me thrown into the kennel where Shadow was kept. Jonathan and Evelyn had stood by while the dog tore at me for a full day and night. I spent half a year recovering in the hospital. The groundskeeper gripped the back of my collar. “Miss Prescott, let’s go.” No matter how I thrashed, he didn’t slow his pace. Jonathan seemed deaf to my pleas. I was suddenly weightless, falling into the kennel. Shadow, the Rotty, immediately bristled, bearing its teeth and issuing a deep, guttural warning. I moved cautiously, playing a terrifying game of chase with the dog inside the chain-link enclosure for several dizzying rounds. Skylar gave a fake, fearful yelp from outside. Shadow, startled and agitated, lunged. Its jaws locked onto my forearm. Canine teeth pierced skin, sinking into the flesh and tearing, hot blood spurting out. The intense pain nearly made me black out. Skylar, spoiled and sheltered, had never seen real blood. She collapsed into Jonathan’s arms. “Daddy, I’m scared.” Jonathan tenderly covered her eyes. “It’s alright, my precious Skylar. Daddy is here.” Clutching my profusely bleeding arm, I felt a familiar haze of pain and delirium, and then, I heard Dad’s voice. “If the livestock goes mad, you tame it!” “Abba, I’m afraid.” “I’m here, Nu-nu. Don’t be afraid.” “Get on its back!” I spun around and scrambled onto Shadow’s back, clamping my legs tight around its torso. “Wrap your arms around its neck! You don’t let go until it stops struggling!” I seized Shadow’s neck, pulling back with all the power I could muster. Under the stunned stares of Jonathan and Skylar, the dog’s violent struggle turned to whimpers, then a pathetic gasp, before it finally collapsed, foaming at the mouth. Evelyn rushed over, muttering, “What a sin, what a sin.” Jonathan just scoffed, spat out the word “Crude,” and stalked off, clutching Skylar. I stood in the metal cage, covered in my own blood. My last sight before passing out was Skylar’s face, a mask of pure, ugly defiance. When I next woke up, Evelyn was crouched beside me, dressing the wound. Half the muscle on my forearm had been ripped away; I was a hair’s breadth from seeing bone. She gently blew on the wound as she applied ointment, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Why is this child so stubborn? Where did she get this temperament?” “Mommy is so heartbroken for you. But Skylar is the only child I’ve known since she was an infant. Listen to me, be a good sister to her, okay?” I reached out my small, bloody hand and hooked my little finger around hers. “Mom, I want my Abba.” Her expression instantly froze, turning cold. The ointment tube clattered to the ground. “Abba, Abba, it’s always your damn Abba! You are so ungrateful for the life we’ve given you!” She stormed out. The housekeeper cautiously inquired. “Mrs. Prescott, what about the wound…” “It’s bandaged. The school gala is tomorrow, and the media will be everywhere. We can’t afford any rumors of child abuse. It would be too much trouble.” I listened to the click-clack of her heels fading away. 3 The housekeeper applied some miraculous ointment that stopped the bleeding, then ordered the makeup artist to slather my face with unnatural rouge. I was stuffed into a hideous, frilly couture disaster, a sad attempt at a delicate princess. I was compliant. Dad would be so happy to see me looking… safe. At the Charity Gala, my classmates whispered into their parents’ ears. “That’s the bumpkin who just arrived. She stole Skylar’s parents and bullies Skylar every day.” “No class whatsoever. That blush looks like a baboon’s rear.” “Good thing Skylar’s parents saw through her tricks. Skylar didn’t have to turn into a poor orphan.” Was that really the truth? I watched as Jonathan and Evelyn crammed themselves into a single seat, preferring to hover over Skylar than give me a sliver of their attention. Out of every child in the room, I was the only one standing alone in the center. When reporters asked, Jonathan and Evelyn forced a strained smile. “She’s not close with us. We respect her privacy.” The gala dragged on into the evening. I bit my lip until it went white, my burning eyes fixed on the school entrance. “Abba… are you going to break your promise to Aura?” On the stage, the Headmaster was thanking each corporate sponsor. The highest donor would receive the coveted Diamond Tiara—a social prize. Skylar was ignoring me. She had worn the Tiara for three straight years, and this was her favorite moment of glory. But today, after thanking Prescott Industries, the Headmaster paused, and the Tiara remained on the velvet cushion. A flicker of annoyance crossed Skylar’s face. “Headmaster, where is my Tiara?” The Headmaster looked genuinely embarrassed. “This year, the largest corporate donation… was not the Prescott family. It was from a private philanthropist named Rhett Callahan.” My stunned mind suddenly clicked, and a bolt of pure energy shot through me. “It’s my Dad!” Every single eye in the crowded ballroom snapped to me. “What? I thought they said the Prescotts found this kid in a backwater town? How could he be richer than the Prescotts?” “The kid’s just distraught from being neglected at the Prescott house. She’s probably making things up.” Skylar was furious at the sudden shift in focus. She charged at me, grabbing my ugly dress collar. “Autumn Prescott! You’re not just a nobody, you’re a liar!” “I am not! The Headmaster is talking about my Dad!” The rough tug-of-war ripped the delicate sleeve, exposing the horrifying, concave scar on my forearm. A collective gasp swept through the room. “Good God! Has this child been abused at the Prescott house?” “No wonder she’s talking nonsense—she’d rather go back to the country than stay here.” Cameras flashed furiously. Jonathan and Evelyn rushed over, and both slapped me. “It was bad enough that you tried to push your sister into a kennel! Now you’re faking injuries for sympathy!” “I’m not faking—” Their own parents’ betrayal was a poison I couldn’t combat. “Autumn Reed Prescott! Your father and I are taking you to a treatment center tonight to fix your twisted brain!” They grabbed me, trying to drag me toward the exit.

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The zipper snagged as Mom, Vivian, forced the last sweater into her travel bag. She tugged at it twice, hard, and when it wouldn’t budge, she simply let go of the pull-tab and sank onto the floor. I watched her from the crack in my bedroom door, afraid to make a sound. Dad, Ethan, was in the living room, his voice low and tight on the phone. “Where is she going to go? No money, barely any friends. Just let her be, she’ll come back when she’s cooled off.” He’s wrong. I whispered the protest in my mind. Mom wasn’t coming back. Her eyes had told me so. Vivian finally stood up, not looking again at the bulging, half-zipped bag. She walked to my doorway and crouched down, bringing her gaze level with mine. “Aubrey,” she called me, her voice a little rough, but gentle. “Mommy has to go on a trip.” 1 I stared at the tiny mole on the bridge of her nose. “How long?” She paused, then reached out to touch my cheek. Her fingertips were cool. “It might… be a long time. You have to be a good girl, Aubrey. Listen to Dad, and eat all your dinner, okay?” I nodded. I knew what a “long trip” meant. My friend Mandy’s mom upstairs went on a “long trip” and never returned. Mandy said her mom didn’t want her anymore. Would Mom not want me, either? The thought was a cold, slick snake that suddenly slithered into my heart and coiled there. She leaned closer and kissed my forehead. It was so light, like a feather landing. Then she stood up, grabbed the travel bag, and walked toward the front door without a backward glance. The zipper was still broken, gaping like a black, silent mockery. Dad hung up the phone and stood in the center of the living room, watching her. He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to stop her. His face was drawn and pale in the hallway light, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. The door clicked shut with a soft finality. The house fell into an enormous silence. It was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator compressor humming, and the frantic thump-thump-thump of my own heart, beating like a small drum. Dad stood there for a moment, then walked to the sofa and dropped onto it heavily, burying his face in his hands. My eyes fell on the coffee table. A single butterscotch candy lay there, wrapped in a pretty gold and orange foil. Mom had given it to me that morning. She’d said: When life gets bitter, you eat a piece of candy. I walked over, carefully peeled back the wrapper, and put the orange-yellow square in my mouth. It was sweet, cloyingly sweet. But the sweetness, once it reached my throat, morphed into a strange, inexplicable ache that made me want to cry. I smoothed out the wrinkled foil, holding it up to the lamp. The wrapper refracted the light into vibrant, tiny, fragile stars. Mom was gone. She left with a broken zipper and what I knew was a broken heart. My world, from that moment on, was fundamentally different. 2 Sierra arrived on the third day after Mom left. She carried a large bag of fresh groceries and put them in the refrigerator like she knew exactly where everything belonged. She moved like she already owned the place. “Goodness, look at this mess,” she muttered, frowning. Her eyes swept over Dad’s shirt tossed on the sofa and my uncollected blocks on the rug. “A grown man trying to raise a kid alone—it just doesn’t work.” Dad scratched his head awkwardly. “We’re making do.” Sierra didn’t respond. She tied on an apron and began straightening up. She was quick and efficient, and soon the living room looked immaculate. Then she disappeared into the kitchen, where the clatter of pots and pans began. I sat at the dining table, watching her back. Sierra was nothing like Mom. Vivian always cooked slowly, sometimes staring out the window and letting something scorch on the stove. Sierra wouldn’t; her every movement was precise and productive. When dinner was served—three dishes and a soup—it was colorful, fragrant, and perfectly presented. “Aubrey, eat up,” Sierra said, putting a generous slice of pot roast onto my plate with a bright smile. “You’re too skinny. Aunt Sierra will come make you good food all the time now, okay?” I didn’t answer, just kept my head down, picking at my rice. The pot roast was tender, practically melting in my mouth. It tasted objectively better than Mom’s cooking. But I still felt that something was missing. Dad was eating with gusto, praising her enthusiastically. “Sierra, your cooking is incredible. Vivian… sigh… she could never get it to taste like this.” Sierra gave him a playful, scolding look. “Vivian had bigger things on her mind. She had a whole world waiting for her, Ethan.” Dad just snorted and didn’t say anything else. My heart sank. A bigger world? Was it bigger than me and Dad? After dinner, Sierra went to do the dishes. Dad sat on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. I heard her light humming mixed in with the sound of the running water. She sounded… happy. When she finished, Sierra took off her apron and walked over to sit next to Dad. She sat so close, almost touching him. “Ethan, look at your beard. How many days since you shaved? You’re a mess.” She reached out, as if to lightly touch his chin. Dad instinctively leaned back a little. Sierra’s hand froze mid-air. Her smile flickered for a second, then she casually pulled her hand back. “By the way, my brother has a project—it sounds promising. You should take a look. Might be a good opportunity.” Dad’s interest perked up. “Oh? What kind of project?” They leaned in close, talking in hushed tones. Dad’s expression was focused. He only used to look that focused when he was looking at Mom. A heavy feeling settled in my chest, like a ball of wet cotton. I stood up, wanting to retreat to my room. As I walked past them, Sierra suddenly stopped me. “Aubrey, is your homework done? If not, go do it. Adults have business to discuss, and kids shouldn’t eavesdrop.” Her tone was natural, radiating a self-assured familiarity, as if she were already a permanent fixture with the right to organize my life. Dad looked up. “Listen to Sierra, go do your homework.” I looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot and tired, and held a strange expression I couldn’t decipher, something like relief. He didn’t look at me for long, quickly lowering his head to resume talking with Sierra. I silently turned and walked back to my room. I closed the door, shutting out the low murmuring from the living room. My homework lay open on the desk, but I couldn’t focus on a single word. I picked up the wrinkled candy wrapper from the afternoon and carefully smoothed it out, folding it into a tiny, eight-pointed star. The foil star glimmered faintly under the desk lamp. Mom, where are you right now? What is your world like? 3 Sierra started coming over more and more often. She even began doing Dad’s laundry. I saw her once, taking his pajamas off the clothesline, folding them neatly, and putting them into his dresser. When she saw me, she smiled. “Aubrey, home from school? Your dad is so careless about the house. He can’t manage without someone looking after him.” I didn’t say anything. I remembered Mom saying underwear should be hand-washed, never thrown into the washing machine with outerwear. Mom always hand-washed everything. Dad didn’t seem to notice or care. He actually seemed to be enjoying the attention. His shirts were crisp, his socks weren’t scattered everywhere, and there was a bit more laughter on his face. The kind of relaxed smile I hadn’t seen since Mom left. The house no longer smelled of burnt vegetables. The floors were always spotless, and the fridge was stocked with food. Everything, on the surface, was getting better. But I felt that our home was becoming more and more alien. The air was now thick with Sierra’s light jasmine perfume, masking the faint, warm, familiar scent Mom had left behind. Sierra took over my life, too. She checked my assignments, circling mistakes with a red pen. “Aubrey, this word is wrong.” “This problem needs a different approach. Let Aunt Sierra show you.” She bought me new clothes—pink, with lace—not the comfortable blue and athletic styles I preferred. “A girl should dress pretty, right?” She set time limits for my TV watching and rationed my snacks. “This is for your own good, Aubrey. You need to be sensible.” Dad always backed her up: “Listen to Sierra.” He grew increasingly reliant on her. He discussed work worries and daily annoyances with her. They spent more and more time together. Sometimes Sierra stayed late, in the study with Dad, “talking business.” The study door would be closed, and I could hear their low voices, occasionally punctuated by Sierra’s clear, bright laugh. I sat in the living room, hugging my knees, staring at that closed door. The cold snake in my heart began to wriggle again. Once, I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. Passing the study, I heard Sierra’s voice, laced with a hint of petulance. “Her leaving, it really did clear the path for us, didn’t it, Ethan? Don’t you think this was fate?” Dad’s reply was mumbled. “Don’t say things like that… the kid is still here…” “Aubrey will have to accept it eventually. Are you still holding out hope that Vivian will come back?” Silence followed. My heart lodged itself in my throat. Then I heard Dad say, very softly, “She won’t.” The word was quiet, yet it landed on my chest like a boulder. She won’t come back. Mom won’t come back. And Dad… Dad didn’t want her back, either. I tiptoed back to my room, climbed into bed, and pulled the blanket over my head. In the dark, I found the candy wrapper star under my pillow and clenched it tightly in my fist, the sharp edges digging painfully into my palm. 4 That weekend, Sierra suggested a picnic. “Let’s take Aubrey out. It’s not good for her to be cooped up in the house all the time.” Dad agreed. We drove to a park on the city outskirts. The weather was beautiful, sunny and bright, and the lawns were dotted with families picnicking. Sierra spread out a nice checkered blanket and arranged homemade sandwiches, fruit, and pastries. She even brought a small kite. “Aubrey, look what Aunt Sierra brought! Want to fly a kite?” She held the kite up, her smile dazzling, and beckoned to me. I stood still. Dad nudged me. “Go on, Aubrey. Sierra’s talking to you.” I walked over slowly. Sierra put the string spool in my hand, showing me how to let out the line and how to run. Her palm was soft and smelled of hand lotion. The kite wobbled, then soared up into the sky. It was a colorful butterfly. “It’s flying! You’re so good, Aubrey!” Sierra clapped and cheered like a kid herself. Dad sat on the blanket, watching us, a relaxed smile on his face. The scene looked exactly like a happy, harmonious family. But the kite string was taut, tethering the butterfly that flew higher and higher, like it was ready to snap and disappear into the blue at any moment. Just like Mom. Tired from running, I went back to the blanket. Sierra handed me a bottle of juice, then picked up a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and handed it naturally to Dad. “Have some water.” Her movement was fluid and intimate. Dad took a drink. I watched them, and suddenly I spoke. “Dad, Mom always used to open your water bottles for you too.” Dad froze, the bottle mid-air. Sierra’s smile faded slightly. The atmosphere grew instantly awkward. “Did she?” Dad lowered the bottle, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t remember.” He did remember. Mom had small hands and sometimes struggled with the cap. She would pout and hand the bottle to him to help. Dad would laugh, call her his “little idiot,” and open it easily. Sometimes, he’d pretend he couldn’t open it either, just to watch her fret, then burst out laughing. Those moments were perfectly clear in my head. How could he forget? Sierra picked up a sandwich and offered it to me. “Aubrey, try Aunt Sierra’s tuna salad sandwich. Your dad says it’s delicious.” I looked at the sandwich but didn’t take it. “Mom said I can’t have tuna. I’m allergic,” I said softly. It was true. When I was little, I’d eaten tuna once and broken out in hives that were so itchy and painful I had to get shots for days. After that, Mom banned all tuna products from the house. Dad’s face shifted. He had clearly forgotten that too. Sierra’s hand stayed suspended in the air. Her smile finally vanished completely. She pulled her hand back, putting the sandwich on the plate. Her voice was flat. “Oh, really? Well, have something else then.” The rest of the picnic was subdued. The kite eventually got stuck high up in a tree, beyond reach. Sierra said it was fine, we’d just buy a new one next time. But I knew there wouldn’t be a next time. On the drive home, I sat in the back, watching the scenery rush by the window. Dad drove in focused silence. Sierra was in the passenger seat, looking down at her phone. They didn’t exchange a single word. I secretly pulled the candy wrapper star from my pocket. Sunlight streamed through the car window, illuminating the star with a faint, determined glow. Mom, I didn’t eat the tuna. I remember your words. I remember you, too. I never forgot. 5 My first birthday since Mom left arrived. Dad asked me how I wanted to celebrate. I said I wanted cake. I didn’t really crave cake. I just remembered that every year, Mom would buy me a beautiful buttercream cake with small candles. She would hold me as we blew out the candles, then tell me to make a wish. She said that a birthday wish doesn’t come true if you say it out loud, so you have to keep it in your heart. My wish had always been the same: I wish Mom, Dad, and I could be together forever. But that wish never came true. Dad bought a huge cake, piled high with fruit and chocolate. It was bigger and flashier than any Mom had ever bought. Sierra came over, too. She gave me a brand-new dress as a birthday gift. “Thank you, Sierra,” I said, taking the dress and offering a polite thank you. Dad seemed pleased by my “sensibility.” He lit the candles and turned off the lights. “Aubrey, make a wish!” he prompted. Sierra smiled, watching me. The candlelight flickered, reflecting in their faces. I closed my eyes. Mom, where are you? Do you remember it’s my birthday? I whispered the question silently in my heart, then blew out the candles. The lights came back on. Dad began to cut the cake. He cut me a huge slice with my favorite strawberries on top. I took my fork, dug out a small piece, and put it in my mouth. The frosting was too sweet, the strawberries too tart. The mixed flavors were strange. “Is it good?” Dad asked, looking expectant. I nodded. “It’s good.” Dad smiled, clearly relieved. He cut a slice for Sierra, too. She ate daintily, complimenting the flavor. The phone rang just then. Dad walked over to answer it. I saw his expression change the moment he looked at the caller ID. He walked onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him. My heart started to race. I had a strange premonition. Sierra also noticed his unusual behavior. She put down her fork, watching the balcony with a slight crease in her brow. The sound from the balcony was muffled, but I caught a few words. “…No need… she’s fine… just take care of yourself…” Who was it? Was it Mom? The fork slipped from my hand and clattered onto the plate. Sierra turned to look at me, her expression complicated. A moment later, Dad came back in. His expression was back to normal, even carrying a hint of relief. “Telemarketer,” he said casually, sitting down and picking up his fork. He was lying. I knew it. That look, that tone—it was absolutely not the way someone reacts to a cold call. It was Mom. It had to be Mom. She remembered my birthday. She called. But Dad didn’t want me to know. He rejected Mom. He said, “No need.” No need for what? No need to see me? No need to send wishes? Or… no need to contact me ever again? The cake in my mouth suddenly turned unbearably bitter, impossible to swallow. My stomach twisted violently. I put down my fork. “Dad, I’m full.” “Already? You barely ate anything,” Dad said, surprised. “Yeah, I’m just not hungry.” I slid off the chair. “I think I’ll go rest in my room.” I walked into my room, closed the door, and slid down the wood, collapsing onto the floor. Tears sprang up without warning, falling in fat drops. I bit down hard on my lip to stop myself from sobbing out loud. In my pocket, I squeezed the candy wrapper star until it was nearly embedded in my skin. Mom. Mom. I called her name over and over in my head. 6 I noticed Dad started going into the office for “overtime” on weekends. He’d be wearing a crisp, pressed shirt, his hair neatly combed, smelling faintly of cologne. Before leaving, he’d instruct me, “Aubrey, Dad has to go into the office. You be a good girl at home alone. Do your homework, no more than an hour of screen time. Sierra will come over and make you lunch.” I’d nod obediently. But I knew he wasn’t going to work. One time, I secretly followed him. He didn’t go to the office tower. Instead, he went to a coffee shop downtown. Sierra was waiting for him there. They greeted each other with a natural, brief hug, then walked inside, holding hands. Another time, they went to the movies. Like a couple on a date, Sierra carried a huge bucket of popcorn, and Dad held two sodas. Sierra was beaming, and Dad looked at her with a soft tenderness I hadn’t seen in a long time. I didn’t follow them anymore. The snake in my heart was no longer wriggling; it just lay there, cold and rigid. I went back home and sat in the empty living room. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting dappled shadows on the floor. The air was silent, save for the ticking of the wall clock’s second hand. I took out a photo of Mom and gently traced her face with my finger. In the picture, she was smiling so beautifully, her eyes crinkling like crescent moons. But where was she now? Was she doing okay? Did she… miss me? When Dad came home that evening, he brought me a new pencil case. “Like it? I passed a store and thought you’d love it.” It was a beautiful pencil case, double-layered, with a combination lock and a popular cartoon print. If it had been before, I would have jumped up and down with joy. Now, I just took it and mumbled, “Thank you, Dad.” Dad patted my head. “Good girl, Aubrey.” A faint scent of cologne still lingered on his hand. That smell, mixed with the light jasmine from Sierra, created a strange, suffocating odor. I began to dream of Mom frequently. In the dreams, she was always crying. She was walking alone on unfamiliar streets, her back thin and lonely. I wanted to run and hug her, but my feet were pinned to the ground. I wanted to scream her name, but no sound would come out of my throat. I could only watch her walk farther and farther away until she disappeared into the mist. I would wake up, my face drenched in tears. My pillow was wet, and so was my heart. I grew quieter and quieter. At school, I stopped playing with the other kids, sitting at my desk and staring into space during recess. My teacher noticed and spoke to me several times, asking if something was wrong at home. I shook my head, saying nothing. Family business. How could I tell a stranger? Dad and Sierra were immersed in their “new” life and didn’t seem to notice my change. Or perhaps they did notice, but didn’t care. Dad thought I was just being “sensible,” not clingy like before. Sierra figured that kids just need time to adjust. Until that day, when I overheard their argument. I was already asleep that night when I was awakened by raised voices in the living room. It was Sierra’s voice, sharper than usual. “When is she leaving? It’s been long enough! Are we going to keep doing this forever?” Dad’s voice was soothing. “Lower your voice! Aubrey’s sleeping! Where is she going to go? She’s my daughter!” “Daughter? Does she even see me as a person? Haven’t I been good enough to her? Look at her face—she glowers all the time, like I owe her a million dollars! Ethan, I’ve given up so much for you! I didn’t get involved with you to be a free babysitter who has to put up with your daughter’s attitude!” “Sierra, don’t be like this… Aubrey’s just a kid, she needs time…” “Time, time! How much time are you going to give her? A year? Two years? Ten years? I can’t wait that long! Ethan, I’m laying it out now: it’s either her or me! One of us goes!” “You… you’re putting me on the spot!” “No, you are! Tell me, who are you choosing?” The argument ended abruptly. I lay in bed, chilled to the bone. My limbs felt soaked in ice water, unable to move. It’s either her or me. Sierra was forcing Dad to choose. Choose me, or choose her. Who would Dad choose? I couldn’t bring myself to think about it. Fear instantly overwhelmed me like a tidal wave. I curled into a ball, squeezing my eyes shut, pretending I hadn’t heard a thing. But the phrase repeated itself like a curse in my mind. It’s either her or me. 7 My midterms were a disaster. My grades plummeted. The teacher called Dad in for a conference. On the way home, Dad’s face was a stone mask. The moment we stepped inside, he threw my backpack onto the sofa and barked at me, “Aubrey Miller! What is wrong with you? Why are your grades so bad? What are you doing in class?” I kept my head down, staring at the tips of my shoes, saying nothing. “Answer me!” Dad’s voice rose by an octave. “Are you just playing games all day? Watching TV? On your phone? How many times have I told you to study? Are you even listening to a word I say?” I remained silent. My throat felt stuffed with cotton. “You…” Dad raised his hand, fueled by anger. I instinctively closed my eyes and flinched. The expected slap didn’t come. I opened my eyes and saw Dad’s hand frozen mid-air, his face a mixture of rage and profound disappointment. He eventually dropped his hand and sank onto the sofa in defeat. “Aubrey,” his voice was exhausted. “I’m busy with work, and I’m tired. Can you please… please just stop worrying me?” I looked at him. He looked genuinely drained, with heavy dark circles under his eyes and, I thought, a few more gray hairs at his temples. He was no longer the all-powerful Dad of my memory, the one who used to hoist me high onto his shoulders. But Dad, did you know that I was tired too? My heart was so tired. Sierra walked out of the kitchen then. She had been listening. “Ethan, don’t get upset. Kids mess up sometimes, it’s normal.” She came over, sat next to Dad, and gently rubbed his back, as if calming an agitated beast. Then she looked at me, her tone gentle but her eyes holding a critical gaze. “Aubrey, tell your father—is something bothering you? Is there something on your mind? You can talk to Sierra, I can help.” I looked at her, at the hand resting on Dad’s back, and at her confident “lady of the house” posture. The emotions that had been bottled up for too long, like a lit fuse, finally reached the end. I lifted my head, looked straight at Dad, and asked, one word at a time: “Dad, did you abandon Mom?” “Are you abandoning me too?” Dad froze. The smile instantly evaporated from Sierra’s face. The living room was plunged into absolute silence. Time seemed to stop. I could hear my own shallow, quick breaths and see the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. Dad’s lips moved, as if he wanted to speak, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide with shock. Sierra jumped up, her voice shrill. “Aubrey! What are you saying! Who put those words in your mouth?! It must be Vivian! She’s gone, but her ghost is still here! She’s coaching the child to hate us!” I did not let her distract me. My eyes stayed locked on Dad. “Dad,” my voice was trembling, but I tried to keep it steady. “The one who called that day—it was Mom, wasn’t it? Why wouldn’t you let me take the call? Did you tell Mom not to contact me again?” Dad’s face went instantly pale. “How did… how did you know?” “I heard you.” I said. “I also know you and Sierra weren’t working overtime. You were on dates. Going to the movies, getting coffee.” I turned my gaze to Sierra, watching her face drain of color. “Sierra, that cardigan you’re wearing is my mom’s. Those slippers on your feet are my mom’s. Your perfume is covering up my mom’s scent. You cook better food than my mom did. You take better care of Dad than my mom did.” I spoke in a rush, pouring out everything I had seen, heard, and felt over the past months. It was a dam breaking. “But this is my and Mom and Dad’s home. It’s not your home.”

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The college reunion was the last place I expected to see him. Rhys Beaumont, my ex-husband, a man I hadn’t spoken to in three years. One of our mutual high school friends didn’t hesitate to launch the first volley of mockery. “Willow, this is a university alumni event,” Amber sneered, tossing back her blonde waves. “Didn’t you only go to, like, a local state college? Don’t you think you’re reaching a bit?” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that carried perfectly. “Honestly, girl, have some dignity. Rhys got married—are you really still chasing him?” I held my gaze steady and offered a level statement. “I’m here to pick up my husband.” Rhys looked up from across the room, his expression caught somewhere between pity and discomfort. He hesitated, then spoke, his voice low. “Willa, we haven’t been married in three years.” I knew that, of course. And I hadn’t actually said I was here to pick him up. 1 “Pathetic. Still trying to ride on his success even after the divorce.” Dustin Cole lit a cigarette, his eyes scanning me with casual contempt. “First time I’ve seen someone actively audition for the role of the side chick.” Dustin used to be Rhys’s best friend and, once, the second best person in my world. We were a trio in high school. But when my marriage with Rhys imploded, he’d sided with Rhys instantly. Why? Because the woman Rhys eventually cheated with—the woman Rhys eventually married—was the girl Dustin had always secretly loved. And Dustin, it turned out, had spent months helping Rhys keep their affair a secret. I’d been the only fool, blind and happily clueless until the very end. “Dustin, enough,” Rhys cut in sharply, his lips pressed into a thin line. Dustin bristled, flicking the cigarette butt away impatiently. “What? I’m just speaking the truth. A clueless mess like Willa could never compare to someone like Verity Shaw. She’s brilliant, sophisticated, everything you deserve. You let this idiot drag you down for years.” Rhys met my gaze, his voice firm, “Willa isn’t dumb.” Willa isn’t dumb. Coming from the mouth of Rhys Beaumont—the certified genius, the Ivy League grad, the tech mogul—it sounded almost ridiculous. A patronizing relic of a forgotten time. But sixteen-year-old me, the naive girl I once was, had believed it wholeheartedly. My mother and Rhys’s father formed a new family the summer I finished middle school. Rhys and I were the same age and ended up at the same ordinary high school. We even shared a homeroom. He was dead last in class rankings; I was firmly in the middle. Rhys hated me. He never spoke to me. I constantly saw him in trouble for fighting, followed by the inevitable disciplinary action. Then, it would be my mother’s turn to arrive at the principal’s office, head bowed, quietly accepting the humiliating lecture. One night, I went to the kitchen for water and saw her sitting alone on the sofa, silently weeping. “Willa,” she whispered, her voice laced with despair. “How can I make Rhys accept me?” I didn’t know. All I knew was that after that night, the tentative truce between Rhys and me broke. Our relationship became a series of petty wars. I’d spike his juice with mustard, dump dirty water in his backpack, or slip laxatives into his lunch. Rhys had finally cornered me, his jaw clenched with fury. “What else you got? Listen up, Willa, if you don’t manage to kill me, I swear I will make your mother’s life a living hell!” We went on like that for nearly a year, locked in a toxic, bitter stalemate. I honestly thought I would hate Rhys Beaumont for the rest of my life. Yet somehow, he eventually became the only person in the world who truly loved me. 2 Our endless feud came to a violent stop after a single, defining night of trauma. Rhys’s father beat my mother so badly she ended up in the emergency room. As the paramedics wheeled her onto the gurney, his father was still shouting vile accusations. “I chased you for a year! All you are is a pretty face, completely useless, zero ambition, zero capability!” My mother was nearly forty, and she had spent the first half of her life pampered and protected by my own father. She was indeed, as he screamed, unskilled in the ways of the world. Rhys’s cold, arrogant expression shattered the moment he heard those words. He stared at me in shock, muttering under his breath, “It wasn’t your mom… she didn’t chase my dad…” Rhys had always hated my mother, convinced she was the aggressive interloper who broke up his original family and caused his own mother to leave. But it didn’t matter anymore, because after that day, I didn’t have a mother either. I went to the hospital with a bouquet of the white lilies my mother loved most, only to find out she had run. She hadn’t taken a single belonging. And she hadn’t taken me. Willa Reid had no home. I didn’t know where to go. Wandering aimlessly on the street late that night, I was found by Rhys. His eyes were red-rimmed, full of a fierce, silent anger. I was so afraid he was going to hit me that I immediately curled into myself. In my fear, his arms wrapped around me in a warm, solid hug. For the first time, he spoke to me with genuine tenderness. “Willa, come home with me.” “From now on, I’m your whole world.” I reached for the hand he offered and gripped it tightly. And so, from the age of sixteen, Willa Reid’s world contained only Rhys Beaumont. 3 After my mother left, Rhys’s father’s temper became more erratic and violent. Fearing for my safety, Rhys took me and we moved out. Our lives continued, but the dynamic had fundamentally changed. I stopped acting out, and the severity in Rhys’s eyes softened. He began spending more and more time reading and studying. I couldn’t help but ask him about it. “You never liked books or classes before.” He looked at me, his gaze intensely serious. Finally, he gave my cheek a gentle, helpless squeeze. “Willa, I want to give you a better life.” I watched the flush creep up his neck and color the tips of his ears, and I nodded resolutely. Willa would never hold Rhys back. I threw myself into studying with a newfound fervor. But while Rhys climbed from dead last to the top of the class, ultimately becoming the state’s top scorer, I was still stuck stubbornly in the middle. Rhys tutored me until midnight. I would stare at the calculus problems and just shake my head. He’d sigh. “Willa, you really are such a fool.” “But,” he’d add, his tone softening as he kissed my forehead, “I love that sweet, clumsy way you are. You’re adorable.” As sleep overwhelmed me, the pen slipped from my exhausted fingers. I remember mumbling, half-awake: “Rhys, can you slow down? I’m going to lose you.” Rhys had replied that I never had to chase him; he would wait for me forever. He didn’t. Later, that sweet, clumsy way I was became the very thing he grew to despise. 4 “See? I told you she was dumb. You practically killed yourself tutoring her, and she still only managed to get into a pathetic local college, didn’t she?” Dustin played with his zippo lighter, seizing the opportunity to jump back into the conversation. I glanced around the room, trying to spot my actual husband, Ethan Wells. Ethan did attend this university, but he was in a different, non-academic college. He shouldn’t be here. I figured he must have sent me the wrong address. I couldn’t be bothered to prolong the argument over old history. “My apologies for the intrusion,” I said, and turned to leave. I’d texted Ethan, but he hadn’t replied, and his phone went straight to voicemail. I decided to head home. Just as I reached the car, a hand shot out and clamped around my wrist. “Sweetheart, please forgive me.” Rhys lowered his eyes. His expression held an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher. Sweetheart. That familiar, infuriating nickname. It used to make me blush, a fun, flirtatious jab between us. But later, that simple, intimate greeting became the signal that sent my life spiraling into ruin. “Rhys,” I yanked my hand free, my face an impassive mask. “Are you acting? Because I’m not playing this game anymore.” The tension was cut by a light, contemptuous chuckle. “Willa. Fancy seeing you here.” Verity Shaw clicked her heels as she approached, as arrogant and haughty as she always was. In the past, I would have been instantly intimidated by her sheer presence. I would have felt a surge of admiration, maybe even an uncomfortable rush of inadequacy. But after the years of mental anguish and emotional turmoil, all that history had settled into a hard, cold, unremarkable calm. “Willa, why don’t you just come home with Rhys and me?” Verity suggested, her smile condescending. “Your mother misses you very much, you know.” I couldn’t believe how easy it was to say, three years later. “I don’t have a mother.” My brother. My mother. They all chose Verity Shaw. And I had chosen to let them go. Verity grasped my wrist, then nonchalantly shifted her pose, ensuring I couldn’t miss the thick, vintage gold bangle she wore. It was Rhys’s mother’s heirloom. I had worn that bracelet for ten years. And ten years was the exact length of my relationship with Rhys. 5 Dustin was right: I was truly a fool. Despite Rhys’s superhuman effort to tutor me, I barely scraped by with acceptance to a state college. Rhys, on the other hand, was the state’s top scorer and went on to the Ivy League—a star at Columbia. We both stayed in the NYC area, not terribly far apart. Though we couldn’t be together all the time, our days were sweet, close, and blissful. It was the simplest kind of happiness, and a memory I would cherish forever. Rhys was handsome, brilliant, and constantly pursued. But he always gave me all the reassurance I needed. I would often visit him at Columbia. He was so famous on campus that every little rumor about him would spread like wildfire. Soon, comments started popping up on the forums: She doesn’t deserve him. No talent, no connections, just a face. The idiot shouldn’t even look at the great Rhys Beaumont. Rhys had already made our relationship official. These posts enraged him. He said they didn’t know the real me. So, on one of his final Political Science exams—a course where he was already a borderline genius—he changed every instance of the word “Materialism” to “Willa-ism.” He nearly flunked the course and was publicly reprimanded by the department for being “too obsessed.” The incident became an infamous campus legend. Rhys was so terrified of anyone not knowing I was his girlfriend. And yet, when it came time for us to finally get married, he said, “Willa, let’s keep this a secret for now. Let’s elope.” “Just wait a few more years,” he’d pleaded. “I’ll get to the top, and then I’ll give you the grand, public wedding you deserve.” I agreed. Four years into our marriage, Rhys was a wildly successful industry leader. I never got the grand, heartfelt wedding I’d been promised. What I got instead was his infidelity. 6 On our fourth wedding anniversary, Rhys threw a massive fit. Why? Because I had supposedly lost the heirloom bangle he’d given me. He was furious, slamming the door and storming out of the house. It was the first time he had ever spoken to me with genuine malice. It was pouring rain that night. I searched everywhere we’d been. Then, I remembered the small apartment we’d shared in high school. Rhys had bought it and kept it. The walls were covered with thousands of photos of us from those early years. The instant I pushed the door open, I saw it. Rhys had another woman pinned beneath him, their bodies colliding with brutal, desperate intensity. I knew her. Verity Shaw. Rhys had mentioned her, but only sparingly. He first told me her father had shoved her onto his team and that she was probably going to be a nuisance. Later, he said Verity was brilliant, hyper-competent, and a certified genius. It was around that time that Rhys began to feel that I was the slow, difficult one. Our shared interests dwindled. Rhys’s standard reply became: “Can you stop asking? You wouldn’t understand even if I explained it.” “Willa, you’re just so slow.” But I genuinely felt happy that he had found a partner who finally matched his intellect. Now, Verity was wearing the heirloom bangle, her eyes full of cold triumph. I had been wracked with guilt, searching frantically like a desperate dog for a thing I thought I’d lost. But I hadn’t lost it. Rhys had simply given it away. She stood up slowly, leaning into Rhys’s side, and spoke with deliberate cruelty. “What are you so shocked about?” “We’ve done it in your bed in the city, in your shower, in front of your floor-to-ceiling windows. We just wanted to try the very first place you two ever did it.” A ringing deafness overtook my ears. All the strength drained from my body. Acting purely on instinct, I grabbed the photo frame from the nearby table and hurled it. Rhys immediately shielded her, his eyes blazing red. “Willa, are you insane?!” The man who had promised to be my whole world brutally shoved me to the floor. My hand landed on the shattered glass. The photo—our very first picture together, the one where he had me wrapped in his arms, showing me off proudly—was now in pieces. And the eyes of the man above me held nothing but cold annoyance. Before I could process the pain, another bomb dropped, shattering what little composure I had left. “Willa, stop your childish drama! You’re being suffocating—no wonder your mother abandoned you!” My mother. She had remarried. She had married Verity Shaw’s father and had spent the last ten years doting on Verity, showering her with the love I had always longed for. My decade of hopeful fantasy turned into a nightmare in a single, devastating moment. Rhys later demanded a divorce. I fought him, determined not to give them the satisfaction. But I was fighting a losing battle. Everyone I loved, everyone I trusted, had switched sides. My husband. My best friend. And my mother. 7 Rhys locked me in our penthouse in the city. For nearly a week, he unleashed all his resentment and fury. “I won’t sign the papers. You want to marry her? In your dreams.” At the time, the marriage certificate was the only card I had left. I was desperate, stubborn, and acting like a lunatic. A week later, a heavily pixelated video surfaced. The audio, however, was chillingly clear. “Big Brother, I love you, but please save some love for Willa.” That was a clip from a private video he’d insisted we shoot when he was traveling. He’d said he needed a ‘consolation’ when I wasn’t physically there. Rhys was always intensely private and formal, so his request for the video had both stunned and embarrassed me. Rhys and Verity knew how to manipulate the narrative. That single, out-of-context line—“Big Brother…”—was enough to launch a massive social media scandal. The final touches of the disaster were added by my own flesh and blood and my supposed best friend. My mother publicly claimed I was incestuous, that I had seduced Rhys and forced her out of her home. Dustin claimed Rhys only ever treated me like a little sister, that I was an ungrateful person who wormed my way into his bed, forcing him to marry me out of misplaced obligation. But the final, crushing blow came from Rhys himself. I lay on the bed, numbly watching my family and friends’ accusations spread online, when Verity came to see me. She told me that she had confessed her feelings to Rhys back in college. Rhys had turned her down.

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It started with a joke. A cruel, offhand comment by the team’s shiny new recruit about my “senior citizen” reflexes. He said I should be put out to pasture. My wife, Sloane—who I thought loved me more than life itself—responded by spiking my pre-game smoothie with enough laxatives to kill a horse. I spent the championship match humiliated, sick, and destroying my reputation on live stream. Afterward, she benched me. She claimed it was strategy. She called it “The Icarus Gambit.” She said she was giving the rookie, Jax, everything—the captain’s armband, the millions in sponsorship, the penthouse in downtown L.A.—just to inflate his ego until he popped. She claimed she was building him up to tear him down, all to avenge me. She bought him state-of-the-art gear while I sat on the sidelines. She poured money into him like water. “It’s a long con, Wes,” she’d whisper. “I’m making him think he’s a god so he falls harder.” I believed her. Until the car accident. My arm was crushed under the wheel. I needed emergency surgery to save the nerves in my hand—my career. I applied to the company for a loan. Sloane approved it instantly. But when the billing department called me for the ninety-ninth time to say the transfer hadn’t gone through, I checked our team’s internal Slack channel. Jax had reposted my medical request. He tagged me, then asked the group: “Some people think the boss is a charity case. Just because you’ve been here forever doesn’t mean you get to milk the company account. What do you guys think? Should I approve this?” My teammates—boys I’d trained, boys I’d protected—reacted with “laugh” emojis. They voted No. I felt my heart turn to ash. I voted No, too. That was when Sloane finally called, her voice dripping with that manipulative sweetness. “Wes, honey, don’t be mad. I let Jax block it to feed his arrogance. Just rest your hand. Wait for Worlds. When he chokes on the global stage, you’ll step in and save the day. You’ll be the undeniable GOAT.” “The day you lift that trophy,” she promised, “we’ll finally go public with our marriage. Okay?” She didn’t know that because of the delay, the nerves in my wrist had severed completely. I would never play again. And she didn’t know I was already drafting the divorce papers. 1 I didn’t get a chance to respond before Sloane hung up. The ER doctor looked at the blood soaking the trash can beside me, his expression tight with pity. “Mr. Carver, are you telling me you can’t scrape together three thousand dollars? If we don’t operate in the next hour, the damage is permanent.” My chest felt like it was in a vice. Instinctively, my right hand went to my left wrist, fingers brushing the cold steel of my watch. It was a vintage Patek Philippe. Years ago, when Sloane was cut off by her wealthy family for dating a ‘gamer,’ she had worked double shifts at a call center and sold plasma twice just to buy it for my birthday. “To us against the world,” she had said. That watch held the weight of every struggle we’d survived. I never thought I’d take it off. But here I was. The legendary Wes Carver, captain of Team Zenith, sitting in a fluorescent-lit hallway, unable to find a single friend who would lend me a dime. My fingertips were going numb. Sloane, I really have no other choice. I opened a resale app on my phone, snapped a photo, and listed the watch. Because I priced it desperately low, my phone buzzed within minutes. A collector was nearby; he came to the hospital lobby with a wad of cash. I stared at the stack of bills in my hand, then at my bare wrist. I felt a phantom weight there, a ghost of a promise. My eyes burned, but I finally exhaled. When I woke up from anesthesia, the surgeon looked grim. “We saved the hand, Wes. But we only restored about fifty percent of the function. Fine motor skills are gone.” In plain English: My career as an e-sports athlete was over. My stomach dropped. The World Championship was a month away. Jax was flashy, but he had no discipline. Without me anchoring the mid-lane, Zenith wouldn’t make it past the group stage. For five years, Sloane and I had bled for this team. She handled the investors; I handled the game. I managed the egos, the strategies, the 16-hour scrims. When we qualified for Worlds this year, she had cried in my arms, saying it was all worth it. I ignored the throbbing in my arm and grabbed my phone. I needed to text her. She knew specialists in Switzerland; maybe there was still a chance for reconstruction. But before I could type, a notification from Jax popped up on my feed. The caption read: “Boss Lady treating me to a five-star feast as a reward for being the team’s new shot-caller!” The photo showed Sloane, who is deathly allergic to shellfish, peeling a shrimp with a gentle, adoring smile. A bottle of antihistamines sat by her elbow. In the corner of the frame, the receipt was visible. Total: $33,000. A bottle of Romanee-Conti alone was thirty grand. My surgery—the one that could have saved my career—cost three thousand. To Sloane, three grand was a rounding error. She used to tell me the team’s burn rate was too high. She made me, the captain, lead by example. She took my salary, “invested” it for me, and gave me a $500 monthly allowance. Every expense needed a receipt and a memo. I thought she was just scarred from her family cutting her off. I thought she was being prudent. I indulged her because I loved her. It wasn’t about budgeting. It was about value. And I just wasn’t worth it. I screenshotted the post, my thumb hovering over the send button to Sloane. But I couldn’t do it. I was afraid of the answer. I thought I was her world. But did she really need me at all? “Sir, the patient needs rest, you can’t—” The door banged open. Sloane burst in, pushing past the nurse, her chest heaving. “Why the hell did you sell the watch? The one I gave you?” I looked at her, exhausted. “Surgery fees.” Sloane paused, blinking. “Wes, you scraped your arm. You needed a Band-Aid and some Neosporin. You spent three grand on surgery? Are you insane?” She paced the room. “I get it. You’re doing this to punish me. You’re mad I let Jax block your loan request. But Wes, you have to see the big picture! I need Jax to think he’s untouchable. I need him to think he’s crushed you so he gets sloppy. The higher he flies, the harder he falls. Worlds is in a month. Can’t you just suck it up for the team?” Her voice was hypnotic. The old Wes would have folded. But she didn’t notice that when she said Jax’s name, her eyes shined. She didn’t look at me; she looked through me. A year ago, Jax mocked me on stream. “Old man,” “slow hands,” “waste of a roster spot.” He didn’t know my hands were slow because five years ago, I took a falling wardrobe to the wrist to save Sloane during an earthquake. I fractured my scaphoid so she wouldn’t get a scratch. Back then, if a rookie disrespected me, they were gone by morning. Now? Sloane claimed she was “playing 4D chess.” At first, we played the part. She’d scream at me in front of the team, then slip a candy bar into my pocket later. I’d act depressed, secretly laughing at Jax’s ego. But the game changed. Sloane stopped slipping me candy. She started talking about Jax’s “potential,” his “mechanics,” his “star power.” She forgot to ask if I was okay after the car crash. She forgot that when she demoted me, she also cut my allowance to fifty bucks a month. “To sell the lie,” she had said. I stayed silent. Sloane frowned, her tone softening just a fraction. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to give you money. But Jax checks the accounts. If he sees a transfer to you, he gets jealous. He stops eating. You have to understand, Wes. I’m doing this for you.” So, Jax skipping a meal was a crisis. But my five years of sacrifice? My hand? That was nothing. My voice rasped when I finally spoke. “Sloane. Do you realize I can never play again? My tendons—” She cut me off, digging into her Hermes bag. She pulled out a toy model of a Bentley and shoved it onto the bedsheet. “Stop being dramatic, Wes. I know you’re feeling insecure.” “You were eyeing this car the other day. I know you like it. The team is cash-poor right now, but listen—once we win Worlds, I’ll take the prize money and buy you the real thing. Okay?” She forced the toy into my bandaged hand. “Jax is almost ruined. I’ve made him lazy and entitled. Just wait one month. He’ll humiliate himself on the world stage, and then you’ll sub in and look like a savior. You’ll be the hero. I’m going to make him regret ever insulting you.” Bang. The door was kicked open again. Sloane whipped around, annoyed. But when she saw who it was, the color drained from her face. Pure panic. Her fear told me everything. The “strategy” was a lie. Jax stood in the doorway, fists clenched, looking like a tragic hero in a teen drama. “Sloane. I knew it. I saw you ask the dealer for the extra model car. You bought it for him!” “If Wes hadn’t texted me to come watch this show, I would have been the idiot forever. It’s all a conspiracy? I’m just a pawn?” “Forget Worlds. I quit. Let him carry you!” He dramatically stripped off his team jacket—custom-made by Sloane—and threw it at me. Then came the Rolex I knew cost a hundred grand. Then the keys to the penthouse. I couldn’t dodge. The heavy keys struck my ear, hard. It swelled instantly, ringing with a high-pitched whine. I saw the smirk in Jax’s eyes. He wasn’t hurt; he was calculating. As he turned, his jacket snagged my IV line. The needle ripped out of the back of my hand. Blood sprayed across the white sheets. Sloane didn’t look at me. Not once. She was staring at Jax, frozen, terrified he would leave. Jax stormed out, “accidentally” bumping a nurse’s cart and falling to the floor with a theatrical groan. Sloane gasped. She rushed to him. I grabbed her sleeve with my good hand. “Sloane, wait. I didn’t text him. I didn’t invite him—” “Wes!” She slapped my hand away. Hard. Her eyes were blazing. She looked at me like I was a stranger. An enemy. “Who else would it be?” “Worlds is in three days. If anything happens to Jax, I will never forgive you.” I went mute. She trusted a kid she’d known for a year over the man she’d slept beside for five. Five years of marriage. Reduced to this. Sloane grabbed the toy car and ran after Jax without looking back. The nurse came in to find a disaster zone. My hand was purple, the IV site gushing blood, my ear throbbing. She gasped. “Some people… I swear. That guy bumped me on purpose. And that woman—she’s a CEO? Her husband is in here bleeding out, and she’s on her knees in the hallway crying over a guy with a scraped palm? She literally called the whole medical team to attend to him.” I glanced at the nurse’s iPad. She had the hallway security feed up. On the screen, Sloane—the icy, untouchable Sloane Evelyn—was kneeling on the linoleum, cradling Jax’s hand, weeping. I stared at the image. Years ago, when the wardrobe crushed my wrist, she had knelt just like that. Begging the doctors to save me. Crying hot tears onto my skin. I knew how she loved. And looking at that screen, I knew with absolute certainty: She loved Jax. I thought she was acting. I finally realized the only person she was acting for was me. “Wes, you are my anchor. Nothing matters more than you.” I remembered her vow when she started this “pummeling” scheme. Well, Sloane. It seems anchors are replaceable. Good thing I wasn’t planning on waiting anymore. I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in five years. 2 “Wes Carver? Are you serious? You’re actually willing to coach for Vanguard?” The voice on the other end was incredulous, then ecstatic. Margot Vane. Sloane’s sworn rival. She had been trying to poach me since the day she started her team. This was the first time I’d ever replied. “I am,” I said. I hung up and sent my resignation email to Zenith’s HR portal. It was approved instantly. My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white. She wanted me gone that badly. To please Jax. … I spent the next few days in the hospital. Sloane didn’t call. She didn’t text. I saw her on the news, though. At auctions, buying rare memorabilia, gifting it to Jax publicly. “The Duchess courting her Duke,” the headlines read. The industry mocked Jax for being a “kept man,” but they were envious. Jax posted on Instagram constantly. A photo of a bonfire. In the flames, the twisted metal of a toy Bentley and two other models were melting. Jax held up a keychain with ten real supercar keys. Caption: “Burned the trash. Feels bad to like the same stuff as a has-been. Luckily, Sloane bought me the real deal.” I didn’t comment. I just liked the post. On the day of my discharge, Sloane finally texted. She said she was coming to pick me up. We needed to have dinner. I knew the signs. This was the olive branch. She wanted to smooth things over. I didn’t refuse. I wanted to end this face-to-face. I waited in the lobby from noon until the sun went down. She never came. Just as I was about to call a cab, a notification from Jax popped up. “Wes, seems like a broken hand didn’t teach you a lesson. Still trying to cling to Sloane? Time for another reality check.” Before I could process that, the general e-sports group chat—with every pro, manager, and owner in the league—lit up. Jax dumped a folder of photos. “Guess who wrote these?” The chat exploded. “Whoa, love letters to Sloane Evelyn?” “‘I want to grow old with you’… cringe. Sounds like a stalker.” “That handwriting… isn’t that Wes?” Jax tagged me. “Bingo. Didn’t know ‘The General’ was such a sap. Care to explain, Wes?” I froze. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Those were the 99 love letters I wrote Sloane during our first year. On our wedding day, we buried them in a time capsule under a sapling in a private park we bought. We planted a “Marriage Tree.” Sloane said it was our sanctuary. Holy ground. No one else was ever allowed there. Jax sent a voice memo to the group. “Sloane, babe, interview time. How do you feel reading these old letters?” Sloane’s voice, cold and dismissive, cut through the speaker. “Disgusting.” It felt like a physical blow. I dialed Sloane, my hands shaking. “You took Jax to the sanctuary? Tell him to delete the photos. Now.” Sloane sounded bored. “Jax was in a bad mood today. I needed to cheer him up. It’s just a laugh, Wes. Don’t be so sensitive.” “You almost ruined the plan the other day. I’ve had to work so hard to get his ego back up. Consider this your penance. He’s coming back to the car. I have to go.” For Jax’s amusement, she fed him my heart. I dropped the phone. I hailed a cab to the sanctuary. The moment I stepped out, I saw the tree. Our tree. It was covered in red ribbons. But the ribbons with “Wes & Sloane” were gone. Every single one now read: “Jax & Sloane Forever.” “Jax & Sloane – To The Moon.” The dirt around the roots was fresh. Scattered in the mud were damp clumps of paper. Some charred, some soaked. My letters. “These are my treasures, Wes,” she had told me once. “Even when I’m old and gray, I’ll read these and feel young again.” I stood there for a long time. The wind dried the tears on my face until my skin felt tight. Then I remembered. Sloane had buried something else in the capsule. A “guarantee,” she called it. “If I ever break your heart, dig this up.” I fell to my knees and started digging. I didn’t have a shovel; I used my hands. Memories flashed—our wedding, the earthquake, the late nights planning strategies. They morphed into the image of her kneeling over Jax in the hospital hallway. My fingernails tore. Blood mixed with the soil. Finally, I hit metal. I pulled out the capsule. Inside, there was a single document. A divorce agreement.

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1 The driver’s son became the king of our school, all by pretending to be a rich heir. He was the one who spread the rumor that I was desperately in love with him. When priceless heirlooms started vanishing from my home, he begged me not to call the cops. Then, at school, he led the charge to make my life a living hell. I was diagnosed with severe depression. Just as my parents started to uncover the truth, he had his father leak our company’s most guarded secrets to our biggest rival. We were ruined. My family, once titans of industry, were now homeless, wandering the streets. One rainy night, in a dark alley, we were beaten to death. The last thing I saw was his smug, handsome face, sneering down at us, telling us we deserved it. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back before it all went wrong. The driver’s son—Ethan—stood before the entire class, arms spread wide. “This weekend,” he announced, “party at my villa! Everyone’s invited!” A roar of excitement filled the room. As they cheered for him, I pulled out my phone and sent a single, cold text: Effective immediately, no outsiders are permitted in any of my family’s properties. Screw his rich-kid act. If he thought I was a fool, he was about to learn just how wrong he was. “Ethan, you’re the man! A true prince!” “Thanks, Ethan! We finally get to see how the other half lives!” The deafening cheers snapped me back to the present. Ethan stood in the center of it all, a king surrounded by his adoring court, basking in their praise. His eyes met mine, and a flicker of something—annoyance? confusion?—crossed his face before he frowned and looked away. His glance was enough. Someone noticed me staring and a ripple of laughter spread through the group, their voices deliberately loud. “Isn’t that the broke girl who’s obsessed with Ethan? Stare all you want, honey, he’ll never like you. He’s with Madison, our school’s queen bee, now!” Those words. They were a poisoned dart from my past, hitting me with the force of a memory I had already lived. I was reborn. The realization sent a tremor through my entire body. It wasn’t fear. It was pure, electrifying adrenaline. In my last life, the rumor that I was pathetically in love with Ethan had made me a social pariah. I thought if I just kept my head down, it would all blow over. But living it all again, I finally understood: Ethan had orchestrated everything. He paraded around as a wealthy heir, enjoying the same privileges I did, while secretly painting me as a desperate gold digger. “She’s crazy about me, practically begs for my attention,” he’d say with a put-upon sigh. “What can I do? We’re classmates. I don’t want to be cruel.” And just like that, the fact that we arrived and left school in the same luxury car every day was twisted into something ugly. It wasn’t my family’s car; it was his, and he was just taking pity on me. I, the heiress, became the gold digger. And he, the driver’s son, became the heir. He lived off my family’s generosity, yet he despised us with every fiber of his being. The money my father spent on his education could have funded scholarships for a hundred deserving students, but for him, it was never enough. Gratitude wasn’t in his vocabulary. My fingers flew across my phone’s screen. “Starting today, no outsiders are allowed in any of the Sterling family properties. If any of the staff can’t handle a simple thing like gate security, they can pack their bags and leave.” Let’s see you host your villa party now, Ethan. He and his parents had first come to our home when we were in high school. The three of them stood before my father, bowing and scraping. “Thank you, Mr. Sterling, for sponsoring our son’s education! We’ll work hard to repay your kindness!” Ethan’s father, John, was our driver. His mother, Linda, was our housekeeper. When they heard my father was looking to sponsor a student, they begged him to choose Ethan. My father, ever the philanthropist, agreed. Ethan had good grades; he was a smart kid. It was supposed to be a simple act of charity. Instead, it was the beginning of my nightmare. Ethan moved into our house, living a life identical to mine. Soon after, the rumors started at school: I was obsessed with him. He was the rich kid with the chauffeured car, and I was the charity case who didn’t know her place. I tried to set the record straight, but Ethan talked me out of it. “It’s just gossip,” he’d said, his voice smooth and reasonable. “Let it go. Do you really want people to think you’re some rich bitch who throws her family’s money around?” “Just focus on your studies,” he’d urged. “That’s what’s important.” So I buried the hurt and confusion. My parents were always busy with work, rarely home. I listened to Ethan and threw myself into my schoolwork. But just as I fought my way to the top of the class, our family’s valuables began to disappear. I wanted to call the police, but Ethan stopped me. “Just wait until your dad gets back,” he’d insisted. “Calling the cops is a huge hassle, and you have school to worry about.” I didn’t call them. But at school, the rumors escalated. Now, I was actively trying to seduce him, a desperate attempt to marry into his “wealthy” family. The other students started to isolate me. Madison, Ethan’s beautiful and popular girlfriend, made it her mission to torment me. I was locked in bathroom stalls, had drinks “accidentally” poured on me in the hallways. I knew, deep down, that Ethan was behind it all. By the time my parents returned and saw the shell I’d become, I had been diagnosed with severe clinical depression. They were ready to confront Ethan, to tear him and his family apart. But before they could, the final blow came. John, our “loyal” driver, had leaked our company’s most sensitive data to our fiercest competitor. We were ruined. My family was thrown out onto the street. One rainy night, we were dragged into a lightless alley and beaten to death by strangers. But just before I died, I saw him. Ethan, dressed in a designer suit, looking down at us with a cold smile. “I can’t stand you rich people,” he spat. “You all got exactly what you deserve.” The killers were hired psychopaths. They took Ethan’s money and walked away, free. The memory of that agony, that burning injustice, made my eyes sting with tears. Ethan, I thought, my hands clenching into fists. Just you wait. I will never let you get away with it again. With my orders in place, Ethan’s villa party was dead on arrival. The other staff knew who signed their paychecks, and it wasn’t a Clark—it was a Sterling. By the afternoon, the news reached Ethan, and he was livid. I could feel his furious glare burning into the back of my head all through class. My phone buzzed incessantly. Sophie, are you doing this on purpose? What the hell is your problem?! Your dad promised to pay for everything! Are you going back on his word?! I already promised everyone! If you don’t let this happen, you can be the one to tell them why! I scrolled through a dozen more messages just like it before silencing my phone and shutting it off. Ethan was seething, but he didn’t have the guts to confront me himself. He sent his pitbull instead. The moment the bell rang, Madison stormed into our classroom. After a few whispered words from Ethan, she marched straight to my desk, her hand raised to slap me. “You just can’t give up, can you? Still trying to get your claws into my boyfriend!” she shrieked. “You were so scared people would find out you live in the servant’s quarters that you made him cancel his party!” “You’re insane, Sophie! Threatening to kill yourself for attention? Are you that pathetic?!” Madison’s voice was like a megaphone. The entire classroom fell silent, all eyes on me. Some looked at me with pity, others with open contempt and mockery. Only Ethan kept his head down, pretending to be absorbed in his desk. I shot up and grabbed her wrist, stopping her hand inches from my face. As I opened my mouth to speak, Ethan finally moved. He wrapped his arms around Madison, pulling her back. He looked at me, his handsome face, framed by a designer haircut, a mask of confidence. But the words that came out of his mouth were pure poison. “Maddy, don’t…” he murmured, then raised his voice for the class to hear. “Hey everyone, I’m so sorry, but we’ll have to postpone the party. Something… came up.” He shot a glance at me, his eyes filled with fake helplessness and regret. “It has nothing to do with Sophie, so please don’t jump to any conclusions.” Of course, that’s exactly what they did. The other students exchanged knowing looks, their glares in my direction growing colder. Even Madison, held in his arms, was trembling with rage, as if I were the one who had wronged her. He was a master at this, painting himself as the victim while making me the villain in every story. It reminded me of the time he’d written me a love note. I’d turned him down flat, and without missing a beat, he’d asked Madison out the very next day. From the first day of school, we’d arrived together in my family’s Rolls-Royce. Madison, convinced he was a wealthy heir, said yes immediately. And that’s when the rumors truly began, started by her and fueled by everyone else’s gossip. My fate was sealed. How utterly ridiculous. The driver’s son became the prince, and the heiress became the gold digger. And the most pathetic part? Everyone believed it. Well, payback’s a bitch. Ethan was petty and vindictive; I knew he wouldn’t let this go. I spent the rest of the afternoon ignoring the whispers and focusing on my work. When the final bell rang, he made his move. He strode ahead of me and, with an air of complete ownership, slid into the back of the Rolls-Royce. He rolled down the window and looked at me with a condescending smirk. “Well, get in,” he said loudly. “They’re waiting for us for dinner at home.” The way he said it, he sounded like the master of the house, and I was just someone he was graciously tolerating. I stared at him, saying nothing. “Come on!” he snapped, raising his voice even more. Behind us, students were already starting to point and whisper. His father, John, sat in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead, pretending not to hear his son’s disrespect. I didn’t move. With an annoyed huff, Ethan told his father to drive on. As the car pulled away, I heard laughter behind me. I smiled, too. I made a quick phone call, gave them my location, and waited quietly by the curb. Suddenly, someone “accidentally” slammed into me from behind. As I stumbled to regain my balance, I heard a familiar, mocking laugh. “No matter how hard you try to get my boyfriend’s attention, he’s never going to want a charity case like you,” Madison sneered, puffing out her chest. Her long, curled hair bounced as she posed, a few of her cronies flanking her, all of them looking at me with undisguised scorn. I didn’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction. “Excuse me, you’re in the way,” I said calmly, my gaze shifting past her. Madison was about to retort when her eyes widened. She turned, saw the gleaming black Bentley that had silently pulled up behind her, and immediately fell silent, shuffling to the side. The chauffeur didn’t even glance at her. He walked directly to me, bowed slightly, and opened the rear door in one fluid motion. “Miss Sterling,” he said, his voice respectful and professional. “Shall we go home?” Madison’s jaw dropped. Her friends stared, mouths agape. I stepped into the car without a backward glance. As the Bentley purred to life, she finally found her voice, her face flushing a deep, angry red. “Sophie Sterling, who do you think you’re fooling?!” she shrieked at the departing car. “Everyone knows you’re broke! ‘Miss Sterling’… what a joke!” I tuned her out as we drove away. My family had more than one driver. If Ethan wanted to play pretend, I was more than happy to shatter his fantasy piece by piece. In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of a familiar Rolls-Royce hiding awkwardly around the corner. The sight was so pathetic it was almost funny. Ethan and his father had been waiting, expecting me to come crawling to them. Seeing me leave in a Bentley had clearly sent them into a panic. The Rolls-Royce tailed us sheepishly, not daring to overtake. Seeing them follow, I took a screenshot of the dozen angry texts Ethan had sent me and forwarded them to my father. Then I met the new driver’s eyes in the mirror. “Evans,” I said casually. “From now on, you’ll be driving me to and from school every day. And John Clark is no longer permitted in the garage.” By the time we arrived home, John must have already received a call from my father’s assistant. He scrambled out of the Rolls-Royce, his face a ghostly white, beads of sweat on his forehead. He bowed low as I stepped out of the Bentley. “Miss Sterling, I am so sorry! I was wrong!” Wrong about what? I glanced at the top of his bowed head, then caught sight of Ethan standing by the door, his fists clenched, his face a mask of humiliation. The sight made my smile widen. “It’s not like you’re fired,” I said, my voice sweet as poison. “I just think you’ve been working too hard. Why don’t you take a few days off? Stay out of the garage, get some rest.” I walked past John’s ashen face and into the villa without a second glance. He couldn’t handle this? Oh, this was just the beginning.

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A tube of lipstick lay on the passenger seat of my husband Leo’s car. An unfamiliar shade of Lancôme L’Absolu Rouge. In my past life, the day after this discovery marked the beginning of my transformation from a respectable, wealthy wife into a madwoman in the attic. I installed a GPS tracker on Leo’s phone. I hired private investigators to follow him. I called the police to raid hotels, hoping to catch him in the act. I stooped to every sordid, undignified trick in the book. Finally, through my relentless efforts, on our seventh wedding anniversary, I caught him in bed with his secretary. Our divorce battle became a public war. He dismantled my life with the precision of a corporate takeover, clinging to every penny of his fortune. I consulted every lawyer in the city and walked away with a settlement of just forty-eight dollars. Shortly after the divorce, I was diagnosed with cancer. When the pain was so intense I thought I was dying, I swallowed my pride and knelt before Leo. He stood by and let his secretary slap me three times, then refused to give me a single cent. Penniless and broken, I froze to death on the doorstep of the home I had lived in for seven years. So in this life, seeing the exact same lipstick in the exact same spot, I calmly picked it up and placed it in the glove compartment for him. 1 My simple action seemed to unnerve Leo. He suddenly felt the need to explain. “That lipstick belongs to Jenna.” “I took her to a business dinner last night,” he said. “The silly girl thought she could land the contract by drinking the client under the table. She started downing glasses of wine the second she sat down. She got the deal, but she was completely wasted.” “I know you don’t like other women in the passenger seat, but Jenna is the daughter of a dear family friend. He helped me out when I was just starting my company. I couldn’t just leave her there.” He’d said the exact same thing in my last life. Back then, the sight of the lipstick, combined with the fond, gentle way he spoke about his new secretary, had sent me into a blind rage. I’d unbuckled my seatbelt and screamed at him. “Stop the car, Leo! You and this car are equally disgusting.” I don’t remember the details of what happened next. I only remember him pulling over, spitting the word “psycho” at me, and speeding away, leaving me on the side of the road. I walked for four hours in the cold winter drizzle, tears streaming down my face. My heels rubbed my feet raw until they bled. I ended up with a fever of 104 degrees. And as I lay in bed, sick and miserable, Leo was on a plane with Jenna, heading overseas for a business trip. Photos and videos of him adjusting the strap of her slip dress, of her leaning in to kiss his cheek, became the top gossip on his company’s internal forum. How stupid was I in my past life to think that hurting myself would ever make him care? The irony was so bitter that a smirk unconsciously touched my lips. The next second, Leo slammed on the brakes, screeching the car to a halt in the emergency lane. He turned to me, his voice sharp. “How many times do I have to tell you? Jenna is the daughter of my father’s friend. I’m just looking out for her.” “There is absolutely nothing going on between us. Can you please stop being so unreasonable…” Seeing the sudden anger flash across his face, a familiar bitterness welled up in my chest. But this time, it wasn’t for him. It was for the woman I used to be. In my last life, I had pancreatic cancer, one of the most painful forms of the disease. Every day was a blur of nurses jabbing long needles into my skin, leaving me a sobbing mess. Or I’d be curled on the floor, clutching my stomach, begging for a quick death. When I was at my most desperate, I’d taken a fruit knife and stabbed at my own emaciated body, just hoping for a single night of uninterrupted sleep. Yet even then, I could never bring myself to sell our wedding ring for another dose of painkillers. When the doctor told me I had a month to live, I dragged my skeletal frame out of the hospital to find Leo, intending to ask him to remarry me. After all, when my parents died, he had sworn he would take care of me for the rest of my life. But when I finally reached the house we had shared for seven years, I had to kneel and beg the security guard just to call him for me. Leo heard my voice, said my name, and then replied with chilling calm, “Vera, we’re divorced. That means we have no relationship anymore. Whatever happens to you, don’t contact me again.” Then he hung up. I collapsed in the backyard of the villa we once called home. In the final moments before my life faded away, I saw him through the window. He was holding Jenna, his secretary, in his arms. In the home I had so carefully decorated, they were using the dishes I had bought, drinking from the wine glasses I had chosen, sharing a romantic dinner, kissing intimately. The pain in my chest was a physical weight, stealing my breath. Shoving the memory away, I calmly took an eye mask from my purse and slipped it on. “I believe you. There’s nothing going on between you and Jenna.” “Now, can we please get moving?” Leo’s face was a canvas of shock, but I simply pulled the mask down, shutting out the world. 2 The moment we got home, I went straight to our bedroom. I called the hospital, made an appointment with a top specialist, and scheduled a full physical for the next day. Whether in this life or the last, all I ever wanted was to live. Just as I hung up, Leo pushed the door open. “What was that in the car all about?” he demanded. “Vera, can you stop giving me the silent treatment over every little thing?” Ever since Jenna became his secretary, Leo had become exceptionally harsh with me. No matter what I did, he found fault. It was his change in attitude, coupled with Jenna’s constant provocations, that had driven me mad in our last marriage. I fought back the suffocating ache in my chest and turned to him calmly. “Leo, believe it or not, I’m not angry. I’m not trying to start a fight, and I’m not giving you the silent treatment.” “I honestly don’t care about the lipstick.” Without another glance at him, I walked into the bathroom and locked the door. When I came out, he was gone. But my phone was blowing up with notifications. It was Jenna’s signature move. Whenever she was with Leo, she would bombard me with photos of them together, treating my message inbox like her personal cloud storage. In my past life, this would have sent me into a spiral of crying fits or provoked me into a screaming match with Leo. But now, as I looked at the photos she sent, I didn’t curse her. Instead, I offered some sincere advice. You’re holding the phone at the wrong angle. Leo’s profile is more handsome. Try holding it higher next time. And you should crop the photo tighter. Less empty space. It’ll make you and Leo look closer. She replied almost instantly. Has your account been hacked? I sent a smiling emoji back. Nope. Just wanted to let you know, he’s all yours. Then, I blocked her. This new arrangement worked for me. I wanted the title of Mrs. Vance and the supplementary credit card. As for Leo’s body and his affection, Jenna could have them. Unlike the foolish woman I was in my last life, I no longer wanted his love. 3 After dealing with Jenna, I lay down and closed my eyes. But even with a second chance at life, sleep didn’t come easily. Just like when I was sick, my dreams were haunted by memories of Leo and me. When we were kids, Leo was quiet and introverted. His mother, a strict teacher, was constantly punishing him. I’d wake up at midnight and see him still at his desk, thick glasses perched on his nose, scribbling away at worksheets while his mother stood over him with a cane. For every wrong answer, the cane would come down hard on his back. Living across the street, I’d watch this happen and my heart would ache for him. Whenever I got candy, I’d sneak it into his backpack at school. “Leo,” I’d whisper with a smile, “eat one when your back hurts.” The first time I gave him candy, his face turned bright red. He waited until I was a hundred feet away before mumbling, “I… I don’t eat candy.” I just waved back, grinning. “Leo, you should talk more. You have a really nice voice.” It became a habit. The boy who was always a loner started waiting for me, waiting for me to slip candy into his bag. In the small alley outside our neighborhood, we walked through countless springs, summers, and winters together. Then, when we were eighteen, Leo, the valedictorian of our county, was accepted into a top university. He awkwardly handed me a brochure for another school. “I checked,” he stammered, pushing his glasses up. “This one is really close to mine, only a ten-minute walk. Your scores aren’t high enough for a four-year program, but you could get into this two-year college.” Looking at his nervous face, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my parents had already decided I would go to a four-year university, even if it was a less prestigious one. They could afford it. I secretly changed my application, a decision that earned me a lecture and grounding from my parents, but I never regretted it. We went to college in the same city. Away from his mother, Leo blossomed. He swapped his thick glasses for contacts, grew his buzz cut into stylish curls, and traded his plaid shirts for crisp white ones. His old black sneakers were replaced by clean white ones. I didn’t understand the sudden transformation until I was gushing about my favorite band coming to town for a concert. Leo grabbed my arm, his eyes red-rimmed. “I’ve changed everything about myself to be the person you like,” he said, his voice raw. “Can’t you still find a way to like me?” The word “like” hit me like a sledgehammer. Even though we were at different schools, I’d heard the legends about him—the programming prodigy who won national competitions as a freshman, the coding genius who had job offers from major tech firms by his sophomore year. A group of girls had even started an online forum dedicated to documenting his transformation. I thought an ocean separated us, that we would forever be just friends. I never imagined he felt this way. Without a second thought, I, the girl who was never shy, stood on my toes and kissed him. We started dating. My life revolved around feeding him my favorite milk teas, desserts, and pastries. I had no career plans; my days were spent deciding what to feed Leo or where to take him for fun. Meanwhile, his life continued its meteoric rise. He started his own company while in grad school, secured multiple rounds of funding right after graduation, and by the time he finished his Ph.D., his tech company was ranked among the top 10 in the country. My life went in the opposite direction, as if cursed. I failed the entrance exam to transfer to a four-year program. After graduation, I lived off the allowance Leo gave me. In my second year out of college, my parents, who had always doted on me, were rushing to see me in the hospital for pneumonia when they were killed in a car crash. Suddenly an orphan, I clung to their bodies, my tears soaking through their clothes. And Leo knelt beside me, in front of their bodies, and under his mother’s cold, disapproving gaze, he swore he would take care of me for the rest of my life. We got married. I had multiple miscarriages. Every pregnancy ended in loss. And then, Leo met Jenna. He started to find fault with me. I had no substance, he said. All I ever did was ask him what he wanted to eat or drink. Unlike Jenna, who could discuss world-famous paintings with him, who could debate the future of the tech industry. Tears welled in my eyes. I blinked them open and realized the sun was up. Just like in my last life, my pillow was soaked. Just then, a message from Leo came through. We’re going to the nursing home to see my mom this afternoon. 4 I calmly replied: I’m busy today. I can’t make it. His call came instantly. “What are you busy with?” “Vera, how many times do I have to tell you, there’s nothing going on with Jenna. Why do you have to keep fixating on this one little thing?” Hearing him bring up Jenna again, a bitter smile touched my lips. Since his company took off, Leo had become a man of few words. This was the first time he’d ever harped on a single issue. Was he trying to convince himself he wasn’t interested in her, or was he trying to lessen his own guilt? The pain in my chest was a sharp, trembling thing, but my voice was steady. “Leo, I’m not feeling well. I have to go to the hospital for a check-up. I really can’t go with you to see your mom today.” “Besides, your mother has a heart condition, and she’s never liked me. Isn’t it better if I don’t go and upset her? And doesn’t she adore Jenna? She always said only a woman of Jenna’s status was a worthy match for you. You should take her instead.” I was genuinely trying to be helpful, but my words only made him angrier. “Fine, Vera. Keep throwing your tantrum.” Then he hung up. Listening to the dial tone, I let out another humorless laugh. See? That’s the difference between love and no love. When he used to love me, the slightest hint of sadness on my face would have him anxiously asking what he’d done wrong. Now that he didn’t, even my most sincere suggestions were just me being unreasonable. 5 The familiar ache returned, but I didn’t let it delay me. I went to the hospital, and to avoid any emotional triggers, I left my phone at home. This check-up was too important. It would determine if I was doomed to repeat my past life. For the next seven days, I stayed at the hospital, undergoing biopsies and having vial after vial of blood drawn. I had to thank Leo’s connections and his bank account for the thoroughness of the care. By simply using his name, I got an appointment with a specialist I couldn’t get to see for a month in my last life. Now, he was the first doctor to check on me every morning during his rounds. In my last life, penniless, I’d had to sell my bags and jewelry. Without connections, every test meant another trip to the hospital, waiting two hours for a blood draw, a week for a CT scan. Now, thanks to Leo, I just had to lie in a VIP room, and the nurses came to me. The results were bittersweet. I did have cancer, but it was in the early stages. When the doctor told me, his face was full of sympathy. I, on the other hand, burst into tears, my body shaking uncontrollably. Everyone thought I was terrified. Only I knew I was crying with joy. I finally had a chance to live. The day I got the results, I checked into the hospital to begin treatment. I was confident I could be cured. This time, I had money, the best doctors, and the best medicine. Chemotherapy was still hell, but because it was early stage, the dosage was lighter, and the imported drugs had fewer side effects compared to the generic ones I had in my past life. Aside from losing my hair and some weight, I had enough energy for daily walks. And because of the medication, I never once felt the excruciating pain of a full-blown pancreatic cancer attack. After a month of treatment, the doctor gave me more hope. He said that after two more rounds of chemo, I would likely be able to go home. It was a spark of hope that ignited a fire in my soul. In my last life, my greatest dream was to be cured, to live. But just as I was about to pay for the third round of treatment, the hospital informed me that my supplementary card had been canceled. The payment wouldn’t go through. Hearing the news, I remained calm. As long as we were still married, he was legally obligated to pay for my medical care. I simply asked the nurse for a day pass and took a cab to Leo’s company. The receptionist stopped me at the entrance. “I’m sorry, miss, but you need an appointment to see Mr. Vance.” I smiled faintly and took my marriage certificate out of my purse. “With this, can I see Leo Vance?” The receptionist’s eyes widened. She shot up from her chair. “My apologies, Mrs. Vance. I didn’t recognize you.” I just shook my head and followed her to the elevator. As we passed the main office area, I felt eyes on me. I knew I looked awful—bald, with a thick down jacket thrown over my hospital gown—but I felt no shame. In my last life, after the divorce, I had come here desperate to borrow money for treatment. I never even made it past the front door. Back then, all I had was a divorce certificate, not a marriage one.

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My cousin, Jessica, asked to borrow my $12 million Porsche, promising she just needed it for a business meeting to look impressive and would return it right away. A few days later, she ran over in a panic, guilt written all over her face, and told me the car had been stolen. I just smiled, affecting an air of indifference. “It’s fine. The car has a tracker.” Jessica’s composure shattered. “Impossible! You told me it didn’t have a tracker! You lied to me!” 1 I was in the middle of detailing my red Porsche when my phone buzzed with a video call from my cousin, Jessica. The moment I answered, her face, a carefully constructed mask of cleverness and calculation, filled the screen. “Hey, Alex!” she chirped sweetly. “Whatcha doing? Polishing your car? I have something really important I need to ask you.” “Something important?” I put down my polishing cloth and settled into a nearby chair. “Go on, what is it?” Jessica’s voice was syrupy. “Best cousin ever! Could I please, please borrow your Porsche for a few days? I have a super-duper important business dinner tomorrow, and I really need your car to make a good impression!” This wasn’t just any Porsche. It was a rare collector’s item I’d acquired from a friend overseas, worth a fortune. It wasn’t registered or plated; it was never meant for driving. It was a piece of art. I frowned, but she was already rambling on. “You know how it is, cuz! I’m still getting my business off the ground. If I pull up in a car like that, the clients will trust me more, and they’ll sign the deal!” I sighed. “Alright, you can borrow it. But you have to be incredibly careful. Not a single scratch. And I’m telling you right now, if anything—” “I swear on my life, Alex! I’ll bring it back in perfect condition!” she cut in, her promise overriding my warning. I paused, a familiar unease settling in. She had a history of “borrowing” things and conveniently forgetting to return them. “Fine. One day. It needs to be back here by tomorrow evening.” “You’re the best! You’re like my real brother!” Jessica looked like she was about to jump through the screen and hug me. “Don’t worry, Alex! I’ll return it safe and sound!” she added right before hanging up. I put down my phone and stared at the gleaming red car. Jessica’s over-the-top performance left me feeling uneasy. Something felt off. Our families lived close, in the same gated community, so it wasn’t long before she was at my door, personally driving the Porsche away. I watched from my balcony as the car disappeared down the street, my mind replaying my recent interactions with her. Just last month, she’d borrowed $20,000 from my mom for her “business,” complete with a signed IOU promising to pay it back in a month. It was six weeks later, and she hadn’t mentioned it once. I stroked my chin, my eyes fixed on the villa her family owned down the road. What was she up to now? 2 The next day, just as dusk was settling, my doorbell rang. The security camera showed it was Jessica. I buzzed her in. She walked in carrying a thermal container, dressed in a designer dress that probably cost a few thousand dollars. She was dripping with gold—earrings, necklace, bracelet, and a massive diamond ring on each hand. On her wrist was a delicate, expensive-looking watch. But the Porsche was nowhere in sight. “Alex! Mom made your favorite braised meatballs. You haven’t eaten yet, right? I brought them over for you.” Her voice sounded strained. She thrust the container into my hands like she was completing a mission. I watched her carefully, noticing how her eyes darted around, refusing to meet mine. She was already fiddling with her phone, not saying a word about the car, ready to bolt. So I brought it up myself. “Jessica, where’s my car? You said you’d have it back today.” She flinched, then turned back awkwardly. “Alex… the car… it was stolen.” “Stolen?” My voice shot up an octave. Her words were a spark on the dry tinder of my patience. “It wasn’t my fault,” she explained hastily. “I was out with clients last night, we all drank too much. The security cameras were tampered with. I even called the police this morning, but they said they couldn’t find any signs of a break-in…” She recounted the story with a disturbingly calm demeanor, as if losing a multi-million-dollar collector’s car was like misplacing a cheap t-shirt. Her casual attitude infuriated me. I stared at her, taking in every flicker of her expression. “Jessica, are you sure it was stolen? Absolutely positive?” “I’m positive! Alex, I’m telling the truth! This neighborhood is out in the middle of nowhere, not like the city with cameras everywhere. How am I supposed to find the thief? Even the police are stumped…” “I see,” I said coldly, my face hardening. “Fine. You stay in touch with the police and try to get it back. I’ll see what I can do on my end.” Jessica let out a breath of relief. She muttered a quick “sorry” and practically sprinted out the door. I closed the door and looked at the container in my hand. It was true that our area didn’t have many public cameras, but the security in our gated community was top-notch. Jessica hadn’t mentioned contacting property management, and there wasn’t a peep in the residents’ group chat. Normally, she’d raise hell in the chat if she so much as lost a dog. Something was definitely wrong. We were family, and her late father had helped my mom out years ago. Even though we’d long since repaid that debt, I couldn’t just accuse her without proof. I sat down in the living room just as my mom came out of the kitchen, calling me for dinner. “Did you lend the Porsche to your cousin?” she asked as we ate. When I nodded, she sighed. “She was really showing off last night. Ever since her father passed, that girl has become so extravagant.” “I even saw some slick-looking guy with a receding hairline ask her how much the Porsche was worth.” “Jessica told him $12 million. I was worried she’d attract the wrong kind of attention, so I jumped in and said it was a high-quality replica, only worth about fifteen grand.” “It’s always better to be modest,” Mom continued. “With her spending habits, she’s headed for trouble. I think you should get that car back as soon as possible, before it really does get stolen.” I paused, my chopsticks hovering over my bowl. Mom didn’t know the car was already “gone.” Thinking about Jessica’s behavior, an idea began to form. “Mom,” I said with a casual smile, “don’t worry about it. It was a replica. I was just using it to show off. It’s not worth much.” My mom blinked, then shot me a look. “Just eat your dinner!” After we finished, I offered to clean the kitchen so Mom could have time for her evening activities. She loved her dance class, and Jessica’s mom, my Aunt Helen, always tagged along, mostly to stay close and see what she could get from our family. I had a feeling that when they met up, my mom would probably mention that the Porsche was just a replica. 3 Late that night, I went to the secure room in my study. After entering a password and scanning my fingerprint, I opened the safe. Inside was a leather folio containing the Porsche’s international certificate of authenticity. The valuation was clearly printed: 12,000,000.00. The currency unit that followed was USD. Stamped over the numbers was the personal seal of the president of the International Association of Luxury Cars. I stared at the document, then opened my laptop and searched for Patek Philippe watch prices. I quickly found the model Jessica was wearing on their official site. It was a limited edition. Price tag: $99,000. I stroked my chin, replaying the image of Jessica walking in tonight—the designer dress, the flashy gold jewelry, and her breezy declaration that the car had been stolen. Suddenly, a message from her popped up on my phone, testing the waters: 【Cuz, my mom said your Porsche is a replica? Is that true?】 I glanced at the screen and typed back coolly: 【Of course. You think I’d forgive you that easily otherwise?】 I closed her chat and found my friend Leo’s number. 【Leo, you awake? Urgent.】 A moment later, a video call came through. “Well, well, if it isn’t the busy man himself. What’s the emergency?” I shook my head and quickly explained the situation with Jessica, the “stolen” car, and how I’d lied to everyone that my $12 million collector’s item was a cheap replica. Leo, sharp as ever, immediately understood. “So you’re trying to pass off a real car as fake to see how your cousin reacts, right?” “Haha, and I forgot to tell you, a car of that caliber always has satellite tracking. I’ll share the app with you. Just download it and you’ll see.” I nodded. Leo was a lifesaver. He was a well-known broker in the world of luxury car collecting. Owners of these cars were often reluctant to sell to outsiders, worried they wouldn’t be properly cared for. That’s where people like Leo came in. Once I got the tracking app and linked my credentials, it only took a moment to pinpoint the Porsche’s exact location. “I can’t believe the car is parked at…” Seeing the location on the map, my heart sank. After a long moment, I let out a dark laugh. Since Jessica claimed the car was stolen, I might as well play along and make her return it herself. “That’s a pretty twisted plan, my friend,” Leo said, laughing. “Alright, let me know if you need anything else. Call me anytime.” After hanging up, I opened a drawer and took out a faded photo album. In the section for my aunt’s family, I found a picture of a younger Jessica. She was smiling, holding my hand, her eyes full of innocence. She never used to lie. Now, the constant stream of deceit from her was heartbreaking. I closed the album, took out that one photo, and put the album away. I let out a deep sigh. I had been ready to let it go, but seeing the car’s current location had finally pushed me over the edge. I walked to the window and looked toward her house. “Jessica,” I murmured, “whether you pull back from the brink or end up in a cell… that’s your choice to make.”

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My childhood best friend, Lucas, likes the school beauty, Bella. Bella likes the class valedictorian, Daniel. Daniel likes me. But I only like Lucas. We were in a very stable love square, each happily simping for the person who wouldn’t give us the time of day. We all suffered the bitterness of unrequited love, chasing crushes who never looked back. Until I moved on and started flirting with the new kid with the bleached hair. Lucas and Daniel both lost their minds. even Bella was furious. Red-eyed, she choked me and sobbed: “Why?! How could you like that bleached-hair punk?” I explained: “Because love squares are just like quadrilaterals—unstable.” 1 Lucas rejected sitting with me again. His eyes were glued to Bella, and he happily took the seat behind her, refusing to be my desk partner. Daniel, the valedictorian, likes me, so I knew he wanted to sit with me. But Bella, being quick, snatched the opportunity first. When it was my turn to pick a seat, Lucas, wanting to avoid any misunderstanding and not hurt Bella’s feelings, deliberately avoided me. He chose to sit behind Bella. Bella was thrilled because she got to sit with Daniel, and her simp (me) hadn’t hooked up with hers (Daniel) yet. The teacher called my name. Finally, it was my turn. I walked in and saw that Lucas already had someone next to him. Daniel, who liked me, was snatched by Bella. I felt isolated. Three pairs of eyes stared at me. Regret in Daniel’s eyes. Coldness in Lucas’s eyes. Triumph in Bella’s eyes—she winked at me, declaring war. I always thought our love square was rock solid, impossible to shake. But tonight, I was hurt. It felt like I had simped my way out of the game. Am I not worthy of being a simp? Rude. Why won’t they play with me? I was a little sad. Bad grades, kicked out of the simp circle. Clearly, the four of us licking each other’s boots was a stable dynamic. How did I get voted off the island? Looking at Bella’s smug face, I was pissed. The teacher was getting impatient too: “Jane, what are you standing there for? Pick a seat! You’re wasting everyone’s study time!” I looked around. Because my grades were terrible—basically bottom of the class—by the time I got to pick, everyone else was settled. There were hardly any empty seats left. Only in the last row, next to the new transfer student with the bleached hair, was there an empty desk. The boy dressed like an alt kid, sporting arrogant bleached hair and earrings, radiating pure resentment. Since arriving a few days ago, he hadn’t said a word to anyone, doing whatever he pleased. But he was handsome. Not the gentle kind, but the aggressive, sharp kind of handsome. Girls blushed and passed him love notes or gifts, but he coldly rejected them all. If they persisted, he’d throw the stuff in the trash. A total “strangers keep away” vibe. Injured by the love square, I didn’t care anymore. I walked straight to the bleached-hair boy and fearlessly sat down. Ideally, Bella should be the winner of this love square. The guy who likes me and the guy I like are both circling her. She should be happy. But I saw Bella’s wide grin suddenly retract. Her smile vanished completely when I sat next to the bleached-hair boy. She even looked a little unhappy. This made me even angrier. She’s still unhappy! Don’t be so greedy, okay?! 2 The bleached-hair boy was sleeping on his desk. I swung my backpack over. The screech of the chair against the floor was ear-piercing, waking him up. He lifted his head impatiently, eyes full of undisguised rage, staring at me in surprise for a few seconds. He probably didn’t expect anyone to dare provoke him. He lowered his eyelids disdainfully: “Get lost.” Me: … He must think I’m another admirer trying to sit next to him. Men… so narcissistic… disgusting… Tsk tsk. I ignored his gaze and calmly moved all my books over. The bell rang for the end of class. He slammed his hand on the desk. My hand froze while organizing books. I looked up at him, confused. ? After a few seconds of standoff, he spoke again: “Get lost. I don’t like you. Are you deaf?” Me: ? I took a deep breath, pouted in confusion, and refused to indulge him. I poked his chest with my pen, forcing him back inch by inch: “Can you stop being so narcissistic?” “Not every girl who gets close to you likes you! Open your eyes and look. I’m last place! Last place in the class, get it?!” “By the time I got in, there were no seats left! Only this one! If I don’t sit here, where do I sit?” “Also, go ask around. I am Lucas’s number one simp. Who likes you?” “I’m busy simping for him. Zero people care about you!” This little bleached-hair kid is all thorns! But I, the class porcupine, am not just a name either. He stared at me silently for a while, then got angry: “You’re proud of that?” He probably despised me for being a simp. I flipped my hair heroically, put my book in the drawer, looked up into his dark eyes, and said: “Yes, I am proud. As long as I’m not simping for you.” He looked like he wanted to say something, but my childhood friend Lucas happened to walk over. He had his hands in his pockets, swaying over to me. His gaze shifted from my head to the bleached hair, then back to me: “Jane, what’s the meaning of this?” “Not simping for me anymore? Planning to simp for him?” “Moving on?” I don’t have a good temper. I was just annoyed by the bleached-hair kid, and now the guy I like is questioning me like this. Acting like he’s my boyfriend controlling me. Even with a good temper, I’m still human! I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my notebook, ignored his gaze, and walked straight to Daniel. Then I said in a soft, sweet voice: “Daniel… I don’t understand this question…” Daniel likes me. He said I could ask him anything. But I liked Lucas, so whenever I had a question, I used it as an excuse to pester Lucas to explain it to me. I treated his patience as special treatment for me. Actually, thinking about it, he’s like that with everyone. Daniel clearly didn’t expect me to come to him. He looked pleasantly surprised, his ears turning red. I sat opposite him, very close, and asked softly: “This question, I still don’t get it…” Yes, this was the question I pestered Lucas about for ages before he explained it to me. Halfway through, Bella couldn’t stand me being close to Lucas, so she brought a question to him too. Lucas was ecstatic that Bella approached him. He finished explaining to me hurriedly and sloppy. Then he immediately and patiently explained to Bella. I don’t know when Lucas walked up to us. He pretended not to care, looked closer, and realized he had already explained this question to me. He broke down a little and questioned me angrily again: “Jane, I explained this to you. What are you trying to do?” 3 Angry already? Back then, he could ditch me instantly to please Bella. What I’m doing now isn’t even one percent of what he did, and he can’t handle it? Thinking about it is hilarious. I’ve liked Lucas since we were kids. He was the boy next door. Tall, handsome, gentle, polite, and attentive. My type. My bestie warned me many times that I had bad taste, that he was nice to everyone—a “central air conditioner.” But I was completely immersed in my self-woven dream of love and wouldn’t listen to anyone. Lucas’s face was iron black. He rolled his eyes at Daniel and said sourly: “Disgusting. Greasy.” “Jane! You go to him for questions but not me. Are you trying to make me jealous?” I got mad: “We’re discussing a problem here. What are you doing?” “Get lost!” This was the first time I lost my temper at my childhood friend. Before, I couldn’t lick his boots fast enough. The love square was wobbling. Bella sat in her seat, arms crossed, glaring as Daniel explained the question to me. Jealousy was drowning her. Daniel was smiling. Only Lucas was furious. After the explanation, I rolled back to my seat unhappily, eyes slightly red. The bleached-hair boy, Jaxon, looked at me with dark eyes and sneered: “Thought you said you didn’t like him?” “Aren’t you his simp? Why fight with your crush?” Thinking about how the person I liked was a jerk, and my simp career ended abruptly, I felt sad. Tears fell uncooperatively. “I don’t like him anymore, okay?” “I’m sitting next to you because I like you. Happy now?” “Whether I like you is my business. Can you control it?” I smashed the jar. Tears pattered down. Jaxon probably hadn’t been yelled at like this before. He didn’t expect one sentence to make me cry. The boy scratched his yellow hair, stammering and bristling: “Why are you crying?” “I didn’t say you couldn’t like me.” “Stop f*cking crying. So annoying!” 4 Jaxon found me annoying, so he put on his hat and ignored me. My childhood friend Lucas, having a screw loose, blocked me after school, refusing to give up. “Jane, aren’t you my simp? Why don’t you come find me?” He really is a jerk. I felt sick. I tried to walk out with my backpack, but Lucas cornered me against the wall, blocking me tightly. “If you don’t explain clearly today, I won’t let you leave!” Unbearable. I raised my leg to kick him in the crotch, but found my whole body strength was no match for one of his hands. I thought I was really stuck. But Jaxon, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, walked to the door and swung his bag hard at Lucas, pushing him off me. “Make way. You’re blocking the path, don’t you know!” I was successfully freed. Realized the bleached-hair kid wasn’t too bad. Lucas felt we were ganging up on him and rolled his eyes. “F*ck, shameless. Half a day and you’re hooking up with another guy. Jane, do you have any shame?” I wanted to kick him to relieve my hatred. I didn’t expect Jaxon to meddle. He walked back from the hallway, grabbed me like a little chick with his long fingers, pulled me in front of him, and put his arm around me. “Name’s Lucas, right? Don’t understand English? How many times did she tell you to get lost? Are you deaf?” Lucas got mad too, face red with anger. “This is between me and her. What are you meddling for? Do you have the right?” Lucas’s retort actually left Jaxon speechless. I sneered and grabbed Jaxon’s hand back, venting for him and myself. “I like him, and he likes me. Someone who likes me is helping me. I consented. Why doesn’t he have the right?” Ignoring Lucas’s shocked look, I dragged Jaxon away. Actually, he’s so big, I couldn’t have moved him. But that day, it was easy. He obediently let me lead him. Walking out of the school gate, I realized Jaxon’s bleached hair wasn’t arrogant anymore. His face was even a bit shy. He remembered I was holding his hand and shook it off tsundere-style. “This young master doesn’t like simps!” Who said he was hard to approach? He helped me, and he bristles like a cat. Not a wolf, just a big puppy! How can such a big wolf-dog be so cute when shy? I burst out laughing and teased him: “Math says quadrilaterals aren’t as stable as triangles. Just like a love square is unstable.” “In that case, I like you, you like me. Isn’t that stable?” Jaxon blushed and called me shameless, thick-skinned. He fled in defeat. “This young master has never seen a girl as thick-skinned and shameless as you! Don’t follow me!” Lol. I’m famous for being a thick-skinned simp. This rumored gloomy, unapproachable bleached-hair kid is just a tsundere little kitten! The next day in class, Jaxon finally woke up, and I started harassing him. Poking him with my pen. “Jaxon, you haven’t answered me from last night!” I righteously told him last night that I stopped simping for Lucas and was switching targets. He ignored me and ran away blushing. People might think I’m a monster. Woken up by me, he was extremely impatient. “Get lost!” 5 Having discovered yesterday that he’s a paper tiger, I automatically ignored his “get lost.” I stopped my creepy smile and fearlessly asked: “Jaxon? Say, have you ever chased anyone?” He sounded incredibly impatient: “Wise men don’t fall in love. I don’t simp.” “No one has been worth chasing yet.” It was the last period, study hall. We were in the “bad class,” teachers didn’t care. The teacher said we relied on self-discipline. So the class was chaotic. Everyone doing what they wanted. Talking, discussing problems. My eyes were glued on Daniel gently explaining problems to others, Bella smiling widely, mingling with the crowd. And my childhood friend, especially Lucas. He rested his chin on his hand, staring happily and blissfully at Bella. She was making noise; he was watching. So lively. My eyes stung. Determined, I slammed my book on the desk. “I don’t want to be a simp anymore.” Hearing this, Jaxon sneered: “Oh, little fool, finally got smart for once?” “Why be a simp? Let others chase you like their life depends on it. That’s exciting.” I turned to meet his eyes, full of playfulness and teasing. But his eyes were bright, staring straight at me, making me dazed. I couldn’t think. Before my brain could react, my mouth spoke: “Then chase me?” Jaxon froze, like he was struck by lightning. Didn’t make a sound for a long time. After a while, his face full of disgust, he turned away ignoring me: “You? Worthy?” I noticed his ears were red. After school, I hadn’t finished packing. Lucas, bag slung over his shoulder, eyes cold, slapped my desk. “Jane, play time is over. Playing hard to get has a limit.” “If you apologize, I still won’t mind that you tangled with Jaxon and that hypocrite Daniel.” I really wanted to peel off his face to see how thick it was. How does he have the face to say that?! Jaxon looked at Lucas coldly, like looking at an idiot. I didn’t want to talk to Lucas. My mom said not to talk to idiots. So I packed up and prepared to turn and leave. But Lucas blocked my way, still babbling. The commotion was big. Bella came over, extremely jealous. “Lucas, why do you care about this damn simp?” Daniel was also there, don’t know if watching the drama or what. Lucas saw me giving him the cold shoulder and broke down, eyes red. “Jane, your methods are brilliant. To get my attention, you hooked up with other guys.” His skill at making up rumors is perfection. In that case, I was too lazy to explain. Jaxon was watching the show. I grabbed his tie, pulled him hard towards me, and fearlessly wolf-whistled at him. Then I glared at Lucas: “Yes, you’re right. I’m hooking up, so what! I moved on! I don’t like you anymore! You can get lost!” The man I teased instantly turned from bristling to docile puppy, ear tips dripping blood red. Lucas still thought I was trying to make him jealous. He pinched my hand: “How could you like a bleached-head?! Hard to get, that’s all! Even if you do this, I won’t like you!” Bella added fuel to the fire: “Lucas, let’s not get angry over a slut. I’m going shopping with Daniel. Come with us.” To spite me, Lucas agreed without thinking. When Daniel left, he looked reluctant, eyes red, confirming with me: “Jane, do you really like Jaxon?” I left in frustration. It was Jaxon who chased after me with a dark face, grabbing me: “Hey, used me as a shield, then throw me away?” It was dusk. Sunset hit him. I walked dutifully with my backpack. He walked backwards in front of me, bag slung over one shoulder. His yellow hair was even more brilliant in the sunset. For a moment, I was dazed. Brain malfunctioned again: “What, don’t believe I like you?” “I moved on.” Jaxon just scoffed.

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In Port Sterling, everyone knew the story of the old Kingpin of Cards: two wives, two daughters. My mother came from the graceful, old-money Ashworths; Vivian’s mother was all fire and audacity. Vivian and I were oil and water from the start. She thrived in glittering galas and gritty corners alike—a natural at the tables, adored by all. Except Johnny Thorne. He saw only me, whispering, “Sera, you’re the only one who matters.” Vivian took it as war. She raided his casinos; their battle for dominance was fierce. It ended when Johnny inherited my father’s crown as the new Kingpin. I thought we’d won. Then the Ashworth fortune was seized—my mother’s dowry, her heirlooms, all gone to auction. I burst into Johnny’s room and found him with Vivian, tangled in the sheets. “If your wife knew you ruined the Ashworths,” Vivian purred, “would she still have you?” The truth shattered me. Johnny met my devastation with a cold smile. “Since you know,” he said, “play by the city’s rules. Want your mother’s legacy back? Take a seat at the table.” 1 I swayed, my vision blurring at the edges, and nearly collapsed. I dug my nails into my thigh, the sharp pain a brutal anchor to reality. This wasn’t a nightmare. The man who had whispered declarations of love to me just last night had shed his skin, revealing the monster beneath. “Pfft. A good little girl like my sister has probably never even touched a deck of cards. Does she even know how many suits there are?” Vivian chuckled, covering her crimson lips with a delicate hand. She rose from the bed, shrugging on a silk robe. Her pale skin was a canvas of angry red marks from their passion. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. Johnny had always been so gentle with me, almost hesitant in our intimacy. “Sera, you’re too perfect,” he would murmur, holding me close. “I’m afraid I’ll break you.” It turned out he was just saving his real passion for someone else. Johnny said nothing. He let Vivian settle onto his lap, lighting a cigar for her and then taking it from her lips with his own in a gesture of sickening intimacy. The last ember of hope in my heart turned to ash. I took a deep, shuddering breath. “Fine. I agree. Let’s play.” Vivian’s eyes widened for a second, then she burst into laughter. “This is priceless! Absolutely priceless! I never thought I’d live to see the day our precious Miss Ashworth sits down at a gambling table. Johnny, darling, you promised me a fun night. This is going to be spectacular.” Johnny’s hand was still resting on her waist. My words seemed to startle him, too. He glanced at me, his fingers tightening on her hip. “Alright. Anything you want.” He finally stood and walked toward me, his face a mask of feigned pity. “Sera, you always make things so difficult. Is it really that hard to just learn to submit?” I met his gaze, my own eyes cold as ice. “Let’s not waste any more time. Let’s go.” But as I turned, a single, traitorous tear escaped and traced a hot path down my cheek. The elevator descended, a silent drop into the city’s glittering, gold-plated heart of darkness three floors below ground. As the doors slid open, a wall of noise hit me—cheers, shouts, the clatter of chips. A few of the old crew saw me and faltered. “Miss Seraphina? Johnny isn’t here today…” These were my father’s men once, before they pledged their loyalty to Johnny. They had always treated me with a fawning respect, calling me “Miss Seraphina” or “the boss’s lady.” Then the elevator doors opened again. Vivian walked out, clinging to Johnny’s arm without a shred of shame. A hush fell over the room for a heartbeat. Then, I heard a collective sigh of relief. “Well, you should have just said! We were trying to cover for you guys.” They swarmed Vivian, laughing and joking, their camaraderie disgustingly familiar. My eyes burned again. Everyone knew. I was the only fool left in the dark. Vivian, a cigarette dangling from her lips, shot me a sultry, victorious look. “My dear sister is joining us at the table tonight, everyone. Be sure to treat her well.” The whispers started immediately. “No way. Seraphina Ashworth? At a card table?” “You haven’t heard? The Ashworths got slammed these past two months. Johnny taught them a lesson for always siding against Vivian. He’s just defending his girl’s honor.” My nails dug into my palms. My grandfather, my uncle, my cousin—they had always adored my mother and me. They never hid their contempt for the second family, and business clashes were frequent. But to think Johnny would dismantle my entire family’s legacy… just to appease Vivian… It was only then, with everyone watching, that Johnny finally addressed me directly. “Sera, the rules of this city are simple. Once you sit at the table, you can’t walk away. Are you sure you want to do this?” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Those things on that auction block are mine. I’m walking out of here with them tonight.” Vivian sauntered over. “So, what’s it going to be? Poker? Blackjack? Let’s not say I’m bullying you. How about something simple… Mahjong?” A smirk played on Johnny’s lips. He wasn’t even trying to hide his contempt. After all, I probably didn’t even know how many tiles were in a Mahjong set. But after a moment of silence, I lifted my chin. “Fine. Mahjong it is.” 2 The room erupted. “Is she insane? Everyone in Port Sterling knows Vivian is a Mahjong prodigy! That tile-reading technique of hers was taught by the old Kingpin himself. I’ve never won a single game against her!” “They always said the Ashworths were too high and mighty for us common folk. I can’t believe Seraphina actually has the guts to play.” “What do you know? A fight between two women over one man is the best kind of show. Looks like the new Kingpin has the same tastes as the old one—wants the pleasure of having both! Hahaha!” The crude remarks washed over me, but I didn’t care. After I agreed, Vivian’s smile widened, while Johnny’s face hardened. But she ignored him, her voice ringing with excitement. “Well, now! It’s me, my sister, and Johnny. We’re short one player. Who wants in?” Hands shot up across the room, but Vivian, as if by design, chose Carter Vance—a man known throughout the city for his predatory habits and wandering hands. As Carter sat down, he leaned in close, his breath hot on my ear. “Miss Seraphina, you just ask me nicely, and I’ll be sure to feed you some good tiles.” I turned away in disgust. The table was set up in an instant, and we became the center of the universe. Every other game in the casino stopped. The entire floor crowded around to watch the spectacle. Johnny clapped his hands, and a sneer touched his lips. Several security guards in black suits wheeled in a series of display carts. As the velvet cloths were whipped away, the brilliant fire of jewels lit up the faces of the onlookers. A lump formed in my throat. It was all there. My mother’s dowry. Vivian’s eyes gleamed with avarice. “My, what a lovely collection. I’ll have to play my best tonight. Win all these little trinkets to give to my maids to play with.” Her words were a deliberate provocation, a poisoned dart aimed straight at my heart. The room went quiet. It was common knowledge in Port Sterling that Vivian’s mother had started out as nothing more than a maid in my mother’s household. She was slapping me in the face. Under Johnny’s watchful eye, the dealer approached, his hands trembling slightly. “Ladies and gentlemen, the stakes for each round will be settled individually. For this first round, Mr. Thorne has offered ‘The Tear of the Pacific,’ a 22-carat Kashmir sapphire ring.” “We will now roll the dice to determine the dealer.” My breath caught. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the ring glittering on the velvet stand. It had been my mother’s favorite. I clenched my fists, my knuckles white. My hand shook as I cast the dice. They tumbled across the felt, landing on a paltry six. I lowered my head in defeat. Vivian rolled next, a triumphant twelve. She let out a low whistle. “Ooh, I like that ring. It’ll look fabulous on my little Lumi at home. Excellent taste, Johnny. In that case, I’ll put up the deed to my West End estate.” Gasps rippled through the crowd. She had snatched that piece of land from Johnny at the beginning of the year, a move that had left him fuming for weeks. I saw Johnny let out a small, indulgent chuckle. Vivian shot him a flirtatious wink. They were flirting right in front of me. “Sister, what about you?” Vivian’s voice was syrupy sweet. “I remember that magnificent Starfall Tiara you have. How about that?” My head snapped up. The Starfall Tiara. It was my wedding gift from Johnny, studded with 108 flawless South Sea pearls. Its debut had dominated the headlines of every newspaper in the city for a week. It was the proof that Johnny had once loved me. I gritted my teeth. “Fine. The tiara.” My palms were slick with sweat. My hands felt clumsy and foreign as I drew my tiles. I kept thirteen of them face down, trying to push them forward with a flourish like I’d seen others do, but I fumbled. Tiles scattered, two of them clattering to the floor. The crowd roared with laughter. “Is she here for comic relief?” Even Vivian couldn’t suppress a smirk. But it was like I was underwater; I couldn’t hear a thing. Compared to the effortless confidence of Vivian and Johnny, I was a clown. I shakily discarded a few tiles. “One of Bamboo. Pong,” Johnny declared, his voice flat. The next second, Vivian’s voice rang out, giddy with excitement. “Four of Characters. Kong.” A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead. Then came the voice I had been dreading. “Dealer’s self-drawn win,” Vivian announced, her voice dripping with triumph. “I win. Sister, your Starfall Tiara is mine now.” 3 The first round ended with Vivian’s complete victory. My face was ashen. I sat there, head bowed, feeling the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes on me. Johnny, seated to my left, leaned over slightly. “Sera, it’s not too late to walk away.” I whipped my head around to face him, my jaw tight. “No. We continue.” His expression hardened, and he let out a cold snort. Vivian tugged on his sleeve, cooing like a spoiled child. “It’s all thanks to you, darling, feeding me all the right tiles. Are we being too mean to my poor sister?” Johnny sneered. “She’s the great Miss Ashworth. She can take it.” The dealer brought the sapphire ring to Vivian. She played with it for a moment, admiring the sparkle, then casually tossed it over her shoulder. It landed with a soft plink in a bystander’s champagne flute. “It’s not that impressive up close. Nothing special.” I stared at her, my body rigid with fury, and tried to stand. Two of Johnny’s guards immediately stepped forward, their hands on my shoulders, forcing me back into my seat. Vivian leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper only I could hear. “You and your mother, always so high and mighty. The way you used to look down on us… it made me sick. Second round, Seraphina. Do you still have the nerve to play?” I heard my own voice, thin and reedy. “Again.” Vivian snapped her fingers. “Second round, I’m betting my Rosewood Manor. And sister, look over there. Isn’t that your mother’s favorite pink diamond necklace on the display stand?” I was silent for a long moment. “I’m in,” I said, my voice hoarse. “The Oceanview Penthouse at Marina Bay.” When we were eighteen, Vivian had wheedled a new house out of our father. Not to be outdone, Johnny had made a grand spectacle of buying me the Marina Bay penthouse. “Sera,” he had said then, his eyes full of adoration, “anything she has, you will have better.” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. The second round began. Vivian was practically glowing with confidence. Johnny, still seated to her right, was now openly feeding her winning tiles. “Three of Bamboo…” I discarded. “Pong!” Vivian’s voice was sharp and clear. She discarded a tile with a triumphant smirk. “Your turn, sister. Try to keep your tiles on the table this time.” A wave of suppressed snickers went through the crowd. I pressed my lips into a thin line, my fingers stiff as I drew a new tile. I knew they were ganging up on me. I knew my chances were nonexistent. But I couldn’t back down. I wouldn’t. My hand was a chaotic mess, a jumble of useless tiles. Every time I tried to build a sequence, Johnny would discard the one tile that blocked me. The moment I was waiting for a single tile to win, Vivian would claim it, holding it back as if she could see right through my hand. “Oh, my. I’ve been waiting for this Red Dragon for ages,” Vivian chirped, taking the tile Johnny had just discarded. “Kong!” She gracefully drew a replacement tile from the end of the wall, her thumb stroking its surface for a fraction of a second. Her smile bloomed into a radiant grin as she slammed the tile onto the table. “A win off the replacement tile! A pure straight flush! So sorry, sister. I’ve won again!” Her voice, laced with pure, unadulterated glee, echoed in my ears. A roaring filled my head, and my vision swam. Lost. I had lost again. The Marina Bay penthouse… another monument to his false promises, now another trophy for Vivian. The dealer presented the deed and the keys to her. She held them up to the light, inspecting them for a moment before casually tossing them to one of her cronies. “Here, it’s yours. Weren’t you saying you liked the place? Go on, take your little models there for a party.” The man bowed and scraped. “Thank you, Miss Vivian! You’re too generous!” He even had the gall to jangle the keys in my direction. I felt the blood freeze in my veins. Vivian leaned across the table. “You see, sister? Everything you cherish is worthless to me. Your man, your possessions… if I want them, I take them. So, shall we play a third round? What else do you have left to bet? Oh, I know. Your mother’s favorite antique pearl tiara is still sitting on that display stand…” Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Under the weight of every gaze in the room, I heard my own trembling voice. “Continue.” 4 Vivian let out a peal of laughter and draped herself over Johnny. “Did you hear that, darling? She wants to keep going. Don’t you dare say I’m bullying her.” The muffled laughter in the room grew louder. “Just give it up, Miss Ashworth. You can’t beat them.” “Vivian and Johnny together? No one in Port Sterling could win against that pair.” Johnny finally looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Sera, enough is enough. If you keep this up, you’ll lose more than just your possessions.” I understood his threat. But at this point, I had no way out. “I said, continue.” The game went on. The stakes got higher and higher. I became just like every other crazed gambler who’d lost their senses at the table. No fatigue, no reason. “The Porsche.” “The villa at Silver Creek.” “The yacht.” “The trust fund.” “The company shares…” Every asset to my name became a chip on the table. One by one, they were brought out. And one by one, they were lost. Vivian and Johnny read my every move, anticipated my every play. No matter how hard I fought, it was useless. “Big Four Winds.” “Seven Pairs.” “Thirteen Wonders.” “You lose, sister.” “You lose.” “Seraphina, you’ve lost again.” I was numb. Vivian’s side of the table was overflowing with chips. My face was a pale mask as I discarded a Nine of Characters. “All terminals. Sorry, I win again.” My body went limp, and I sank back into my chair. I opened my mouth to say “again,” but the dealer stepped forward, his expression hesitant. “My apologies, Miss Seraphina, but you have no assets left to your name.” The buzzing of the crowd flooded my ears again. My hands and feet were ice. I didn’t know what to do. Instinctively, I looked at Johnny. For the last twenty years, he had been my guardian angel, my protector, always there when I needed him. But tonight, in my darkest hour, he was my opponent, the architect of my ruin. The spectators, sensing Johnny’s attitude toward me, grew bolder. “Out of cash, Miss Ashworth? How about you spend a night with me? I’ll lend you a million, how about it?” “I’ll offer two million! Come on, give me a night of fun, hahaha!” The filth washed over me. Vivian, drunk on her winning streak, was lounging against Johnny’s shoulder. “I’m getting a little tired of this. Let’s be sisters, just for a moment. I’ll give you a quick end. One final round. I’ll bet everything I’ve won from you so far. You in?” I met her eyes and slowly shook my head. “No. That’s not enough.” My gaze shifted, locking onto Johnny. “For the final hand, I’m betting on myself.” A collective gasp went through the room. “If I lose,” I announced, my voice clear and steady, “I, Seraphina Ashworth, will voluntarily renounce all rights to the family inheritance, leave with nothing, and…” I took a breath. “As you wish, I will get out of Port Sterling and never return. If you lose, I want everything I’ve lost back, and everything you both own.” The casino floor exploded. The stakes were astronomical. Johnny’s face went dark. Vivian frowned. “Are you insane?” But I was possessed by the fever of a true gambler. “Do you dare?” Vivian sneered. “Bet! Why wouldn’t I? Johnny, let’s play! Let’s make her lose so badly she’ll have no choice but to crawl out of this city for good!” I nodded slowly. With a loud clatter, Vivian pushed her mountain of chips to the center of the table. I pushed my single, symbolic chip forward. Our eyes met across the table. “All in.” The sound of dice rolling filled the air once more. I looked up, my voice ringing with newfound authority. “This time, I’m the dealer.” Shuffling. Building the walls. My movements were still not perfectly smooth, but this time, they did not tremble. Thirteen tiles lay securely before me, face down. Vivian was getting impatient. “Just give up if you can’t win.” I ignored her. Under the stunned gaze of every single person in the room, I slowly, one by one, turned my thirteen tiles face up. “A Heavenly Hand. The Thirteen Orphans. I win it all.” Johnny and Vivian shot to their feet as if electrocuted. “That’s impossible!”

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Five years after the divorce, I ran into Jason in the designer section of a department store. The sales associate was just finishing boxing up the tie I’d chosen for my husband. Her tone brightened when she saw Jason approach. “Mr. Collins, good to see you. The suit your wife selected for you is ready.” The man gave a slight nod, his gaze lingering on the tie in my hand. “Add hers to my bill.” I politely declined, placing a few bills on the counter. He seemed to sigh. “Ava,” he said, his voice low, “it’s been so many years. You still hate me, don’t you?” I just smiled, saying nothing. Hate him? I didn’t have the time. I had let him go long ago. 1 I took the small shopping bag, dropped it casually into the canvas tote full of groceries, and walked out. The early autumn wind whipped around me. By the time I reached the bus stop, a place etched in my memory, my hair was plastered across my face, stinging my eyes. When I finally pushed the strands away, I saw Jason’s car idling in front of me. He saw my reddened eyes and his brow furrowed. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride.” “No, thank you. I’ll take the bus.” His eyes swept over me, from my simple clothes down to my sensible flats. When his gaze landed on the canvas tote slung over my shoulder, he asked, his voice cautious, “Have you… been doing okay these past few years?” “I’ve been great.” Jason obviously didn’t believe me. “Please, just get in. Let me drive you home.” The bus behind his car was laying on its horn, but he didn’t budge. With everyone staring, I had no choice but to get in. “Serenity Apartments,” I said, giving him the address. The car was silent for a moment before he spoke, his voice strained. “Why are you living there? That place is practically abandoned. It’s not safe for a woman alone, especially with…” He trailed off, unable to finish. But I knew what he was going to say. It was where my mother had died. Ten years ago today, she had refused to attend my wedding to Jason. Instead, she had jumped from the roof of that ten-story building. The back seat was spacious, but the heat was blasting. I cracked the window open. “You’ll catch a cold,” he said immediately. “Close it. If you’re hot, I can turn the temperature down.” I shook my head, a small smile on my face. “That doesn’t happen anymore. But do as you like.” He said nothing more. A moment later, his phone rang, the sound filling the car. “Honey, did you get the suit? Where are you now?” The voice coming through the speakers was familiar, but it held a playful, coquettish tone I’d never heard from her before. “I got it. I just ran into Ava. I’m giving her a ride.” Silence on the other end. “Ava’s back? It’s been so long! Why didn’t you say so? You’re having a reunion without me?” I had known Rosalie for over a decade and had never once heard her speak like that. She had always been quiet, reserved, an artist who poured her entire soul onto the canvas. When someone stole her spot in a competition, all she did was hide and cry. I was the one who had taken a baseball bat to the plagiarist’s entry, written a letter exposing the rigged contest, and spent three days in juvenile detention to get her justice. It’s true what they say. Unconditional love can make a person bloom. “It was just a chance encounter. She has things to do. I’ll be home right after I drop her off.” “But a chance encounter means it’s fate! What’s wrong with buying an old friend dinner?” “Rosalie, stop it.” The other end went quiet. Jason had always been gentle when he was trying to placate someone, but once his mind was made up, no one could change it. Rosalie, of all people, should have known that better than I did. The call was abruptly ended just as the car pulled up to the apartment building. “Thanks,” I said, getting out. Jason’s eyes scanned the dilapidated surroundings before he called out to me. “Ava… can I ask who that tie was for?” “My husband.” He gave a weary smile, rubbing his forehead as if he thought I was just saying it to spite him. “It’s the same brand, the same style you used to buy for me five years ago.” “And?” I met his gaze, my own perfectly calm. “You don’t have to pretend to be strong in front of me. After all this time, all I ever wanted was for you to be happy. Not… like this.” Like what? My reflection in the glass door of the building showed a woman in a casual tracksuit and flats, carrying a tote bag overflowing with groceries. The picture of an ordinary person struggling to make ends meet. But for someone who had grown accustomed to designer clothes and fine jewelry, there was nothing wrong with this picture. I smiled, not the least bit offended. “I think I’m doing just fine.” For a moment, he looked completely lost. “Ava… you’re really not the same person you used to be.” “No,” I said. “A lot of people say that.” I turned and walked away, and this time, I didn’t look back. I climbed the five flights of stairs and unlocked the door. The apartment was exactly as it had been this time last year. My mother’s black-and-white portrait sat next to the old television, the candle in front of it long since extinguished. I expertly replaced it with a new one, tied on an apron, and went into the kitchen. I quickly prepared a simple meal, setting a bowl of rice at the empty place across from me. I ate slowly. “Mom, I saw Jason today.” “Don’t worry, he can’t hurt me anymore. And I’m not as stupid as I used to be.” Only silence answered me. I had no appetite. I put down my chopsticks, went into the bedroom, and pulled out an old photo album. “Let’s look at how beautiful you were. These old black-and-white photos are so boring.” Before I could even open it, a single photograph slipped out and fluttered to the floor. When I bent to pick it up, I saw the faces. Jason. Me. Rosalie. Three young, beaming faces, laughing recklessly for the camera. I was in the middle, my arms linked through theirs, my smile the biggest of all—a gap where my right canine tooth should have been made me look goofy and utterly happy. That was the summer I turned thirteen. Loan sharks had shown up at Jason’s house, screaming and threatening to kill his family. None of the neighbors dared to intervene, not even my parents. But I ran out. The fist that was meant for Jason’s face caught me instead. My tooth shattered on impact. My face was swollen for a month. My mother, her heart aching for me, told me to stay away from the Collins family. But then Jason’s mother, her legs disabled, dragged herself to our house and knelt before my parents, banging her head on the floor as she thanked them. My mother’s heart softened. For the next ten years, there was always an extra bowl and set of chopsticks for Jason at our dinner table. Whenever we got new clothes for the holidays, there was always something for him, too. When my mother wasn’t busy, she’d help his mother with her street stall, and if anyone tried to bully her, my mother would unleash a fury so fierce they’d never dare come back. They called each other sisters. No one could have predicted that the timid, stuttering younger sister would crawl into the older sister’s husband’s bed. I came home to find our apartment destroyed. My mother stood in the middle of the room, sobbing uncontrollably, the five angry red finger marks on her cheek a terrifying sight. My father stood protectively in front of another woman. His mother. “Let’s get a divorce,” my father said. “You can have everything. All I want is Susan.” Jason, who was standing beside me, went pale and reached for his mother’s hand. My mother slapped him. Twice. Hard. I shoved her. She stumbled and fell, staring up at me in disbelief. I was crying too, but my words were like daggers. “Mom, how could you hit Jason?” The memories swirled, a chaotic mess, finally settling on the small photograph in my hand. After Jason and I divorced, I burned everything that had to do with him. I couldn’t believe this one had survived. Just as I was about to toss it in the trash, there was a knock at the door. I assumed it was Mrs. Gable from downstairs, who always stopped by at this time of year. I opened it without thinking. But it was Rosalie, holding onto Jason’s arm. She beamed at me. “Ava! It’s been so long! You haven’t changed a bit.” “Jason couldn’t say no to me. I hope we’re not interrupting, just showing up like this.” I looked at them both, my expression cool. “I won’t invite you in. Is there something you need?” Rosalie, having hit a wall, looked up at Jason with a wounded expression. “Rosalie just wanted to see you,” he said. “She brought you a gift. That’s all.” He stepped forward and placed a bag on the entryway cabinet. Rosalie immediately launched into her sales pitch. “I’ve been using this skincare line, and I absolutely love it. I had an extra set at home, and since we used to share everything, I thought I’d bring it to you.” I glanced down at the box. It looked like the same brand my housekeeper used. “That photo…” Rosalie’s eyes suddenly grew misty. “Ava, after all these years… you still haven’t let go, have you?” I crumpled the photograph in my hand and tossed it into the bin. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She reached for my hand, then stopped, her fingers hovering in mid-air. “I know you’re still holding a grudge. If you and Jason were still together, today would be your anniversary.” “What happened back then… I didn’t have a choice. If you’re really over it, then let us take you out to dinner. And if there’s anything you need, anything we can do to help, please tell us. We’re old friends, after all.” I was about to refuse without a second thought. Suddenly, the candle in front of my mother’s portrait crackled loudly. Pop. A small smile touched my lips. I changed my mind. “Alright.”

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