Category: English

I am the innocent Cinderella in a high school romance novel. I was admitted to an elite private prep school on a full merit scholarship. Cinderellas usually possess stubbornness, aloofness, integrity, and other qualities that set them apart from the rich kids. I have absolutely none of those. I’m just broke. 01 Ever since I was born, I knew very clearly that I was poor. An orphan, never enough to eat or wear, going to school with a mountain of debt. Nobody knew how I even managed to stay in school. Of course, this indirectly proved that I was an academic god. Things soon took a turn when I caught the eye of an elite prep school. Full ride for three years, plus generous scholarships. I held the acceptance letter, looking at it from every angle, absolutely thrilled. Damn, thank God I’m so good at studying. 02 The city’s top public high school had approached me before. They earnestly told me that if I enrolled there, I wouldn’t have to worry about tuition for three years, and more importantly, I’d have a healthy environment to study in. The principal sighed, “You’re a great seed, you can’t be buried.” He was hinting at something. I knew that elite prep school was notorious. Every year they took in scholarship students, and without exception, they all ended up fading into the background, chewed up by the social hierarchy. If I went there, the same fate might await me. I patted my chest. “Don’t worry, sir. I’m not like the others.” I was heading straight for their high-dollar scholarships and the school’s recycling bins. I was purely in it for the cash. 03 “An innocent little wallflower can’t survive here. I advise you to watch your back.” The redhead sitting in front of me turned around, glaring at me coldly. I poked my index fingers together shyly. “Are you gonna finish that?” The redhead: “?” She followed my gaze to the empty soda bottle in her hand. The world kisses me with pain, and I stick out my tongue. I harvested another plastic bottle. Patting my bulging, heavy-duty trash bag, I happily slung it over my shoulder and walked out. “What is that new scholarship student doing?” “A hoarder? I’ve seen her collecting everyone’s empty bottles.” “Oh my god, what a freak!” I swaggered away. These rich kids who have never experienced a day of hardship in their lives—do they know what’s in this bag? It’s eight dollars and eighty-eight cents! A whole eight dollars and eighty-eight cents! 04 Most of the time, I’d wander around the school’s dumpsters. There was a lot of good stuff there. The dumpsters at an elite prep school gave off the illusion of being a luxury recycling center. I was digging and digging when I looked up and made eye contact with a lean, pale, clean-cut guy. He wore neat, simple clothes. Seeing me, he frowned slightly. I felt like my trash bag had been exposed. I was very uneasy. Even such a niche market had competition. I guarded my bag warily. “Don’t just dig through my turf.” The guy said nonchalantly, “Does it have your name on it?” Guess not. Writing your name on a dumpster isn’t very dignified, and after brushing myself off, I’m still a dignified person. I decided to ignore him, grabbed my loot, and left. The guy followed me, carrying his own bags. Eventually, we both ended up at the exact same local recycling center. The owner greeted us with a smile; we were clearly both regulars. I later found out his name was Liam, and like me, he was a scholarship student. Liam’s eyes were a bit complex. I understood his complexity. After all, we were fierce competitors just a moment ago, and now we were kindred spirits in poverty. His gaze fell on the patches on my clothes. Liam: “You…” Me: “What? You need patches? I bought ten online, I can sell you some. Two bucks each.” Liam: “…” “Sorry, I didn’t know your situation was this tough.” I sniffled and said deeply: “It’s okay.” Liam was silent for a moment, then voluntarily handed his bag of cans to me. “Put it on her tab.” I was deeply moved. “You’re so nice.” 05 I was poor, but I was genuinely a god at studying. Taking tests was a breeze. In the statewide exams, I ranked first every time. Looking at the top of the leaderboard, Liam was also in the top ten. The name of our prep school next to our names was particularly glaring. It gave off a very smug, looking-down-on-the-world vibe. The principal was thrilled and called Liam and me to his office specifically to praise us. His old face was glowing. When he went to district meetings, he walked with his chest puffed out. Liam and I were each handed a fat bonus envelope. Principal: “Chloe, keep up the good work!” I was moved: “With money on the line, it’s a piece of cake!” Somehow, the phrase “piece of cake” spread around. There was a private forum at the school, and someone mocked me: [A broke student claiming things are a piece of cake? Is your whole life a piece of cake?] I was triggered. My life was a complete disaster. I chose to snitch. The principal was busy comforting me, while Liam, who had just walked in to drop off some papers, looked like he couldn’t bear to watch. Our principal was a man of great pride and power. He was a big shot in his youth, and in his old age, he suddenly got the urge to build a real academic legacy at this school. He immediately dragged out the guy who led the mockery, chewed him out, and demanded he apologize to me. The guy apologized reluctantly. Of course, I knew he was pissed. After leaving the principal’s office, the guy turned around, ready to mock me for being a snitch, but saw my mysterious smile. “You’re at the very bottom of the class, aren’t you?” His face instantly turned the color of a bruised plum. “How did you know… Wait! None of your business!” I put on a profound look. “Do you want to…” He was wary. “Want to what? Let me warn you, don’t think you’re a big deal just because you have good grades and the principal likes you. My family owns the Vanguard Group! My pinky is thicker than your waist!” Hearing him name-drop his billionaire family, I silently wept tears of envy in my heart. It’s so good to be rich. I hate it. I adjusted my urge to strangle him and whispered like a demon, “Do you want to secretly work hard, and then make a stunning comeback to shock everyone?” The guy froze. I pressed on: “Do you want to see your name on the honor roll?” “Do you want to hear the teachers gasp in amazement, get praised by the principal, and see your parents weep tears of joy?” His footsteps faltered. I delivered the fatal blow. “Do you want to stand at the top of your social circle and look down on everyone else?” These rich kids were still in high school, but there was always unspoken rivalry in their circles. Although grades weren’t crucial for their futures, if someone was perpetually dead last, they were definitely the prime target for being roasted. The guy gritted his teeth. “What exactly are you trying to say?” I could tell his resolve was crumbling. I was very satisfied and slapped him on the shoulder. “Miss Chloe’s tutoring classes are now open! Not $998, not $888, but for just $98, you can experience a comprehensive tutoring session from the number one student in the state!” The guy was stunned. 06 Carter never thought he’d spend his life sneaking around in an empty lounge with a scholarship student. He gritted his teeth, lowering his voice. “Chloe, I’m telling you, don’t try any tricks. I’ve got money and muscle.” With that, he pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. I snatched it with lightning speed, looking left and right warily. “Let’s begin.” Carter was suspicious. “Is this really necessary? You’re acting like we’re doing a drug deal.” … Carter’s academic foundation was shockingly terrible. To sum it up, in all my life, I had never seen a talent level this abstractly bad. Fortunately, he listened and was willing to use his brain. There was hope. After one session, Carter looked as if his soul had been purified. He stared blankly at the math problems he had understood and solved perfectly, gripping his pen tightly. This… he actually solved this! He looked at me as if I was glowing—emitting the light of knowledge. Now he understood the value of this session. Carter took a deep breath. To be honest, his family had hired top-tier private tutors for him, but for some reason, he just couldn’t absorb anything, no matter how they guided him. I sincerely explained that the reason was simple: Carter’s brain and theirs were not on the same wavelength. Carter: “?” Those highly-paid tutors had grown up around people of their own caliber. They had never seen an abstract anomaly like Carter. But I was different. For the right price, I could adjust my thinking down to his exact level. Hehe. 07 We agreed to weekly tutoring. Carter generously offered to pay double the market rate per hour. I agreed and symbolically signed a one-month contract with him. Carter was displeased. “Why only three times a week? I can hire you every day. As long as the results are good, raising your salary isn’t an issue.” Nope. Three times a week was it. I wasn’t someone who put all her eggs in one basket. Turning around, I added Carter’s mortal enemy, the second-to-last student in the grade, Mason. “Tutoring services available. DM for info.” Mason: “?” I earnestly described his current situation and informed him that if he didn’t make some changes, he would soon replace Carter as dead last. Mason scoffed. “Joke. Carter could have all the tutors in the world and he’d still be dead last.” That sentence came to an abrupt halt when I sent him a photo of Carter’s latest passing quiz score. Me: “Oops, wrong chat.” The person on the screen went silent. He was struggling. A long while later, he sent a message. “Um, let’s meet and talk.” 08 Soon, Mason’s schedule was locked in too. Monday, Wednesday, Friday for Carter. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday for Mason. The great tutoring enterprise was booming. Two individuals were quietly rising in the elite prep school. In Carter’s words, he never wanted to be the butt of the joke again. In Mason’s words, he absolutely could not accept Carter surpassing him. Earning two incomes wasn’t easy. I would frequently and casually leak a bit of Carter’s progress to Mason, or “accidentally” leave behind one of Carter’s passing quizzes. I’d cover my mouth in surprise. “Oh, where did this come from?” Mason’s pupils would earthquake as he stared intently at the paper. “Can we add an extra hour today? I’ll pay triple.” Me: “Deal.” And I’d casually praise his strong drive to succeed. Mason ate it up and studied even harder. With Carter, it was even easier to trigger his competitive spirit. After all, he had nowhere to retreat to. The dead last couldn’t exactly drop to negative first, could he? 09 As time went on, I was exhausted every day. I take back what I said about money being easy to make. The money was hard to earn, and the struggle was real. Tutoring wasn’t hard; it depended on who I was facing. Sometimes I broke down: “Is what’s between your ears actually a brain?” I understood the pain of being a corporate wage slave now. I felt like I should be charging them for emotional distress. One day, rubbing the dark circles under my eyes, I walked out of the lounge, half-asleep. Suddenly, someone stood in front of me. Liam was wearing a student council prefect armband, holding a blue folder in one hand and a black pen in the other. His gaze was faintly probing. “Chloe.” I instantly snapped to attention. I was quite wary of Liam. This guy always had a faint, lingering presence. When we showed up at the same recycling center, we were destined not to get along—this was a unilateral declaration on my part. Just as I thought he’d say something like, “This is my dumpster, please don’t touch it, or I’ll deduct all your points,” Liam looked down and scribbled furiously with his pen. “No school blazer. Minus two points.” Me: “…” Bro, seriously? 10 Liam stared at my dark circles, stayed silent for a moment, and carefully chose his words. “Watch your reputation.” I answered honestly, “Yes, I know, not wearing the blazer is my fault, but is it possible I don’t even own this school’s uniform?” I heard it was custom-made by some high-end luxury brand. Other students: “This brand isn’t exclusive enough.” “Horrible, I have to wear this?” “Is the school this broke? I’ll ask my dad to fund another building!” Just saying things that made me want to jump off a cliff. Here, Liam paused for a moment and suddenly asked, “You don’t know?” I was confused. What was I supposed to know? Liam thought for a second, then suddenly handed me his phone. He pointed at the screen. I looked and immediately saw a massive headline. [Innocent Cinderella Not as She Seems! Daily Secret Rendezvous! M-W-F With Him, T-Th-S With…] I scratched my head. Sounded like a trashy clickbait title from some tabloid. What kind of drama was happening now? But scrolling down, the first photo was a massive close-up of my drooping face with giant dark circles. Me: “?” Innocent high school girl instantly transforms into the ghost from The Ring. I was furious: “Who took such an ugly picture!”

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My boyfriend suffered from severe clinical depression. Between his weekly psychiatric therapy sessions and his prescription medications, his treatment cost over $3,000 a month. To keep him afloat, I worked myself into the ground, taking on endless freelance graphic design commissions while grinding 12-hour shifts for DoorDash. My friends constantly warned me I was going to literally work myself to death. Until one day, I snagged an incredibly high-paying delivery order going to an ultra-exclusive, gated billionaire community. I carefully carried the $2,500 premium Omakase sushi order to the front door, offering it respectfully to the customer. But when I looked up… I saw my supposedly depressed, struggling boyfriend, who was supposed to be at his therapy session, standing in the doorway. He looked at me in absolute, horrified shock. 01 “Aren’t you supposed to be at the clinic, Liam?” I stared at the breathtakingly luxurious, custom-built mansion behind him. My left hand gripped the handles of the takeout bag so tightly my knuckles turned white, aching from the pressure. Even though it was nearly 100 degrees outside, my entire body was violently shivering, as if I had been plunged into an ice bath. A place like this… I had only ever seen mansions like this in Hollywood movies. “Chloe, please, I’m so sorry. Let me explain. Dr. Miller had a sudden emergency this afternoon…” “I’m just visiting a friend’s house. I swear.” Caught completely off guard, Liam lost his composure and frantically grabbed my uniform sleeve. It was his signature move whenever he needed to apologize. It worked flawlessly every single time. But today, it meant absolutely nothing. I coldly slapped his hand away. The custom-tailored, designer linen shirt he was wearing had no visible logo, but the cruel irony was that it fit him perfectly—far better than the cheap, thrift-store clothes he usually wore. It exuded the effortless, old-money aura of a trust-fund kid. I lowered my eyes, pulling out my phone to open the Mount Sinai Hospital appointment app. I saw that Dr. Miller, his psychiatrist, had completely open availability for the entire afternoon. I didn’t even have the energy to call out his lie. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I forced my mind to clear. Maintaining a deadpan expression, I kept my voice terrifyingly calm: “Is this fun for you, Liam?” “Pretending to be a broke, depressed, struggling kid while you’re with me. Acting like you couldn’t even afford a $5 Starbucks coffee… when in reality, you’re a billionaire heir who drops $2,500 on a single lunch order!” My lips trembled. I glared at the man standing in front of me with pure, unadulterated resentment, completely unaware of when the tears had started pouring down my face. “You really… you played me for an absolute idiot.” “Two thousand five hundred dollars! I would have to run hundreds of deliveries… I’d have to work for months just to earn that…” The most agonizing, hilarious irony of it all? The only app running in the background of my phone… Was the text message I had sent Liam half an hour ago. I told him I was going to treat us tonight and make his favorite homemade chicken noodle soup. Because the customer in this ultra-rich neighborhood had been incredibly generous and tipped me $100 on the app. I just never, in my wildest nightmares, imagined that the $100 tip was given to me by Liam himself. 02 Liam used to hold me in the dead of night, whispering that the only thing in the universe he would never doubt was my love for him. He said even his own parents’ love wasn’t as pure and unconditional as mine. Those intimate whispers used to fill me with joy. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world to find genuine, unfiltered devotion in a society where true love felt nonexistent. But looking back at it now… No one in their right mind could possibly be as stupid as me. Risking heatstroke riding a bike in 100-degree weather just to earn a $5 delivery bonus, desperately trying to scrape together enough cash to cover his medical bills for the month. “I haven’t slept more than five hours a night in months. I literally dream about the day you finally recover.” “And you knew exactly what I was doing for you. Didn’t you?” My voice cracked, choked by rising sobs. The facade of calm on Liam’s face finally shattered. His eyes reddened, and he gave a slow, agonizing nod. In our cramped, claustrophobic, 300-square-foot studio apartment, where we had to walk thirty minutes just to reach the nearest subway station… He watched me exhaust myself to the bone. He watched me break pennies in half trying to budget our meals. He watched me live in absolute squalor while desperately paying to support his twisted, fake “poverty simulation.” All to cure a clinical depression that he completely made up for his little roleplay. He watched the entire thing unfold from above, completely detached, like a god observing a pathetic ant. “I’ll wire a massive sum of money to your bank account. Consider it compensation.” “I’m so sorry, Chloe. I really messed up.” Liam hung his head, his eyes filled with guilt and profound panic. Realizing there was absolutely no lie he could invent to dig his way out of this, he simply gave up. My fingers stiffened as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled, half-meter-long receipt for the sushi order. It listed the most elite, imported cuts of Wagyu and Toro available. I crushed it into a tight ball and hurled it as hard as I could directly at his face. Liam didn’t dodge. His expression was a horrific mix of grief and devastating regret. The central air conditioning blowing from the open mansion door sent a chilling breeze over my sweat-soaked skin. Amidst the buzzing of the summer cicadas, I heard the sharp, rhythmic clicking of heels approaching from inside the house. Followed instantly by a whiny, flirtatious female voice: “Liam, babe? Is the food not here yet? I’m literally starving to death!” 03 Liam and I both froze. His expression violently twisted in panic. We both turned our heads to see a young woman wearing a sheer, silk lace slip dress walking toward the door. Liam frantically stepped forward to block her. “Why did you come out? I’ll be right inside, baby, just go back in.” But the girl seemed determined to see what was going on. She stepped around Liam, flashing a brilliant, saccharine smile at me. Her large, doe-like eyes held a glimmer of recognition, quickly followed by absolute, undisguised contempt. “Who is this…?” Nobody answered. Seeing our dead silence, the corners of her lips curled into a smirk. She casually, possessively linked her arm through Liam’s, subtly tugging the strap of her blush-pink, translucent slip dress down her shoulder. The dark, bruised hickeys on her neck, and the curves visible beneath the silk… were impossible to ignore. She leaned her entire body weight against Liam, looking completely boneless and incredibly intimate. The man’s panicked, terrified gaze darted back to me. I turned my head away in absolute despair, squeezing my eyes shut. My hair, soaked in sweat, stuck uncomfortably to my cheeks. My temples throbbed with a sharp, spiking agony. Even if I was legally brain-dead, I would know exactly what had been happening inside that house. I originally thought I was just the unlucky idiot caught in a billionaire’s poverty roleplay. But looking at them now, I realized I was also the pathetic side-character in a rich kid’s twisted romance drama. It was absolutely, profoundly sickening. I didn’t want to stay there a second longer. I turned around, packed up my insulated delivery bag, and prepared to leave. But the girl suddenly called out to me: “Wait a second. Are you the pathetic little ‘slum-girl’ Liam was playing around with off-campus?” “I didn’t recognize you in that disgusting delivery uniform, but… you’re Chloe Vance from the Liberal Arts department, aren’t you?” 04 I stopped moving and turned back to stare at her. After thirty seconds, I finally placed her face. She was a senior, one year ahead of me. The gorgeous, ultra-wealthy, universally worshipped “It Girl” of our university: Stella Dupont. But we had bad blood. Because she used her family’s massive corporate donations to pull strings behind the scenes and successfully stole the low-income, merit-based university grant that was supposed to go to me. Because of that, I never sucked up to Stella like the rest of the student body did. Seeing the dark, hostile look in my eyes, Stella’s grip on Liam’s arm tightened even more. She put on an exaggerated, delighted expression, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness: “I can’t believe it, Liam! Remember last year when I casually complained to you about how annoying and stuck-up that fake-smart junior was?” “You asked me a few questions about her, and then you actually went and ruined Chloe Vance’s life for me! I have to say, your methods are absolutely brilliant. Truly incredible…” Stella tilted her chin up, glaring at me like I was an insect, and continued: “So brilliant that you managed to play Chloe Vance—the untouchable academic prodigy of the Liberal Arts department—like an absolute, pathetic dog.” My hands, hanging limply by my sides, slowly curled into fists. The freezing air conditioning from the mansion hit my skin, but it didn’t cool the volcanic rage erupting in my chest. To these people, the futures, emotions, money, and blood, sweat, and tears of ordinary people were just annoying weeds growing by the side of the road. They didn’t just ignore us—they actively went out of their way to crush us under their designer shoes and spit on us for fun. Stella leaned up and kissed Liam’s cheek—a reward for his successful, years-long psychological torture of me. She shot me a deeply provocative, mocking look. Then, as if suddenly remembering a hilarious inside joke, her expression turned bizarrely manic as she asked: “Oh, Chloe. Did Liam tell you he suffered from severe clinical depression?” I furrowed my brow, not denying it. Seeing my reaction, the woman practically doubled over in hysterical laughter. The words that spilled from her mouth sent a wave of absolute, freezing horror straight into my bones. “That’s because I told him… that you had a younger brother who committed suicide because of severe clinical depression.” “I told him that as long as he claimed to have depression, you would be stupid enough to fall for it instantly.” “And look at that. I was right.” 05 The second the words left her mouth, the air in the entryway went completely dead. The only sound left was the buzzing of the cicadas. My brain literally exploded. Every last shred of rational thought I possessed evaporated. I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted blood, ripped my delivery helmet off my head, gripped it by the strap, and viciously hurled it directly at Liam’s face. If I swallowed this kind of humiliation and just walked away, I might as well just lay down and die. My chest heaving violently, I screamed at the top of my lungs: “Depression, huh?! Pretending to be broke, huh?! You love targeting people’s deepest trauma, don’t you?!” “You absolutely deserved it when your parents ignored you! You deserved to watch your father beat your mother half to death right in front of you! Why the fuck didn’t he just beat you to death while he was at it?!” “I’M GOING TO BEAT YOU TO DEATH FOR HIM RIGHT NOW!” During the year Liam and I lived together—whether it was all an act on his end or not—we did share our deepest vulnerabilities with each other. So I knew perfectly well that his ultimate, unforgivable trauma was the profound neglect and abuse he suffered from his parents, and the fact that he grew up utterly devoid of familial love. And right now, that trauma became my ultimate weapon. I weaponized his deepest pain and used it to butcher him. Before either of them could react, I threw myself forward, raining a barrage of savage, brutal punches directly onto Liam’s face. Fueled by blinding, explosive rage, I was gasping for air. The chronic sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion from working three jobs caught up to me, and my vision started swimming. The exact second Stella brought up my little brother, Noah… the fragile dam holding back my sanity completely shattered. He was my reverse scale. The one thing in this universe absolutely no one was allowed to touch. Until Stella forcefully dragged me away from him, Liam didn’t raise a single finger to defend himself. He covered his mouth. His hands were covered in blood. “Liam! Are you okay?! I’m calling the cops right now!” “This crazy bitch has lost her mind! How dare she hit you?! I’m going to call my dad and have her…” Stella’s furious, panicked voice broke into a sob. But Liam grabbed her wrist, shaking his head slowly. “Don’t. Stop.” “This is all… my fault. I owe her this.” He brushed his messy, blood-stained hair out of his eyes, stood up straight, and walked over to me. He pulled a heavy, solid-metal Amex Black Card from his pocket and handed it to me. “The PIN is your birthday. I know the damage I’ve done is permanent, and I can never fix it, but… just take it. I am so sorry.” I let out a harsh, freezing laugh. The look I gave him was filled with absolutely nothing but pure, unadulterated hatred and ice. “Go to hell.” I violently snatched the Black Card from his fingers, dropped those three words, turned around, and walked away. 06 The card had $110,000 on it. After demanding my final paycheck from the delivery app’s contractor company, I officially quit my job. My 250-square-foot studio apartment. You could see the entire place in a single glance. Back then, the reason Liam and I moved out of the university dorms and rented this place was because he claimed his depressive, psychosomatic symptoms were getting worse, and he desperately needed me by his side every day. Honestly, I wasn’t completely defenseless when Liam forcefully, aggressively barged into my life. But when I saw that he suffered from the exact same agonizing illness as my little brother… my heart softened. My judgment blurred. Looking back, it was impossible to tell if my feelings for him were actually love, or just a desperate, manic attempt to compensate for the infinite, crushing guilt I felt over my brother’s death. I was obsessed. I was violently, obsessively determined to cure Liam’s depression. It felt like if I could just save him… the suffocating nightmare of my past would finally let me breathe. I suppose, over the course of a year, we accumulated quite a few things. But looking at all the matching couples’ items, the coffee mugs, the watches, the little anniversary souvenirs… they felt like acid burning my eyes. So I threw every single one of them into the trash. Listening to the rattling hum of the ancient, window-unit AC, I stared at the ceiling. Finally freed from the grueling, endless exhaustion of working myself to death, I fell into a deep, heavy sleep. In my dreams, I couldn’t even count how many times I saw Noah lying in that bathtub. He lay there, completely drained of color, submerged in deep crimson water. His skin was as pale as porcelain. He had no warmth. He had no pulse. The empty pill bottle had tumbled from his limp fingertips. His long, delicate eyelashes were resting softly against his cheeks—looking exactly the way he did when he waited up for me while I studied, dozing off on the couch. Only this time, he would never open his eyes again. He would never rub his sleepy eyes and ask me when I was coming to bed. On his phone, he had deleted every single chat history with every person he knew. The only thing left was a final message sent to me: “I’m so sorry, Chloe.” Along with a Venmo transfer for $512.43. It was every single penny he had to his name. That year, the spring flowers were blooming brighter than ever. Noah, who was brilliant, kind, and possessed all the potential in the world, chose the most beautiful season to leave it. And I… I was permanently trapped in that spring forever. 07 The rustling of plastic bags near the front door jolted me awake. A man wearing a black dress shirt was crouching next to the trash can, suspiciously digging through the garbage. “Who’s there?” The man froze, then slowly turned around. It was Liam. He was wearing a surgical mask, and there were several white bandages on his face from where I had beaten him. I rubbed my pounding temples, completely forgetting that he still had a key to the apartment. The matching rings, the coffee mugs, the watches, and the souvenirs I had thrown away that afternoon had all been meticulously dug out of the trash and lined up perfectly on the floor. “Why the hell are you digging through my garbage?” Hearing my voice, Liam lowered his eyes, his expression unreadable. “I just came to pack a few last things before I leave.” “These are all cheap, worthless garbage. A billionaire heir actually wants them?” I sat up on the bed, casually glancing around the room to see if there was anything else important I needed to pack. Now that it was over, I planned to just move back into my university dorm. I was going to terminate the lease on this place tomorrow. Liam held the cheap, $50 silver couple’s ring in his hand, gently rubbing his thumb over the metal. His voice was low and devastatingly lonely: “Chloe, I know you don’t believe me, but I really, genuinely loved you. I really only trusted you…” “No one in my entire life has ever loved me with that kind of pure, raw honesty. I didn’t want to lose you.” I waved my hand dismissively, letting out a dark scoff. The memory of what happened this afternoon flashed through my mind like a cruel joke. “Pure honesty? What, because you loved me so much, you purposely manipulated me into delivering the food for your post-sex meal with your mistress? Am I supposed to get on my knees and thank you?” “I can explain what happened with Stella! We never slept together! Me dating her in the first place was just a casual agreement from way back then!” “And I’ve wanted to break up with her for months! I realized that the person I truly, actually love is…” “There is absolutely no need to discuss this anymore.” I cut him off, my voice freezing cold, my eyes completely dead. The leaky faucet in the bathroom dripped rhythmically into a plastic bucket. The plumbing had been broken for years. To save a few dollars on the water bill, I always kept a bucket under it to catch the drips. The money I saved was literal pennies. When a fake, manufactured love is finally exposed, the words they use to justify it just sound pathetic and hilarious. The moment his sick, twisted psychological trap was exposed, regardless of whether his feelings were genuine or not, an uncrossable, infinite abyss had permanently opened between us. “Honestly, Liam. When you used the exact method my little brother used to kill himself as a prop to manipulate me into loving you… did you ever stop to think that the karma would eventually boomerang right back and hit you in the head?” “What do you mean?” I didn’t answer. I just furrowed my brow, opened the front door, and gestured for him to get out. Seeing my utterly resolute, emotionless expression, a flash of deep, agonizing hurt crossed his eyes. He hastily shoved all the items from the floor into his designer backpack and stood up. “Stop pretending to have clinical depression.” “Because for every single sociopath like you who fakes it for attention, the stigma against depression gets exponentially worse. And people who actually, desperately need help… get completely ignored.” People like Noah. After a long, suffocating silence, the man standing in front of me slowly nodded his head. Then, Liam reached behind the door and pulled out a grocery bag filled with fresh pork ribs and lotus root. He had seen the text I sent him earlier about making his favorite soup. “Could you… make me lotus root soup one last time?” “No. I’m sure your family’s private Michelin-star chef makes it infinitely better.” “I only like the way you make it.” “Chloe… why can’t you just trust me one more time? Why won’t you give me one last chance?” His voice cracked, choked with tears. I never imagined that Liam, having reclaimed his status as an untouchable, ultra-wealthy billionaire heir, would ever wear an expression of absolute, desperate begging on his face. Right now, in this exact moment, his behavior completely contradicted the rules of his twisted little “poverty simulation” game. Regardless of whether his tears were real or fake, I remained completely, utterly unmoved. I stared at him in dead silence. He knew I was rejecting him. He reached his hand out, desperately wanting to grab my arm, but eventually let it drop to his side. Before he walked out the door, Liam’s eyes were bloodshot. He turned back and looked at me one last time. “Do you still love me?” “No.” “Could you ever… love me again?” “Never.”

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He couldn’t wait to pursue his heartbroken “first love.” And I started dating my former high school desk mate who just returned from abroad. I thought we both had bright futures ahead of us. Until the day I sincerely wished him luck in finding his true love. He lost his mind and interrogated me: “Who gave you permission to actually forget about me?!” I don’t understand. Was his amnesia fake this whole time? 01 I broke up with Wes. It happened on our two-year anniversary. We got into a car accident and both woke up with amnesia. Our close friends came to the hospital and told us we were a couple. Wes took a long, hard look at me, raised an eyebrow, and made a swift decision: “Since neither of us remembers, let’s just say we aren’t together anymore.” I understood what he meant, but I was still hesitant: “But we’ll probably get our memories back someday. What if we regret it when we do? Besides, everyone knows we’re dating.” He chuckled softly, sounding completely certain: “If you truly like someone, even if you forget the memories, you wouldn’t forget the feeling of liking them. Plus, who’s to say if we’ll ever get our memories back anyway?” He had a point. Even the doctors couldn’t guarantee when, or if, our memories would return. They only suggested we interact with people and things from our past, hoping it might trigger something. The doctors explained that there are many types of amnesia. Ours likely fell under selective amnesia—we only forgot specific people or events. For instance, Wes and I forgot that we were dating, and we forgot each other. But we remembered everything and everyone else perfectly fine. They said this condition was likely a defense mechanism triggered by extreme physical or psychological trauma. The brain chose to seal away bad memories. Unless the patient subconsciously wanted to unlock those memories, external intervention wouldn’t do much good. When our friends came to visit and heard the explanation, they came to a sudden realization and summarized: “Ah, so basically, you can never wake a person who’s pretending to be asleep.” I lowered my head and breathed softly. I turned to look at Wes, who was pressing his lips together in silence. He turned his face away and scoffed: “If we’re both willing to forget, it means it wasn’t important.” True. One person forgetting might be a coincidence. Both people forgetting means it definitely wasn’t important. Originally, when I woke up in the hospital, saw him, and was told he was my boyfriend—yet I had completely forgotten him—I felt nervous and insecure. I met his scrutinizing gaze and apologized guiltily: “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.” I hadn’t expected him to smile as if a massive weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “It’s okay. I forgot you too.” And so, our two-year relationship was officially null and void in that exact moment. Wes couldn’t even wait. He immediately posted a story on Instagram: [The End.] Announcing to everyone that we had broken up. The first person to comment was Chloe. She teased: “Wes, why are you always copying me? ~” Copying what? When she started dating someone, he started dating someone. When she broke up, he broke up. Chloe and Wes went to high school together. When we got to college, she became my roommate. She was the one who originally introduced Wes to me. She said: “Keep the good stuff in the family, right? First come, first served. What do you think? Is my high school friend handsome or what?” He was indeed very handsome. Tall, long legs, sharp features. Especially when he smiled, there was a cool but boyish charm about him that was incredibly attractive. So attractive that the first time I saw him, I wanted to be with him. Because of Chloe, we gradually got to know each other. On the exact night Chloe announced her relationship online, Wes confessed his feelings to me. And now, coincidentally, we were all single again. 02 Everything reset to zero. But Wes still showed up outside our dorm building every single day. He was there to see Chloe. Unlike Wes and me, whose relationship ended because of amnesia, she still remembered her past relationship and was inevitably struggling to move on. Wes tried every way possible to cheer her up. When I was walking back to the dorm from the library, I saw them outside the building. Wes placed a bag of roasted chestnuts and a box of begonia pastries—which apparently required a three-hour wait in line—into Chloe’s hands. He comforted her gently: “Don’t be sad. Tomorrow I’ll take you to the arcade.” “I’ll win you as many of those Cinnamoroll plushies as you want.” The next second, he looked up and saw me walking toward them. The lobby lights were too bright, so I couldn’t clearly see his backlit expression, but I distinctly felt him stiffen. Probably because we had just broken up. Even if we were now strangers who were worse off than friends. Chloe, on the other hand, walked over to me with red eyes as soon as she saw me. She had clearly been crying, but she still smiled bravely and said: “Olivia, don’t misunderstand. There’s nothing going on between Wes and me. Once he gets his memory back, everything will be fine. Right now, he’s just helping me distract myself from my breakup.” This wasn’t the first time she had said this to me, even though every time I would calmly tell her: “It’s fine. I don’t remember anyway, and we’ve already broken up.” The next time we met, she would say it again, as if she were absolutely certain we would regain our memories and get back together. She would even sigh enviously: “I wish I had amnesia like you guys. Then I wouldn’t have to be this heartbroken.” She was indeed very heartbroken. So heartbroken that right after her breakup, she would often go out to get drunk. Once, she ran into her ex at a bar celebrating a friend’s birthday and mistakenly thought he was with a new girl. She ran over and started a massive scene. When the guy yelled at her to stop, Wes rushed over and started a fistfight with them. Bottles and cake shattered all over the floor, ruining the birthday party. During the chaos, someone slashed Wes’s face with a broken bottle, leaving a bloody gash. Looking at the wound on his face, I had panicked, losing control of my emotions and blurting out: “Wes, can you please not be so impulsive next time?!” He casually wiped the blood off his wound. “If I’m not impulsive, do I just wait for them to bully Chloe? Didn’t that piece of trash deserve to be hit? Chloe is in so much pain, what right does he have to happily celebrate someone else’s birthday?” I thought he was being completely unreasonable, but I still softened my voice and pleaded: “Then at least be careful next time and don’t get your face hurt, okay?” I only knew about these past events because I read them in my diary. I had always kept a diary. It also recorded that shortly after we started dating, we walked past a row of claw machines after watching a movie. I excitedly wanted to try to win a little yellow butter-dog plushie. But Wes just shoved his hands in his pockets and said dismissively: “That’s too childish. Claw machines are for little kids.” But now, he was telling Chloe he was going to take her to the arcade and win her as many Cinnamoroll plushies as she wanted. I figured it was probably the amnesia that caused his change in perspective. Just like my diary mentioned he once said that waiting in line for three hours just for some overly sweet begonia pastries was a massive waste of time. I never won the yellow butter-dog plushie, and I never got to eat the begonia pastries. And I don’t know if he meant the pastries were a waste of time. Or if I was. 03 Wes really didn’t like the conversations Chloe and I had. She would say there was nothing going on between them. I would say we had already broken up. Every time he heard this, Wes would always interject in annoyance: “If a feeling can be forgotten, how strong could it have been anyway? Even if she remembers, we’re not getting back together.” Yeah, forgotten is forgotten. It means it wasn’t love enough. The past was like smoke; one breath and it scattered. There was nothing worth holding onto. I had zero interest in how their relationship developed, but somehow I kept running into them almost every single day. Junior year coursework was heavy. Wes wasn’t even in the same college as us, yet he would skip his own classes every day just to accompany Chloe to hers. I guess Wes had never done that for me, because it wasn’t long before a girl asked Chloe: “Wow, is this your boyfriend? He’s so handsome~” Chloe immediately smiled and waved her hands, explaining as the light in Wes’s eyes noticeably dimmed: “No, no, we’re just friends.” The girl gave a knowing “Oh~,” her gaze darting between the two of them before she said: “Friends, huh…” She didn’t say the rest, leaving it entirely to the imagination. She was probably wondering what kind of “friend” would accompany her to class every day, buy her favorite boba tea every time he came, take her out to eat right after class, and purposely sit between her and any other guys. Or what kind of “friend” would, on a rainy day, shield her so completely from the rain that half his own body got soaked. Which directly resulted in him catching a bad fever. So much so that when he accompanied Chloe to class the next day, he was so sick he spent the entire time slumped on the desk, half-asleep. During the break between lectures, he suddenly spoke in a hoarse voice: “Olivia, I feel so sick…” His voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it was incredibly abrupt. People around us turned to look at me sitting a few rows back. Even Chloe asked him nervously: “Wes, did… did you remember?” My pen paused. I looked up, then quickly looked back down at my notebook. After a long silence, I heard him say very quietly: “I’m dizzy. My head is cloudy.” Maybe he really was delirious. Because at noon, when I went to the campus clinic to buy some Vitamin C and coincidentally ran into him getting an IV drip, he looked at me through his exhaustion and the very first thing he said was: “Is it shrimp and vegetable porridge again this time?” The moment the words left his mouth, we both froze. Of course I knew why he said that. My diary recorded that in the past, every time he got sick, I would bring him shrimp and vegetable porridge and eat it with him. He used to frown and say helplessly: “Let’s get a different flavor next time.” I would smile sweetly and agree, but the next time, I would still buy the shrimp and vegetable. Over time, he just got used to it. But now, he blurted it out while he supposedly had amnesia. In the silent standoff, his gaze dropped to my empty hands. Only then did he seem to snap back to reality. Meeting my slightly stunned eyes, he said stiffly: “Don’t misunderstand. I didn’t get my memory back. I just… it was just a muscle memory response. Yeah, it probably happened in the past.” I didn’t care about his stumbling explanation. I just gave him an indifferent smile, said “No misunderstanding,” and left the clinic with my Vitamin C. I could feel his gaze lingering on my back for a long time. I didn’t turn around. The phone in my pocket vibrated. It was the alarm for my part-time job—tutoring a high school student in math, physics, and chemistry. I grabbed my prepared lesson plans and hurried over. The moment I walked through the door, my student ran out of the study excitedly and called out: “Miss Olivia!” The next second, another figure walked out of the study. He had a clean, striking, and sharply handsome presence. Holding a test paper between his fingers, his gaze landed directly and unapologetically on my face. As our eyes met, my smile froze. My student excitedly told me: “Miss Olivia, this is the older cousin I told you about before—the one whose grades were just as trash as mine! Chase Vance. He just got back to the States today.” Then she turned to him proudly and said: “This is the Miss Olivia I was talking about. she’s amazing. She goes to Columbia University, my dream school.” Chase stood casually by the door, one hand in his pocket. Hearing her introduction, he looked at me with a half-smile and said: “Miss Olivia…” “Long time no see.” 04 It had been a long time since we parted ways right before high school graduation. So long that I thought I would never see him again in this lifetime. My high school desk mate—Chase Vance. The impression he left on me was way too deep. After all, back then, his absolutely garbage grades made him look incredibly out of place in our elite AP classes. His personality was cold, ruthless, and total delinquent energy. For a very long time, I genuinely believed he had absolutely nothing going for him except his face. Until one day after P.E. class, I accidentally got locked in the equipment room. It was a Friday evening, and the school was emptying out fast. I tried over and over to climb up to the high window, but I kept failing. Just as I was hopelessly curled up in the darkening corner, the equipment room door was violently kicked open. Light poured in. Slowly revealing Chase’s silhouette. I have to admit, in that situation, backlit by the fading sun, he really did look like a god descending from the heavens. I stood up and earnestly thanked him. He stepped closer, lowered his eyes, and smiled: “Verbal thanks isn’t enough, Olivia. I plan on cashing in this favor.” It wasn’t exactly an unacceptable form of repayment. He just wanted me to tutor him. When we first started high school, I had seen him looking frustrated at his tests that scored in the teens, and out of the kindness of my heart, I had tried to explain the problems to him. Back then, he just glared at me coldly and said acting tough: “Mind your own business. Who wants to listen to you lecture!” But the next time he encountered the same type of question, he remembered the method I had shown him and actually wrote it down. It’s just that his vibe was too aggressive. No matter how kind and enthusiastic I tried to be, I eventually backed off. I never expected him to actually ask for help himself. I guess he did have some ambition after all. Later, we grew much closer through the tutoring sessions. During those years of youth where all I knew was burying my head in books and studying, it felt like my entire life consisted of nothing but schoolwork and Chase. Once, I got sick and had to take time off to stay in the hospital. My parents were too busy with work to visit, but the person who showed up in my hospital room was Chase. I lay in the hospital bed, looking at him with his backpack slung over one shoulder, completely shocked: “You skipped class?” He raised an eyebrow and looked at me: “Is that really so surprising?” True. When we first started high school, him skipping class was a daily occurrence. But ever since we started tutoring, he hadn’t skipped once, so I had slowly forgotten about it. Seeing I didn’t say anything else, he swung his backpack off and said calmly: “I came to listen to you lecture, Miss Olivia.” I was appalled and accused him: “Chase, are you some kind of evil capitalist? I’m sick and you’re still making me work through an injury! This is exploitation!” He let out a light chuckle and pulled a takeout container out of his backpack. Suddenly, his demeanor grew serious, and even his voice softened as he said: “Yeah. Compensation for exploiting you.” It was shrimp and vegetable porridge. The hospital room was quiet, the faint glow of the sunset seeping through the window. He slowly and patiently sat with me while I ate my porridge. I held my spoon, tilted my head, and smiled at him: “Thank you, Chase.” He was the only person who came to the hospital to see me. The comfort of peaceful days always makes people assume there’s plenty of time ahead. Little did I know that tragedy always strikes when you least expect it. Right before graduation, a criminal my father—a police officer—had arrested was released from prison. Seeking revenge, the man intentionally tried to run me over with his car. At the critical moment, Chase pushed me out of the way. Amidst the chaos, I threw myself in front of him. He was covered in blood. I didn’t even dare to touch him. All I remember is that through my blurred vision, he seemed to use the last ounce of his strength to pull the corners of his mouth into a weak smile: “Stop crying. Wait for me to wake up so I can cash in my favor.” I didn’t get to wait. Because he completely vanished from my life. The medical staff told me his family had taken him away. Honestly, I already knew. The way a kid with dead-last grades got into the AP classes, the way the homeroom teacher treated him with absolute reverence… the gap between our worlds was so massive that it was practically impossible for me to ever find him. It didn’t really matter. I knew he would get the best medical care possible. I just felt a deep sense of regret. I never got the chance to properly say thank you. He saved my life. How exactly did he want me to repay him?

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On the seventh year of my body being stolen, I finally took it back. “She” had already used my body to get married and become pregnant. I immediately filed for divorce and terminated the pregnancy. The news of the marriage collapsing dominated the trending charts, but I couldn’t care less. All I wanted was to find my true love, the man she had left completely broken and covered in scars. 01 “Evie, time to wake up.” A man looked at me with eyes full of tenderness. He reached out, trying to brush a stray strand of hair from my forehead. I turned my face away, dodging his touch. Looking at this man—whom I had been forced to watch for seven years—I spoke with a voice as cold as ice: “Let’s get a divorce.” He seemed to freeze, the expression on his face going completely blank. I didn’t care. I stood up, walked over to the window, and reached out my hand to feel the long-lost warmth of the sunlight. For seven years, ever since my car crash, I had watched that woman invade my body. She squeezed my soul into a dark corner and banished me from my own life. Wearing my flesh, she disguised herself as me, basking in the love and pampering of my wealthy family. And worse—she used my actual true love as a stepping stone, a disposable pawn. She ruthlessly exploited him, greedily draining every drop of blood from his body, before laughing in his face and telling him she didn’t love him anymore. Her love for him had simply “vanished.” I watched, paralyzed and helpless, as my true love spiraled into madness, self-doubt, severe depression, and eventually, attempted to end his own life. When he was lying in the ICU, murmuring my name through bruised lips, his parents begged her to just come see him once. But she said: “I have a new boyfriend now. I can’t keep stringing my ex along. My new boyfriend is very sensitive; he’d get jealous.” From that moment on, our two families severed all ties. Decades of deep friendship burned to ashes. Faced with my parents’ confusion and suspicion, she deliberately poured gasoline on the fire, actively trying to alienate everyone who truly knew me. That way, she wouldn’t have to keep up the exhausting act of pretending to be me. She could recklessly be herself. She could recklessly use my face, my reputation, and even my creative work to chase after her celebrity crush. I looked down, surveying my body inch by inch. The calluses on my fingers from years of playing the piano had faded significantly. Instead, there were flashy, neon-colored acrylic nails covered in rhinestones. My pin-straight black hair had been dyed and curled into waves. These were all the parasitic marks she had left on me. Until my eyes dropped to my slightly swollen lower abdomen. A violent wave of nausea washed over me. “She” was pregnant. The initial euphoria of reclaiming my body instantly mutated into absolute disgust. It felt like a bucket of freezing water had been dumped over my head. A thief and a total stranger had used my body to do the most intimate things two people can do, and then planted the vile result of it inside me. I picked up the phone from the nightstand, preparing to leave this house immediately. If I stayed in this room for one more second, I was going to burn the whole place down. Besides, I had something much more important to do. My true love. The boy I grew up with, Noah Brooks. The man who was so broken I didn’t even know if he was dead or alive right now. I had to find him. I had to tell him that I loved him. And that the monster who shattered his heart wasn’t me. 02 “Evie, you’re just joking, right?” Liam Sterling grabbed my arm, forcing a strained smile. I physically peeled his hand off my arm. I looked him dead in the eye and enunciated every single word: “Look closely. I am Chloe Vance.” “I am not your ‘Evie.’ Chloe Vance has never gone by a second name, and she certainly would never let anyone call her Evie.” Watching my demeanor, a flash of genuine panic crossed his face. “Evie, my recent schedule was planned exactly the way you wanted. I turned down that movie role so I could stay home and keep you company for the next two months. “And the kissing scene in the last movie was just camera angles! I didn’t actually kiss her. “Please stop scaring me. We aren’t getting a divorce.” Seeing him panic, I tried my best to suppress the raging fury in my chest. I had to remind myself that he was just another victim of her lies. “Liam Sterling. I am Chloe Vance, and the man I love is Noah Brooks. “Not your ‘Evie.’ The ‘Evie’ you’re talking about is a thief who stole my body while I was in a coma from a car crash seven years ago. Her real name is Evelyn Harper. “Now, I’ve taken my body back. Your Evie is gone.” He lunged forward, trying to pull me into a hug. I shoved him hard, knocking him back. “Is… is this schizophrenia? It’s okay, Evie. We can go to a hospital. I will stay by your side through the whole treatment.” I shook my head. Clearly, logic wasn’t going to work here. “My lawyers will contact you regarding the divorce proceedings.” With that, I turned and walked briskly out the door. “Evie!” I unlocked the phone and quickly scrolled through the contacts. There was absolutely no trace of my actual family or friends. The contact list was entirely made up of people “Evelyn” had met over the past seven years. My fingers trembled as I manually typed in the phone number that was permanently burned into my memory. Listening to the dial tone ring over the speaker, my heart pounded violently against my ribs. Please. Please answer. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is out of service…” I called it over and over again. It was disconnected. So, I dialed my older brother’s number instead. “Hello.” “It’s me, Connor.” Hearing Connor Vance’s voice, my entire body shuddered. After being trapped inside my own head for seven years, I finally had a real, tangible connection with my family again. “Oh, if it isn’t the great Princess Vance. Why are you calling me? Just checking to see if I’ve died of a heart attack yet so you can inherit the estate? “Or did you catch your A-list movie star husband cheating, and he kicked you out? “If that’s the case, let me know. I need to go buy some fireworks to celebrate.” Hearing his biting sarcasm actually made me smile. He sounded energetic and loud, which meant he was doing well. “Connor, it’s me. It’s Chloe. “It’s too complicated to explain over the phone. I’m coming to your office right now.” “Don’t bother. Even if you show up, I’m not seeing you—” Before he could finish his sentence, I hung up. It was just going to be more cynical trash talk anyway. I hailed a cab and headed straight for the corporate district. Looking out the window at the towering skyscrapers and the manicured green spaces lining the avenues… Compared to seven years ago, the city had developed at a terrifying speed. The wheels of time had ruthlessly rolled forward. Leaving me alone to face this entirely unrecognizable, completely upended world. 03 “Ms. Vance, Mr. Vance is currently in a meeting with a client. It’s really not a good time for him to see you.” Ms. Hayes, his secretary, looked at me with profound discomfort, desperately trying to get me to leave. I had been sitting in the waiting area for half an hour. My patience was completely gone. When I stood up, a flicker of relief crossed Ms. Hayes’s face, but it quickly morphed into frantic pleading as I walked past her. “Ms. Vance, please! He really is with a client! Please don’t make this difficult for me!” I kept walking straight toward Connor’s office doors, patting her on the shoulder to comfort her. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. If he gets mad, I’ll take full responsibility. I really do have an absolute emergency.” “If he fires you over this, come find me. I’ll pay you double your salary and employ you for the rest of your life.” Ms. Hayes didn’t believe a single word I said. She looked at me like I was handing her Monopoly money. “Connor.” I shoved the heavy oak doors open. There was no client. The massive office was entirely empty except for him. Unless he was having a business meeting with a ghost. I gently pushed Ms. Hayes back out into the hallway and shut the doors. It was just me and him. I hadn’t seen him in so long. That thief hadn’t visited my childhood home or seen my family in three or four years. The brother sitting in front of me had clearly lost the reckless, youthful energy of his twenties. He looked mature, seasoned, and commanding. Especially his hairline—it was noticeably receding. I suppose that was the standard price of being a highly successful CEO. “What, you learned a new trick? “Spit it out. How are you planning to manipulate me this time?” Connor looked me up and down, a sneer of pure contempt curling the corner of his mouth. “How is Noah? Where is he? I need to see him.” “You actually have the nerve to ask to see him? Haven’t you destroyed him enough?! I swear to God, I have no idea how the Vance family produced a sociopath like you.” Connor’s emotions instantly flared, the veins on his neck pulsing with rage. “Connor, I have something incredibly important to tell you. You might think I’m clinically insane, but every word I say is the truth. “Seven years ago, when I got into that car crash, my body was stolen by a girl named Evelyn Harper. She wore my face and did all those horrific things. “From the second I woke up from that coma, that person was not me. Every word she spoke, every action she took—none of it was me.” Connor’s furious expression cracked slightly. He walked over to me and pressed the back of his hand against my forehead. “You don’t have a fever. Why are you spewing this psychotic sci-fi garbage?” “You don’t have to believe me right now, but every single word is true. Just watch me. Watch the way I speak and act from today onward, and compare it to the girl from the past seven years. Tell me we aren’t two completely different people.” I knew this was an impossibly hard truth to swallow. But it was reality. The only way I could prove it was through my actions. Seeing my desperate, deeply sincere expression, Connor hesitated. After all, we had lived together for 23 years. He knew exactly what his real little sister was like better than anyone on earth. When “I” woke up and acted like a different person, they probably assumed the traumatic brain injury had drastically altered my personality. No one in their right mind would ever assume a literal body-snatching had occurred. That was exactly why, even after “Evelyn” went nuclear and cut ties with the family, my parents and brother still secretly protected her from the shadows. Because I was their blood. I was the daughter they had cherished for 23 years, the little sister Connor had spoiled his entire life. The most hilarious part? Evelyn genuinely believed that all her success was due to her own “hard work” and “magnetic personality.” And Liam Sterling, the A-list actor she chased down and married, was just her ultimate trophy. “So what? What did you actually come here for today?” His eyes were still suspicious. He probably still thought this was just another one of my pathological lies. I was a bit disappointed, but I told myself to be patient. It would take time. “I want to see Noah. I can’t reach him. “I need your help.” Hearing that, Connor’s expression turned to ice. “You’re pregnant with another man’s baby, and you want to go see your first love?” His gaze dropped to my stomach. I grabbed Connor’s wrist and started dragging him toward the door. “What the hell are you doing?! Let go of me!” I looked at him, my voice completely unwavering. “I’m getting an abortion.” With another man’s child in my womb, I had absolutely no right to go see Noah. “Are you joking?” Connor tried to wrench his arm away, entirely refusing to believe I would actually do it. That girl, Evelyn, was a rabid, borderline-psychotic superfan of Liam Sterling. Her entire brain revolved around him. Based on the unhinged things she had done in the past, no one would ever believe she would willingly abort Liam’s child. But I wasn’t her. And this child was not something I ever wanted. This pregnancy was the biological proof of my violation. From the exact second I reclaimed my body, I knew this child was not going to survive. “You’ve completely lost your mind,” Connor said, looking at me in absolute, horrified shock. “I am not crazy. I am perfectly lucid.” I stood in the doorway, gripping Connor’s arm like a vice. “Connor. If something goes wrong during the surgery, please tell Mom, Dad, and Noah exactly what I just told you. “Tell them I love them.” Without another word, I pulled the heavy glass doors open and walked resolutely out of the office. I was going to surgically excise every single brand that parasite had left on me, and I was going to rebuild myself from the ground up. 04 Even as we sat on the cold benches in the hospital waiting room, Connor still couldn’t process it. “Chloe, are you seriously going through with this? “This is your own flesh and blood. “Did you cheat on him? Is that why you’re doing this? To destroy the evidence? “Tell me the truth.” Connor had just listened to the doctor explain the surgical procedure and the post-op care, and his brain was basically short-circuiting. I looked up at my older brother, who was currently pacing around like an ant on a hot skillet, and couldn’t help but try to comfort him. “This is Evelyn Harper and Liam Sterling’s child. It is not Chloe Vance’s child. “Once I recover from the surgery, I am going to see Noah. “Connor, please… can you just tell me how Noah is doing?” Just saying his name felt like thousands of needles stabbing directly into my heart. I had to watch him shatter into a million pieces. I had to watch the gentle, radiant smile on his face rot into a bone-deep, agonizing despair. We were supposed to be engaged. We had promised each other we were going to get married the following spring. And then the car crash happened, and everything was brutally, violently severed. Two childhood sweethearts. One trapped in the dark while her body was hijacked; the other slowly withering away into nothingness. Connor sat down next to me and let out a heavy, tragic sigh. My heart leaped into my throat, suspended over a terrifying abyss. “He’s not doing well. A few months ago, he… sigh. If they hadn’t found him in time, he’d be dead. “You know his psychological state was already incredibly fragile from the kidnapping when he was a kid. What happened between you two recently just completely pushed him over the edge.” Noah was terrified of pain. He hated it. If he actually tried to end his life, the emotional agony he was suffering must have been absolutely unbearable. When we were kids, he was kidnapped and went missing for weeks. I kept asking the adults, Where is Noah? Where did he go? No one answered me. They just looked down and sighed. Until the day he finally came back. He looked like a hollow, empty wooden puppet. His eyes were entirely dead. His leg was in a thick cast, his arms were wrapped in heavy gauze, and he was wearing a rigid neck brace. I stood next to his bed, too terrified to even touch him. Mrs. Brooks picked me up, fighting back tears. “Noah, look. Chloe is here. Your best friend came to see you.” Noah didn’t react at all. During his captivity, he had endured unimaginable trauma. He had been brutally beaten and locked in a pitch-black room for days on end. Psychiatrists cycled through the Brooks’ house like a revolving door. I practically moved into the Brooks’ mansion. I slept in his room. As a little girl, I didn’t understand why Noah wouldn’t say a single word, or why he refused to eat. I didn’t understand why he was absolutely terrified of the dark, refusing to sleep unless all the lights were on, or why he was paralyzed with fear whenever he saw a stranger. But I knew I had to protect him. He was my best friend. As the seasons changed, the physical wounds on his body slowly healed. But his psychological dependency on me grew exponentially. He would only play with me. He would only speak to me. No one thought it was weird. To everyone else, as long as he was eating and sleeping normally, that was a miracle in itself. We were always going to be together anyway, so it didn’t matter. Mrs. Brooks even joked with me once: “Chloe, when you grow up, do you want to take Noah as your husband?” I hugged the little boy sitting next to me and grinned brightly. “Yes! Thank you, Mrs. Brooks!” A faint, shy blush actually spread across Noah’s pale cheeks. He fundamentally believed that I was his lifelong anchor. But ironically… it was that exact, all-consuming devotion that ultimately destroyed him and shoved him into an even more terrifying abyss. Tears streamed relentlessly down my face. Connor patted me gently on the back. “If you’re actually serious about turning your life around this time, you better treat him right. “My biggest fear is that you’ll just get bored again and vanish. If you do that… Noah genuinely won’t survive it this time. “Over the past few years, Mr. Brooks has practically cried himself blind. The entire Brooks family is only holding together because Oliver is running the company.” I choked on a sob. “I won’t. I swear to God, even if I die, I will die by Noah’s side.” “Chloe Vance.” A nurse called my name from the doorway. “Connor, if anything goes wrong in there, you have to tell Mom, Dad, and Noah.” I gripped his hand tightly. I was terrified. I knew this surgery was routine, but I was terrified of a freak accident where I died, and no one would ever know the monster wasn’t actually me. The real Chloe Vance loved them. She loved them so incredibly much. “I’ll be right out here waiting for you. You’ll be fine. Nothing is going to go wrong.” The harsh surgical lights blinded me as I was put under. The vile, parasitic brand left on my body was finally being surgically excised. When I woke up, the sharp, sterile scent of bleach filled my nose. “My baby is awake.” “Oh, look! Our little Chloe is awake!” It was Mom. My Mom’s beautiful, familiar voice. “Does anything hurt? Are you uncomfortable anywhere?” My mom hovered over my bed, terrified I was in pain. “Waaaaah!” I threw my arms around my mom’s neck and burst into ugly, torrential sobs. “Mom, it hurt so much. I felt so awful. “I was locked in this pitch-black box for years. I was so terrified I was never going to see you again.” The second I saw my mother, the agonizing, suffocating injustice I had bottled up for seven years broke through the dam. For thousands of days and nights, I sat in the dark and cried for my dad, my mom, and Noah. And for Connor, too. My mom watched that thief brutally cut ties with our family, crying until she collapsed into my dad’s arms. Meanwhile, Evelyn Harper secretly laughed at them, calling them idiots for not realizing she wasn’t their real daughter. But she was also terrified of being exposed. So she threw away the homemade meals my mom brought, criticized the jewelry and clothes my mom bought her, and picked fights over every single expression of my mother’s love. In the end, she drained a massive chunk of our family’s assets, packed up the luxury jewelry my mom bought me, and ran off straight into Liam Sterling’s arms. She hit my family like a Category 5 hurricane, leaving us completely shattered. To her, my family was just “toxic baggage” she needed to dump. “Shh, don’t cry. It’s over now. “Mom’s here. Mom’s here. Mom knows my baby went through so much pain. Mom knows my real daughter would never, ever do those things. “But you can’t cry right now. Your body is still incredibly weak. “You just got out of surgery. You need to rest and heal.” My mom gently stroked my hair while my dad carefully wiped my tears away with a tissue. Connor, who had stepped out to take a phone call, walked back into the room holding a container of hot soup. “Eat up. The doctor said you need a liquid diet full of nutrients right now. “Everything you told me, I already told Mom and Dad. “Mom said you’re telling the truth, so I’m going to believe you for now.” He still looked a little awkward and hesitant, clearly still struggling to wrap his head around the sci-fi reality of the situation. It didn’t matter. I was Chloe Vance. My mom, my dad, and Connor would all realize it soon enough, and they would love me exactly like they used to.

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The summer I turned ten, my younger sister vanished. She disappeared on her way to drop off lunch for our parents. There were no security cameras, and no one saw her. Because I was the one who was supposed to deliver that food, my mother never spoke another word to me. Fifteen years later, I became a police officer, retracing the exact route my sister took that day over and over again. The past slowly resurfaced in my mind, piece by piece. Gradually putting together a truly heartbreaking truth. 01 August 10, 2009. The day my sister went missing. Back then, we lived in a run-down trailer park on the industrial outskirts of town. My father, Robert, worked as a laborer at the nearby chemical plant. My mother, Susan, ran a busy roadside convenience store. During the summer, lots of people stopped by the store to buy ice cream and cold drinks around noon, so my dad would go help out after his morning shift. They were always so busy they rarely had time to stop and eat. Because of that, almost the entire summer, I was the one making lunch for the whole family. I was ten years old. The kitchen had no air conditioning, only a single, beat-up box fan. Once the water on the stove boiled, the steam filled the room, and the fan only blew hot air around. Whenever I cooked, I was drenched in sweat. The day it happened, it was exceptionally hot. After I finished making the food, I felt like I was getting heatstroke. There was no one else home. My grandmother, Mary, lived in the house right next door to our lot, but she was a harsh, bitter woman. Not only would she refuse to help, but she’d also hurl insults at me, so I never dared to bother her. I splashed cold water on my face, pushed through the nausea, and served my sister, Lily, a bowl of cold pasta salad so she could eat first. Then I packed my parents’ portions into Tupperware and loaded them into a tote bag. Lily took a few bites of her pasta and looked up at me. “Chloe, you lie down in front of the fan. I’ll take the food to them today. I know the way. I’ll finish the rest of my lunch when I get back.” It was a ten-minute walk from our house to the store. There was only one dirt road, and it wasn’t completely isolated. I had walked it with her more times than I could count. Still, I was uneasy. “Are you sure you can carry it?” I asked, half-lying on the couch with a wet rag pressed to my forehead. “I’m fine! Don’t worry, Chloe. It’s a short walk. I’ll be right back.” Without giving me a chance to argue, she grabbed the bag and headed for the door. Because she was chronically ill, Lily was incredibly frail. When she gripped the bag, the bones in her shoulders jutted out. Her tiny silhouette looked so fragile from behind. Right before she stepped out, she turned and waved. “I’ll be right back! You better not steal my pasta while I’m gone!” “Don’t worry, I won’t eat it!” I waved her off impatiently, urging her to go. But she never came back. 02 “Do you think… if I had told her I was going to steal her food, she would have hurried back?” On January 9, 2024, I officially joined the city police department as a rookie officer. Eight months later, I found myself talking to my mentor, Detective Miller, about the cold case that had tortured me for fifteen years. “When did you realize she was gone?” Detective Miller asked. I rubbed my tired eyes. “Around 2:00 PM. After she left, I forced down a bite of food and fell into a deep sleep. I woke up to my dad slapping me across the face.” Even though it had been years, I remembered it vividly. The moment I opened my eyes, I was met with my father’s violently angry face. “Why the hell didn’t you bring us our food?! Are you trying to starve us?!” I burst into tears. “Lily went to deliver it ages ago!” It was only after I said it that I noticed her half-eaten bowl of pasta still sitting on the table. It suddenly hit me that Lily hadn’t returned. A freezing chill crawled up my spine, and the sheer terror sucked the tears right out of my eyes. 03 We searched everywhere. Back then, the security camera grid hadn’t expanded to the back roads; only the main highway had surveillance. Our family ran around like headless flies, searching frantically. The police dragged the nearby pond three times. Nothing. They hired people to lower cameras into the drainage pipes and local wells. Nothing. After we officially filed a report, the police checked the highway footage and found no suspicious persons. They canvassed the neighbors and residents from the adjacent neighborhoods. Not a single person had seen her. Lily had simply vanished. My mother beat her fists against my chest, collapsing onto the dirt, sobbing hysterically. “Why are you so lazy?! If you had just taken the food yourself, she wouldn’t have gone!” My grandmother, a strict religious fundamentalist, declared that the Lord would never forgive a selfish, lazy child who lost her own sister. In a fit of rage, my father kicked me five or six times, sending me sprawling to the ground. The neighbors didn’t know the full story, so no one stepped in to stop him. They just pointed their fingers at me, whispering. Like a wooden puppet, devoid of a single tear, I walked to the dirt road where Lily disappeared. I stood there stubbornly for three days, refusing to blink, staring at the intersection, desperately hoping her tiny figure would appear. But no miracle came. After that incident, my family barely spoke to me. My mother, in particular, never said another word to me for the next fifteen years. By middle school, I moved into the dorms. I’d come home on weekends, grab my allowance and clean clothes, and leave immediately. I didn’t dare stay a minute longer than necessary. Over the years, I walked the route she took to deliver that food countless times. I stared at every blade of grass, every single tree, hoping to find a clue, imagining a million different scenarios. It was absolute torture. 04 “How long did your afternoon naps usually last?” Miller asked, flipping through the old case file I had dug up. Back then, it was classified as a standard missing persons case, left to gather dust for over a decade. “It varied. Sometimes long, sometimes short. But that day, I felt abnormally exhausted. I slept for over two hours, right up until my dad hit me.” “You said you had heatstroke. Do you remember what it actually felt like?” I tried hard to recall the physical sensations of that noon. “Lethargy. Extreme drowsiness. Dizziness. My head felt incredibly heavy…” Miller listened, then fell silent for a moment. “Has it ever occurred to you that you might not have had heatstroke at all?” My scalp prickled. I stared at him, my eyes wide. “The symptoms of heatstroke are dizziness, headaches, muscle weakness, nausea, vomiting, and cold sweats,” Miller explained. “Your symptoms don’t sound like heatstroke. They sound like you ingested…” My heart dropped. Before he could even finish, I blurted out, “Ingested what?” “Sleeping pills. Or some kind of strong sedative,” Miller said, giving me a meaningful look. Why hadn’t I thought of that? The symptoms of sedative ingestion and heatstroke do overlap in some ways. But heatstroke has two very distinct trademarks: nausea/vomiting and cold sweats. I remembered that day perfectly—I didn’t have either! The hairs on my arms stood straight up. 05 Back then, the adults—including the police—just assumed I was a lazy kid making excuses to avoid walking in the heat. Everything I said was dismissed as a child trying to dodge responsibility. They focused all their energy on searching for a missing person. And because of that, they missed a massive, glaring clue. “Boss, what made you realize it wasn’t heatstroke?” The case finally had a breakthrough. I was trembling with adrenaline. “It’s simple. From the way you talk about her, it’s obvious you and your sister had a deeply bonded relationship. She was little, walking alone, and you were incredibly worried about her. Under normal circumstances, you would have fought to stay awake until she got back safely. But instead, you passed out hard. You slept for over two hours, and if your dad hadn’t hit you, you probably would have slept longer. Obviously, that wasn’t natural.” My eyes burned. I nodded. In all these years, Miller was the very first person to notice that the bond between me and my sister was extraordinary. When Lily went missing, my dad pointed his finger in my face and screamed: “What kind of older sister are you?! She goes missing and you just sleep through it?! Why didn’t you just die in your sleep?!” Back then, I couldn’t understand why I had fallen asleep so heavily. I hated myself just as much as they hated me. No one knew how much I loved her. No one knew that our bond went far beyond normal siblings. It wasn’t just because we spent 24 hours a day together before I started grade school. It was because, through freezing winters and scorching summers, we only had each other to rely on. Because my parents were always working at the store, they left us at home to be watched by our grandmother. But Grandma was a religious fanatic, constantly running off to church gatherings and prayer circles, leaving us alone in the house all day, completely neglected. Because of that, I learned to cook on the stove when I was six. If I burned the rice, we ate burnt rice together. If I cooked it perfectly, we shared the perfect meal. When other kids cried, they called for their mothers. But when Lily cried, she called for me. 06 “You were sweating heavily that day, which means you probably drank a lot of water. The problem was most likely in your cup,” Miller said, pointing at the mug on my desk. “But who would drug a ten-year-old? And why?” I couldn’t help but ask. As I said it, two horrifying possibilities flashed through my mind, each more despairing than the last. “Did your family have any enemies?” I shook my head. “My parents were all about keeping the peace for their business. The only person who had a grudge against us was the local town creep, but the police confirmed he had a solid alibi that day.” Just then, a commotion erupted in the precinct lobby. A couple had come in to report their child missing. “Officer, please! Our daughter is eight. She’s severely autistic. My husband was taking her to her therapy session, and she wandered off on the way! You have to help us!” The woman was frantic, practically dropping to her knees. The husband looked despondent, loudly blaming himself, but there was an unmistakable look of relief hiding in his eyes. Seeing this, I knew exactly what was going on. I hadn’t even been on the force for a year, but I had already seen cases like this several times. Usually, it involved a special-needs child. The parents couldn’t afford the medical bills, or they simply couldn’t handle the lifelong emotional and physical toll. Seeing no hope, they intentionally abandoned the child. But to avoid being judged or investigated, they’d come to the police station to put on a theatrical performance. Despite knowing this, I dutifully took down the husband’s statement. “We were walking past the boardwalk at the beach. She saw people feeding the seagulls and got hyper-fixated. I couldn’t pull her away. So I turned around to buy a bag of birdseed from a kiosk, and in that split second, she vanished.” The child allegedly went missing around 5:00 PM, which perfectly coincided with high tide at the beach. They claimed they searched everywhere before coming to the police, meaning it had already been over two hours since she “vanished.” If she fell into the ocean, it only took minutes to drown. If she was taken by a trafficker, two hours was more than enough time to reach the interstate or a train station. It was too late. Even so, the police department couldn’t just ignore it. Miller ordered me to issue an immediate Amber Alert, blasting it across social media using the beach as the radius epicenter. He dispatched a squad to all major transit hubs and contacted two professional search-and-rescue teams to scour the coastline through the night. We did everything humanly possible. The rest was up to fate. 07 After the couple thanked us profusely and left, Miller looked out at the pitch-black night sky. “The odds of that kid being alive are slim to none. It’s only a matter of time before a body washes up.” He turned to me. “Your sister had severe asthma, right? Is it possible that…” I shook my head frantically, denying it. “No! My family never saw her as a burden. After Lily went missing, I became the ultimate sinner of the house. My mom hasn’t spoken to me in fifteen years.” He studied me, tapping his pen against the case file. “What about your grandmother? How did she treat you two?” I flinched. “You suspect my grandma?” It was true—if it wasn’t an enemy, the only people who had access to my water cup to slip in a sedative were my parents or my grandmother. “Not entirely. I’m just considering all possibilities and analyzing the case,” Miller replied. “Honestly, she treated us terribly. But that day, she had an airtight alibi. People testified she was at a neighbor’s house for a prayer circle.” Miller fell silent for a moment, then asked, “Are you absolutely sure no one saw your sister on that road?” “That dirt road was mostly abandoned, especially at noon in the dead of summer. There were only three shacks along the path. Two were dive bars that didn’t open until nightfall. The third was a boiled peanut stand run by a blind man. He lived in the shack, but he never opened for business at noon. So, no. No one saw her.” Miller shook his head repeatedly. “That is bizarre. This case really defies logic.” If even Miller was stumped, the hope that had just ignited inside me was extinguished. I stared at the photo of the missing autistic girl on my computer screen. She was the same age my sister was. She had the same big, dark eyes. My heart felt like lead. Seeing my despair, Miller encouraged me: “Chloe, don’t give up. As long as a body hasn’t been found, there’s hope she’s alive. Try to remember the details. In police work, we rely on intuition and meticulousness. If someone did something, they left a trace. Go back to your old neighborhood when you have time. See if it jogs your memory.” I nodded.

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After I suddenly collapsed and died in my dorm room, the university, desperate to avoid a scandal, offered my mom a job in the cafeteria to keep her quiet. Then, one by one, my roommates started dying. When the police reopened the investigation into my death, my mom just smiled calmly. “My daughter died of a sudden, natural cardiac event. Why would you be looking for a murderer?” 01 Rumors were spreading around campus that Dorm Room 332 was cursed. In just one month, three girls from that room had died. Bed 1: Me, Chloe Miller. Dead from sudden cardiac arrest. Bed 2: Ashley Parker. Strangled to death in the woods behind the library. Bed 3: Madison Reed. Brutally dismembered, her limbs missing. The only one left alive was Bed 4: Emily Carter. She dragged Ashley and Madison’s parents into the university cafeteria, pointing a shaking finger directly at the busiest food counter. “It’s her! That lunch lady! She’s Chloe Miller’s mother! She’s the murderer!” Then, she screamed at the top of her lungs hysterically: “Stop eating! You’re eating human flesh!” Amidst the screams and the sound of students gagging, my mom didn’t even look up. She scooped up a ladle of braised pork, casually shook half of it back into the tray, and slammed the rest onto a student’s plate. Only then did she drop the heavy metal ladle, wipe her calloused hands on her apron, and point right back at Emily. “If you have proof, go call the cops! If you don’t, shut your damn mouth before I break your legs!” Ashley and Madison’s parents lunged forward, trying to drag my mom out from behind the counter. My mom casually picked up a massive meat cleaver, instantly freezing them in their tracks. “Cowards,” my mom muttered. She turned to the terrified students in the cafeteria and yelled: “Sit back down! Nobody leaves until they finish their food! You’re college students, act like it! Don’t waste food!” 02 The police arrived at the cafeteria shortly after. During a search of the staff locker room, they found evidence. A thick rope tied into a hangman’s knot, and a bloodstained butcher knife. The detectives placed the evidence on the table in front of my mom. She scoffed and defended herself: “That rope is what I use to do pull-ups in the morning. I didn’t strangle Ashley. “And that knife is what I use to chop pork ribs. What does that have to do with Madison? “I’m not a murderer. I’m a good person.” Nobody believed her ridiculous explanation. The murder weapons from the recent killings had never been found. Now, they were sitting in my mom’s locker. The police identified her as the prime suspect and took her away in handcuffs. But what absolutely no one expected was that the DNA on the rope belonged exclusively to my mom. Just her skin cells. And the blood on the knife? Laboratory tests confirmed it was 100% pig blood. The evidence didn’t match the crimes at all. The next day, my mom was back behind the cafeteria counter. She scowled at the students whispering and pointing at her. “Why is everyone hiding from me?! Come get your food! I told you I’m a good person, why won’t anyone believe me?” 03 My name is Chloe Miller. I lived in Bed 1 of Dorm 332. A month ago, I died silently in my dorm room. By the time my roommates found me, rigor mortis had already set in. Everyone believed I had died from a sudden cardiac event. Even I—who was now floating around as a ghost—believed that was what killed me. All I remembered was waking up that morning feeling dizzy and violently nauseous, before completely blacking out. When I woke up again, I was a ghost floating in the night sky, watching my mom scream at the university administration. “My daughter died at your university! You are going to pay me a million dollars in compensation!” My mom was throwing an absolute tantrum on the lawn outside my dorm building. Dozens of students gathered around, whispering: “Who is that crazy lady?” “That’s Chloe Miller’s mom. The girl who died this morning.” “Chloe Miller? Why does that name sound so familiar?” “Oh, remember the leaked photos on the campus forum? That was her.” “Ohhhh, the girl who was exposed by her roommate for being a sugar baby? No wonder her mom is acting like trash. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” 04 When the gossip reached my mom’s ears, she threw an even bigger fit. Finally, the Dean of Students, Richard Stone, arrived on the scene. Looking absolutely furious, Dean Stone pulled my mom aside to negotiate. He offered her a one-time settlement of $250,000, plus a permanent, union-protected job in the university cafeteria with full benefits and a pension. The conditions: My mom had to stop causing a scene, she could not file a police report, she could not request an autopsy, and she had to sign a non-disclosure agreement to help the university sweep my death under the rug. My mom agreed immediately. She signed the paperwork with a massive grin, practically drooling as she counted the zeros on the bank transfer. After that, she went up to my dorm room. Humming a cheerful tune, she started packing up my belongings. Students from the neighboring rooms crowded the hallway, watching in disgust. My mom completely ignored them. She greedily peeled the decorative wallpaper off my walls, stuffing it into a trash bag, muttering to herself about how much she could sell the scrap paper for at the recycling center. A girl from the room next door whispered loudly: “Her daughter’s body isn’t even cold yet, and all she cares about is how much money she can make selling her dead kid’s stuff? What kind of mother is that?!” Another girl gossiped: “I heard Chloe had to take out massive student loans and work three off-campus jobs just to afford tuition. Is that true?” A senior who knew me nodded: “It’s true! Her mom didn’t give her a single dime. In fact, her mom constantly harassed her and demanded Chloe send her money!” Even the dorm RA couldn’t watch anymore. She yelled: “If Chloe could see this, it would break her heart!” 05 After my mom left campus, things went quiet. Until the day of my funeral. A few of my close friends from high school traveled to my hometown to say their final goodbyes. My cheap casket lay on the ground, surrounded by white paper flowers. The quiet, muffled sounds of my friends crying drifted through the cemetery. The only thing ruining the somber atmosphere was my mom screaming curses at me. She rested one foot on my casket, spat on the ground in disgust, and yelled loudly enough for the whole town and all my friends to hear: “Spit! Useless burden when she was born, and a short-lived disappointment when she died! “She died before she even made enough money to take care of me in my old age! What an ungrateful bitch!” Under the horrified stares of everyone present, my mom kicked my casket hard. She yelled at the gravediggers holding their shovels: “Hurry up and bury this bad luck! Whoever digs the fastest gets an extra fifty bucks!” After we got home, my mom acted like nothing had happened. She went to the local market to buy groceries. Some neighbors recognized her and tried to offer their condolences. But my mom just smiled smugly: “She was just a girl, who cares if she died? If she lived and got married, I’d probably only get a few thousand bucks for the dowry. She died and the school gave me a quarter of a million dollars AND a union job with a pension! That’s a massive profit! “Hey, is this beef fresh? I don’t want it if it isn’t! I have money now, I’m buying the good stuff to celebrate!” Whether it was the neighbors or my friends, everyone cursed my mom behind her back for being a heartless monster. But I was the only one who knew… the only thing they saw was exactly what my mom wanted them to see. Seven days after I was buried, Ashley Parker died. She was strangled to death, her body dumped in the woods behind the library. The students who found her body said Ashley’s mouth was open in a silent scream… but her tongue had been completely severed and removed. 06 Photos of the crime scene and wild rumors exploded across the campus. The university couldn’t suppress a murder this brutal, and the police were called immediately. Security cameras showed Ashley taking a phone call, then walking alone toward the woods. Unfortunately, there were no cameras inside the woods, and the cameras didn’t capture anyone suspicious following her. The person she was on the phone with was her boyfriend, Kevin Stone. But Kevin vehemently denied making the call. He claimed he had lost his phone earlier that day and hadn’t received his replacement SIM card yet. Kevin’s roommate, David, backed up his alibi, testifying that they were playing video games in their dorm the entire time. The police interviewed dozens of students, and no one believed Kevin would murder Ashley. They were the campus “It Couple.” They were deeply in love, and Kevin was genuinely devastated by her death. I knew Kevin. He was a wealthy, arrogant trust-fund kid, but Ashley had him wrapped completely around her finger. To put it nicely, he was incredibly devoted. To put it bluntly, he was a brainless puppet who did whatever she wanted. 07 After Ashley’s death, Kevin locked himself in his dorm, getting blackout drunk every single night. His roommate, David—his closest friend—stayed by his side, patiently comforting him. One night, I saw Kevin sitting on the floor of his dorm balcony, surrounded by empty liquor bottles. David was consoling him: “Bro, I know it hurts. Losing someone like that… anyone would lose their mind. “Cry it out. But once you’re done crying, you have to let it go. If Ashley is watching you from heaven right now, seeing you destroy yourself like this would break her heart.” Kevin grabbed a bottle, chugged a massive gulp of whiskey, and burped, the smell of alcohol heavy in the air. “Dave… didn’t you used to have a massive crush on Chloe? “When you tried to ask her out, Ashley totally blocked you and refused to let you near her. You two got into a huge screaming match over it, right? “Now Chloe is dead, and you’re acting like nothing happened.” David let out a cold, disgusted laugh. “Chloe told me she didn’t want to date in college. “I thought she was this pure, innocent girl focused on her studies. But the truth? She was whoring herself out as a sugar baby to some rich old creep! “Even if she was standing butt-naked in front of me right now, I wouldn’t look twice at a cheap slut like her!” The night wind carried their nauseating conversation directly to me. Ghosts don’t have physical ears. I couldn’t cover them to block out the sound. If I could, I would have turned into a vengeful demon and ripped the people spreading these lies into shreds. But I still didn’t know who originally started the rumors that destroyed my reputation. A few days later, the police released an update. The cybercrime unit had recovered the data from Ashley’s hard drive. They found a critical, undeniable piece of evidence: The anonymous user who posted the fabricated “sugar baby” rumors and deepfakes of me on the campus forum… was the victim, Ashley Parker. 08 A few months ago, deepfake photos of my face edited onto explicit images were posted anonymously on the university forum. The post claimed I was a gold-digging sugar baby sleeping with married men, and even attached a picture of my student ID card. I went to the police, but they couldn’t do anything. They told me cyber-defamation was a civil matter. I would have to sue the forum platform to get the IP address of the poster, and then file a private civil lawsuit against the individual. Or, I could just ignore it and pretend it never happened. Filing a lawsuit and hiring a lawyer required money. And I had absolutely no money. The post was eventually deleted by moderators, but the harassment, the insults, and the slut-shaming lasted for months. Even after I died, people were still passing around the fake photos. And the source files for those fake photos were sitting right on Ashley’s laptop. After Ashley died, the police questioned my mom, asking if she knew about the cyberbullying I endured. My mom didn’t even look up from snapping green beans. She spat angrily: “Of course I knew! That ungrateful little bitch! I starved myself to pay her tuition, and she goes off and becomes a whore for some rich old man?! “Officers, you tell me! She was living the high life, sleeping on piles of cash, and she never sent a single dime back to her own mother!” The two female detectives were visibly stunned. As they left the cafeteria, I heard them whispering to each other: “That poor girl. How did she end up with a monster like that for a mother?” But I didn’t feel sorry for myself at all. Because absolutely no one knew what happened on the night Ashley Parker died. My mom snuck past all the campus security guards, hiked out to the town cemetery in the dead of night, and placed a small glass jar on my grave. “Chloe, watch closely. Every single person who hurt you is going to pay with their blood!” Inside the wide-mouthed glass jar, floating in preservative fluid… was a freshly severed human tongue. 09 The police couldn’t find a single shred of physical evidence linking anyone to the crime. It was as if an invisible hand had meticulously wiped away every clue. With Ashley dead, Dorm 332 only had two girls left: Madison and Emily. Emily was completely paranoid, constantly terrified someone was coming to murder her, jumping at her own shadow. Madison, on the other hand, was entirely unbothered. She strutted in and out of the cafeteria every day, completely ignoring the campus rumors that the “Cafeteria Lady” murdered Ashley. In fact, every time she got food, she specifically went to my mom’s counter. She would look my mom dead in the eye and say loudly enough for everyone to hear: “Hey, lady. My name is Madison Reed. I was Chloe’s roommate. “I don’t care if you murdered Ashley or not. Just know this: I never bullied Chloe. If you’re looking for revenge, look elsewhere. Don’t come looking for me.” My mom rolled her eyes aggressively and snapped back: “What the hell are you talking about, you crazy brat?! I don’t have a slut for a daughter!” The students waiting in line were amazed by Madison’s sheer audacity. Madison walked away with her food tray, scoffing dismissively. “If you didn’t do anything wrong, you don’t have to be afraid of ghosts. Move, I’m eating.” But did Madison really not do anything wrong? A few nights ago, I watched my mom sneak out of the staff dorms, perfectly avoiding the blind spots of the campus security cameras, and break into the administrative building. I have no idea how my mom bypassed the electronic security doors. All I know is she picked the lock to my academic advisor’s office, rummaged through the filing cabinets, and pulled out two manila folders. They were the applications for the Federal Pell Grant and the university’s Needs-Based Scholarship. One folder had my name written on it. Wearing rubber gloves, my mom gently, tenderly traced her finger over the letters of my name on the folder. But when she opened the folder and pulled the documents out, she completely froze. The folder was empty. It contained nothing but blank, white printer paper. 10 I remember exactly what happened two months ago. My academic advisor posted an announcement in the class group chat: The university had just received funding for an emergency Needs-Based Financial Aid Grant. Any student who met the low-income requirements needed to submit their application packets immediately. I spent hours writing my personal essay and gathering my financial documents. I handed the packet directly to my advisor. But a few days later, my application was officially rejected. “You already received the Academic Merit Scholarship. You cannot double-dip and receive the Needs-Based Grant as well. It’s university policy,” my advisor told me flatly. But I had read the university handbook cover to cover. The Academic Merit Scholarship and the Needs-Based Grant were from entirely different funding pools. There was absolutely no rule preventing a student from receiving both. But my advisor refused to listen and firmly rejected my application. Left with no choice, I had to give up. Because the grant was highly competitive, each academic major was only allotted two spots. According to university rules, to finalize the selection process, the applicants had to give a short speech in front of a panel of professors and student representatives. The speeches were recorded and submitted to the Financial Aid Board for review. The fifth student to walk up to the podium… was Madison Reed. She shoved her brand-new iPhone 15 Pro into the pocket of her designer jacket, pinched her printed speech, and stood at the podium, impatiently tapping her expensive acrylic nails against the wood. “Hello professors, hello students. My name is Madison Reed. “I come from an incredibly impoverished family. When I was very young, my father passed away, leaving my mother to raise me entirely on her own. “When I was little, to take care of me, my mother couldn’t hold down a full-time job. We survived barely scraping by on the money she made working grueling odd jobs. “When I finally grew up, I worked part-time jobs after school to help pay the bills. “However… tragedy struck again. My mother was diagnosed with a severe, terminal illness. To pay for her medical treatments, we not only drained our meager savings, but went into massive, crippling debt…” The students in the audience immediately started whispering. The advisor demanded silence multiple times, but the quiet, confused chatter continued. “Wait, Madison’s dad is dead? I literally saw him drop her off in a Mercedes last month.” “She gets an allowance of like $2,000 a month. Since when does she work part-time?!” “I literally saw her post an Instagram story last week complaining that her mom went on vacation to Hawaii without her! When did her mom get terminal cancer?!” I was the only person in that room who knew the truth. Madison was reading my essay. Word for word. That wasn’t just my pain. That was my life. 11 The whispers in the classroom grew louder and louder until it was a deafening roar in my ears. I grabbed my head, covering my ears, curling into a tight ball in my seat, desperately trying to block out the psychological torture of hearing someone steal my trauma for profit. Madison gave a half-hearted, dismissive bow, walked off the podium, and shot me a mocking, condescending glare as she sat back down. The moment the panel concluded, I walked straight out of the classroom and called the State Department of Education’s anonymous whistleblower hotline. The very next day, the Vice Dean called me into his office. “Chloe, the university is fully aware of what happened. “We have decided to officially revoke Madison’s eligibility for the grant, and a formal disciplinary warning will be placed on her academic record. As for your academic advisor, the university is issuing an official reprimand, revoking his annual performance bonus, and placing him on strict probation. If this happens again, he will be terminated immediately. “If you are satisfied with this outcome, we kindly request that you withdraw your formal complaint with the State. “You are a sophomore. You still have two more years before you graduate. Escalating this further will only make things difficult for everyone involved. Don’t you agree? “I personally guarantee that next year’s Needs-Based Grant will have your name on it!” The carrot and the stick. It’s the oldest, most effective management tactic in the book. I could afford to offend a classmate. I could afford to offend an advisor. But if I wanted to graduate with my degree, I could absolutely not afford to offend the university administration. I thought the incident was over. I had no idea that Madison would harbor a venomous, psychotic grudge against me for it.

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The day my body finally became mine again, I opened my eyes to the dizzying roar of a celebration. The air smelled of expensive salt spray and champagne. My parents’ voices drifted over the music, warm and intimate, but they were calling out a name that wasn’t mine. They were saying the ceremony was about to begin. To understand how I lost myself, you have to go back to the lake. Two years ago, I almost drowned, and in that suffocating darkness, two entities—infiltrators, they called themselves—slid into the vacant spaces of my soul. The first was Judy. She was fire and mercury, a girl of glass and ambition whose sole mission was to steal my boyfriend, Hudson. The second was Daisy. She was the “perfect” daughter—compliant, academically brilliant, and soft-spoken. She wanted my place at the dinner table, the space I occupied in my parents’ hearts. At first, Hudson held me tight. He swore I was the only woman he’d ever love. My parents took me on a luxury cruise around the world, meticulously avoiding any body of water that might trigger my PTSD, promising me that no matter what happened, I was their only daughter. But then, the tides shifted. Hudson grew tired of my “reserve.” He eventually became hysterical, demanding I “bring Judy back,” claiming that only through her had he discovered what real passion looked like. My parents, too, grew ashamed of my mediocre grades and my quietness. They wept over the Ivy League acceptance letters Daisy had earned while inhabiting my skin, mourning the fact that she wasn’t their biological child. Now, I had finally clawed my way back to the surface. I had control. But as I looked at the world around me, a strange, hollow chill settled in my bones. … Before I could utter a word of explanation, my mother’s arms were around me. She slid a vintage emerald cocktail ring—a family heirloom—off her own finger and onto mine. Her eyes crinkled with a pride I hadn’t seen in years. “It looks so much better on you, Daisy,” she whispered. My father leaned in, ruffling my hair with a casual affection that felt like a bruise. “Matches your dress perfectly, honey.” The gold of the ring was warm from her skin, but it felt like a shackle of ice. This was my grandmother’s ring. My mother treated it like a holy relic. I remembered being ten years old, watching her polish it, reaching out a curious hand. She had snapped at me then: “This stays with me until you’ve proven you’re a woman of substance, Callie. It’s for when you’ve built a life worth honoring.” She wanted me to be a traditional wife, a quiet shadow. But after Daisy took over, my mother held her hand and told her to be fierce, to be independent. “You don’t need a man to define you, Daisy. We are your fortress.” The ring I wasn’t allowed to touch was now a gift for the girl who had stolen my life. I lowered my head, blinking back the stinging heat in my eyes. My father pressed a glass of fresh-pressed orange juice into my hand and a plate with a gourmet breakfast sandwich. “Go on, try it. I made it myself,” he said, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. My heart did a slow, painful roll. My father didn’t cook. He was a man of boardrooms and late-night flights; he barely had time to sit for a meal, let alone prepare one. But a flash of Daisy’s memory flickered in my mind—he had spent weeks learning to make this specific brioche sandwich just because Daisy mentioned she liked it before her morning classes. I took a sip of the juice and a forced bite of the sandwich. My parents had always been too busy to care what I ate for breakfast. They didn’t know I had a mild allergy to the avocado spread inside. But they knew Daisy loved it. Under my father’s doting gaze, I choked down a meal that didn’t belong to me. It was the strangest sensation—being a ghost in your own home, feeling like a thief for inhabiting your own skin. “Come on,” my mother said, squeezing my hand. “The party is starting. Your father and I spent months planning this. You’re going to love it.” The heat of her palm was a memory of safety. Wrapped in that warmth, a tiny, foolish part of me allowed itself to hope. The “coming-of-age” party was at a private beach club in the Hamptons. I stood paralyzed on the sand, surrounded by arches of white peonies. Ever since the accident, I had been terrified of the water. When I was “asleep” inside my own mind, I’d often drift into nightmares of drowning. The ocean was my enemy. My parents used to know that. They used to plan vacations to the mountains just to keep me from shivering. But as I looked at the waves crashing just yards away, my mother leaned in, searching my face. “Do you like it, Daisy?” My throat felt tight. I managed a small, pathetic nod. “Yes.” I hated it. But Daisy? Daisy loved the sea. The emcee called my parents to the stage for a toast. My father gripped the microphone, a beaming smile stretching across his face. “Thank you all for joining us to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of our daughter, Daisy.” A murmur rippled through the crowd of family friends. “Wait, isn’t her name Callie?” a woman whispered nearby. “No, didn’t you hear? Her father filed the legal paperwork to change it last month,” another replied. “He put out a whole announcement on LinkedIn and everything. He said ‘Daisy’ was the name that finally fit her spirit.” I stared at them, my nails digging into my palms until the skin broke. The sharp, metallic tang of pain was the only thing keeping me grounded. They hadn’t just welcomed an intruder. They had erased me. This party wasn’t a celebration of my birth; it was a funeral for Callie. I moved through the rest of the night like a zombie. Claiming a migraine, I eventually locked myself in my bedroom. I pulled out my phone and messaged Hudson. He arrived twenty minutes later to pick me up. “Why the tears, babe?” he asked, reaching out to brush a stray drop from my cheek. I grabbed his arm, clinging to him like he was the last life raft on a sinking ship. “Take me away from here. Please.” A look of understanding crossed Hudson’s handsome face. “The party was for Daisy, wasn’t it?” His voice was a low, steady thrum. “Don’t be sad. I’ve prepared something just for you. Something private. Come with me.” As I climbed into his car, the frantic beating of my heart began to slow. Thank God. At least I still had Hudson. On the way to his place, he stopped to pick up a pre-ordered cake. I watched him, my eyes bright with a desperate, renewed love. When he got back in and our eyes met, he paused. Suddenly, his hand was over my eyes, plunging me into darkness. Then, his lips were on mine. Heat flooded my face. I gripped the hem of my dress, my breath hitching. Hudson and I had been together for years, but we had always been careful. A few kisses, long hugs, but we had a pact. We were waiting for something real, something permanent. This was the first time he had ever kissed me with such… hunger. By the time we reached his apartment, my skin was still buzzing. “Go take a shower,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I left some clothes for you in the bathroom.” I walked into the en-suite and froze. Hanging on the hook was a deep, wine-red silk slip—something far more provocative than anything I owned. I looked at the vanity. Two toothbrushes in one holder. A collection of expensive skincare products half-used. A silk robe thrown over the chair. The realization hit me like a physical blow. They weren’t just dating. They were living together. I had been so wrong. After the accident, Hudson had stayed by my hospital bed for two months. He had cried until his eyes were bloodshot, swearing he’d trade his life for mine. When Judy first took over, he had been horrified. I remembered him screaming at her: “Get out of my girlfriend’s body! You’re a parasite! I will find a way to burn you out!” Hearing that from the darkness of my subconscious had been my only comfort. He had consulted specialists, spiritualists, even hiked up a mountain in the rain to get a “blessing” for me. But then, the memories blurred. I had tried so hard to break through the veil, and when I finally saw the “real world” again through my own eyes, I saw shadows of things I couldn’t unsee. Used contraceptives on the nightstand. A tripod with a camera. Judy, using my body to perform a version of intimacy I had never consented to, in the home Hudson and I were supposed to build together. I had screamed at him in my head. How could you? You knew I wanted to wait! When I had briefly regained consciousness months ago, I had broken everything Judy owned and tried to end it. Hudson had knelt at my feet, weeping, promising he’d cut Judy out forever. But standing in this bathroom, I saw the truth. Every inch of this place was stained with Judy’s presence. I loved minimalism; the bedroom was now draped in velvet and lace like a high-end boudoir. I hated hard liquor; there was a row of expensive bourbons by the window. Even the trip to Antarctica I had dreamed of for years—Judy had gone in my place. The largest photo on the mantel was of Judy—in my body—wrapped in Hudson’s arms, laughing at the camera with a predatory, triumphant glow. She was mocking me. She was showing me that I was the ghost, and she was the one who was alive. The door opened. Hudson walked in. “How much longer are you going to hide in here?” He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his lips grazing my earlobe. I should have felt warm. Instead, my teeth began to chatter. “Wait,” I gasped, trying to push back. “Hudson, I need to tell you—” “I know what you’re waiting for, baby,” he interrupted. He spun me around and dropped to one knee, holding out a diamond that caught the light like a shard of ice. “Marry me?” His eyes were full of a terrifying, intense devotion. I looked into them and, like a fool, I nodded. “Yes.” Maybe, I told myself, a part of that love was still for me. But three months later, as I stood in a church Judy had chosen, wearing a gown Judy had designed, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. Hudson wasn’t looking at Callie. He was looking at the woman who had replaced her. The priest spoke the words: “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.” Hudson leaned in, his voice a feverish whisper against my lips. “I love you so much, baby. Only you. Forever.” The words were supposed to be a sanctuary. Instead, they were a knife, twisting in the meat of my heart. I remembered the night I told him Judy’s “mission” was to win him over. I had been so scared. He had sworn, “She can have the body, but she’ll never have my heart. I’m a one-woman man, Callie.” I jerked my head away, breaking the kiss. “Hudson,” I said, my voice cracking through the silence of the cathedral. “I’m not Judy.” “I’m Callie.” I looked at him with the last shred of hope I possessed. “Do you still love me?” If he said yes, I would fight. I would stay in this body and reclaim every inch of my life. I watched his face, waiting for the recognition, the relief. Instead, Hudson recoiled as if I’d slapped him. The guests in the pews gasped, half-rising from their seats. The best man rushed forward, whispering urgently, “Hudson, whatever drama you and Judy have, keep it private. People are filming.” Hudson’s face contorted with a cold, simmering rage. “Wedding’s over,” he hissed. “We’re going home.” He didn’t lead me out; he dragged me. My heels caught on the stone steps. I stumbled, twisting my ankle, but he didn’t slow down. By the time we got back to the apartment, my ankle was a swollen, throbbing mess. He threw me toward the sofa with a snarl. “How dare you?” he roared. “How dare you pretend to be her just to steal her wedding? You think you can just bully her out of existence?” Tears blurred my vision. “She stole my life, Hudson! She took my body!” Hudson let out a sharp, disgusted laugh. “It wasn’t her choice! She had a mission. She was just trying to survive.” The first tear tracked down my cheek, cold and lonely. The front door burst open. My parents had followed us. My mother looked like she was having a breakdown. “You’re not Daisy! What did you do with our daughter?” She lunged at me, clawing at my expensive lace sleeves, demanding I “give her back.” I huddled on the floor, trying to cover my tattered dress. “Mom, Dad… I am your daughter. Callie. Remember?” “Daisy’s mission was to make us love her,” my mother sobbed, her voice shrill with hysteria. “If she doesn’t finish, the system will kill her! She’ll be gone forever!” My father stood over me, his face a mask of disappointment. “She’s a good girl, Callie. Kind, smart… everything we ever wanted. We can’t just let her die.” “Once she finishes her mission and leaves,” he added, his voice dropping to a low, transactional tone, “then you can have your life back. You’ll be our only daughter again.” My mother’s face twisted. “But if you hold onto the body now, you’re killing her! How can you be so selfish, Callie?” Selfish. The word echoed in the empty spaces of my chest. I had taken back what was mine, and in their eyes, I was the villain. I was the thief of their happiness. Hudson knelt in front of me. For the first time in my life, he begged. Not for me, but for the woman who had erased me. “Callie, please. Give the body back to Judy. I can’t live without her. If you let her live… I’ll do anything. We can figure it out. We can all live together, some way. Just don’t let her die.” They all stared at me, their love held hostage, their anger vibrating in the air. If I said no, they would hate me for the rest of my life. I felt something snap inside of me. A final, clean break. The cold wind of reality rushed into my heart, and for the first time, I felt nothing at all. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll give it back. All of it.”

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The conversation at the reunion dinner drifted, as it always did, back to the “golden days.” Someone laughed, leaning across the white linen tablecloth, and remarked how everyone back in prep school thought Gordon and Natalia were a match made in heaven. Then, another voice chimed in, a bit more pointedly, saying no one expected me to be the one to finally pin down a man as unattainable as Gordon Ashford. A wave of polite, well-bred laughter rippled through the circle. “And what are you doing these days, Natalia?” a woman asked, her eyes glittering with curiosity. Natalia waved a hand dismissively, the diamonds on her wrist catching the light. “Oh, nothing much. I was just promoted to Executive VP at a tech firm in the city.” The table erupted in murmurs of genuine impressed surprise. Being an EVP at twenty-four wasn’t just success; it was a conquest. They showered her with praise, calling her a powerhouse. Then, the spotlight shifted back to Gordon. Everyone knew his path was already paved—the Ashford Group was his to inherit, a crown waiting for its king. Finally, the eyes turned to me. “And you, Cora? What’s your career path looking like?” I opened my mouth to answer. I wanted to tell them about the quiet, heavy dignity of my work. But Gordon’s hand settled on my shoulder, his grip firm and possessive. He cut me off before I could speak. “She’s actually retired from the workforce. She’s at home, preparing to be the full-time Mrs. Ashford.” Natalia smiled, a thin, sharp thing. “That’s quite a sacrifice,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “You must really love him, Cora.” Gordon raised his glass to her in a mock salute. “She’s not like you, Nat. She’s too soft for the corporate world. If I don’t keep her close, she’s liable to wander off and get herself into trouble again.” The table erupted in “Awws” and teasing remarks about how Gordon was a “doting husband-to-be.” I looked down at my plate, forcing a smile to match theirs. But inside, something cold was settling in my marrow. I wondered when my trauma—the nightmare of being abducted and held captive years ago—had become nothing more than a half-baked punchline he used to keep me small. 1 I sat in the passenger seat of his Obsidian Black SUV, the silence between us heavy. Gordon had one hand resting casually on the steering wheel. He didn’t start the engine immediately. Instead, he turned his head to look at me, his gaze wearing that familiar, patronizing warmth. He reached out, his thumb and forefinger gently pinching my earlobe. “You’re quiet. Still upset?” I turned my head away, watching the neon lights of the city blur against the rain-streaked window. “Gordon… do I really make you that ashamed?” He didn’t rush to answer. He started the car first, pulling smoothly out of the parking lot. Only when we were merged into the late-night traffic did he speak, his tone measured and calm. “Do you honestly think I’m ashamed of you?” I said nothing. He let out a soft, indulgent chuckle, as if my question were merely a child’s tantrum. “Cora, I’m trying to protect you. You graduated from a top-tier university, and yet you chose that job. People won’t understand your ‘calling.’ They’ll just see it as morbid. They’ll pity you, or worse, they’ll look down on you.” “I don’t want you to be the subject of dinner party gossip,” he continued, his voice dropping to that tone of unshakable certainty. “We don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Being my wife is more than enough for you. It’s the best thing for everyone.” He spoke with such terrifying logic, as if he were simply arranging the furniture of my life for my own comfort. I looked out the window. The night was thick, suffocating. Gordon, sensing my silence as submission, reached into the back seat and pulled out a designer gift bag. “Stop brooding. I got you something.” I took it, unwrapping the tissue paper to find a heavy glass bottle. Perfume. Clear liquid, gold-flecked, with a black silk ribbon tied around the neck. It smelled like wealth and old money. “Another one,” I whispered. “Gordon, you’ve bought me nearly a hundred bottles of perfume by now.” He smiled, his posture relaxing. “It’s got a heavy rose base. It’s beautiful. You should wear it next time we go out.” Rose. I froze. Suddenly, a surge of bitterness, sharper than anything I’d felt before, rose up in my throat. “Why? Do I smell that bad today?” I turned to look at him, my expression flat, a ghost of a smile haunting my lips. Gordon’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered. He reached over and ruffled the back of my hair, the way one might soothe a nervous golden retriever. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just wanted to give you a gift.” His composure was a suit of armor, soft but impenetrable. My sharp edges simply bounced off him. Every single time. I looked down, put the perfume back in the box, and tightened the cap. “I get it,” I said, my voice slipping back into the submissive tone he preferred. “Why aren’t we moving?” He checked his phone. “Waiting for Natalia. She mentioned it was hard to get an Uber this late. Since we’re heading the same way, I told her we’d drop her off.” A moment later, Natalia climbed into the back seat, bringing a gust of the cool night air with her. “Sorry to keep you guys! You’re lifesavers.” “It’s no trouble,” Gordon said. “Actually, I wanted to pick your brain about the new acquisition. Cora doesn’t really follow the nuances of the M&A world.” The rest of the drive was a symphony of their shared world. They talked about hostile takeovers, modern art galas, and industry trends. They were intellectual equals, two titans of the same industry. I couldn’t contribute, and more importantly, I didn’t want to. When the car pulled up to our apartment building, Gordon kept the engine running. “Go on up,” he said. “I’ll be back as soon as I drop her off.” I pushed the door open but didn’t go inside immediately. I stood in the shadows of the lobby entrance and looked back. Natalia had already climbed into the front seat. She was leaning over, seemingly struggling with her seatbelt. She said something, her voice carry a hint of practiced helplessness. Gordon laughed—a genuine, warm sound. Then, he leaned over quite naturally to click the belt into place for her. The amber glow of the streetlamp washed over them, framing them in a warm, cinematic light. In that moment, I had to admit the truth: they were the perfect pair. And I? I was just a ghost from a messy past, someone he was trying to scrub clean with expensive perfume, hoping to drown out the scent of the life I’d actually lived. I let out a long, slow breath. The tension that had been holding me together for years finally snapped, silent and absolute. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Mallory. I’m in. Let’s do it. See you tomorrow. 2 Back in the apartment, I started to pack. I opened the vanity drawer. It was a graveyard of perfume bottles, row after row of them. Gordon seemed to believe that if he piled enough fragrance high enough, he could mask the “stench” of the world I had come from. I sighed, turning toward the closet. I pulled out a few simple, practical outfits. Hidden at the very bottom of the wardrobe, I found an old tin box. Inside was a yellowed notebook. On the first page, in the shaky but determined handwriting of a teenage boy, were the words: On our 25th birthday, I’m going to make you my wife. Next week was my twenty-fifth birthday. I thought I was numb to it all, but the ink suddenly blurred. Tears fell, one by one, staining the aged paper. Gordon, in his high-rise office and his world of mergers, had surely buried that promise under a mountain of ambition. Just like he’d forgotten I was allergic to roses. Just like he’d forgotten my one unbreakable rule—the “sickness” I carried from my childhood. I cannot forgive a broken promise. That pathology started on my fifth birthday. My parents had taken me to a park, promising me the biggest cake in the bakery if I waited on a specific bench. I sat there as the sun dipped below the horizon, watching the streetlamps flicker to life. I waited all day. I waited until the park was empty, until a security guard called the police. They never came back. From that day on, I learned one thing: a promise is the cheapest currency on earth, and waiting is the cruelest form of torture. I spent two years in the foster system after that. I survived bullying, hunger, and the kind of violations that still make my skin crawl. They are the recurring cast of my nightmares. When I was seven, my grandmother—my father’s mother, though she had disowned him long ago—found me. She was a stooped woman with a bag of warm roasted peanuts and a heart made of iron. She took my hand and said, “Come home, little bird.” She wasn’t rich. She was poor. She spent her sixties selling sewing kits on street corners just to keep me in school. But she was different from my parents. When she said she wouldn’t leave, she didn’t. When she promised to get me to college, she worked until her hands were raw and cracked in the winter cold to save every penny for my tuition. I studied like my life depended on it. I got into a prestigious high school. And that’s where I met Gordon. Our young love was pure, simple. No grand gestures, just notes passed under desks and silent, shy walks home. We promised to go to the same university. We promised to watch the snow fall by the lake. Just when it felt like the world was finally being kind, fate decided I hadn’t suffered enough. The summer after graduation, trying to help my grandmother with the bills, I fell for a fake job listing. I was kidnapped and taken deep into the mountains, sold to a labor ring. That was the beginning of my second nightmare. 3 When an eighteen-year-old girl vanishes into the dark corners of the country, everyone knows what happens. My grandmother went to the police, but they told her to wait. She waited seven days at the precinct, only to be told they had found my biological parents. She dragged her sick body to beg them for help. My father sat on his leather sofa, smoking, saying he had a “new family” and didn’t want the scandal. My mother wouldn’t even see her; she sent a message saying she only had one child now—her son. My grandmother collapsed from the stress. Gordon, realizing I hadn’t shown up for two weeks, went on a rampage. When he found out I’d been taken, that proud, sheltered boy fell to his knees and begged his parents to use their connections to find me. His parents, horrified that he was involved with a girl like me, refused at first. But he went on a hunger strike. He broke windows. He forced their hand. They tracked me to a place called Blackwood Ridge—a notorious dead zone for lawlessness and trafficking. They warned him: It’s a black hole. If you go there, you might not come back. And Gordon, when the whole world had written me off, went anyway. He went alone, defying everyone. For thirty-seven days, I lived in hell. I was ready to die until I saw him—bloodied, bruised, but standing in front of me. For years, I replayed that scene in my head. I told myself that the universe didn’t owe me anything because it had given me him. I thought we were finally safe. We weren’t. The police called my grandmother to tell her I’d been rescued. She was so overcome with joy that she ran out of the house toward the station. Crossing the street, a truck running a red light hit her. By the time I got to the hospital, her face was unrecognizable. The swelling had stretched her wrinkles flat. Her jaw was displaced, her lips torn. I knelt by her bed, trying to wipe the blood from her face, but the grit and the red wouldn’t come away. A nurse cried as she told me to stop, that she was already gone. But I couldn’t stop. I was desperate to piece her back together, to find the kind, smiling woman underneath the wreckage. I couldn’t give her back her face. I couldn’t even see her one last time. Gordon arrived as I was retching from grief. He held me tight. “I’m your family now,” he whispered. “I’m never leaving. Wait for me. By the time we’re twenty-five, I’ll give you a real home.” After college, I chose to become a restorative artist—a mortician specializing in reconstruction. I wanted to make sure that everyone who left this world left it clean. I wanted their families to see them as they were meant to be seen. I thought Gordon would understand. But perhaps time is a thief. Perhaps only I stayed in that hospital room while he moved on to skyscrapers… I dried my eyes and put the notebook back in the tin. The bedroom door opened. I was so lost in the past I hadn’t heard him come home. He saw my red eyes and frowned. “What is it now?” I held the box to my chest and looked up at him. His face blurred into the face of the boy who had saved me in the mountains. I couldn’t help it; I had to ask one last time. “Gordon.” “Yeah?” “Next week is my birthday. Twenty-five.” I paused, my heart hammered against my ribs. “Do you still want to marry me?” 4 Gordon’s usual composure flickered. Just for a second, there was hesitation—even a touch of bewilderment. But he smoothed it over quickly. He knelt down, his fingers brushing the corner of my eye. “Don’t be silly,” he sighed, his voice a mix of exasperation and practiced affection. “We basically are married. Is a piece of paper really that important to you?” I stared at him, saying nothing. He took my silence as agreement. He smiled and patted my hair. “Stop overthinking. I’ll take you to get a bag for your birthday. That limited edition one you liked? I’ve already had them put it on hold for you.” I lowered my head. “Okay.” Satisfied, Gordon got up to shower. “But Gordon,” I said softly, “when did I ever look at a bag?” He paused, his back to me. Then he turned with a charming smile. “I must have misremembered. Must have been a different one.” I nodded. The sound of the shower filled the room. A little while later, his rhythmic breathing told me he was asleep. He always slept deeply, unlike me. I stood in the dark, watching him for a long time. I watched until my eyes ached. I watched until the sliver of moonlight moved from his brow to his jaw. I watched until I had said every silent goodbye I had in me. Then, I picked up my backpack. The lock clicked—a sound as soft as a sigh. I didn’t look back. Downstairs, a dark SUV was idling under a streetlamp. I opened the door and slid in. Mallory didn’t ask questions. She just reached over and pulled me into a fierce, bone-crushing hug. Mallory had been taken with me all those years ago. She was the only person who truly knew how much blood Gordon had spilled to get us out. Like me, she could never say a bad word about him, no matter what he had become. “It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Don’t cry.” She shifted the car into drive and pulled away from the curb. “When I saw how he was with you back then, I really thought…” She trailed off. “Forget it. Be strong. Maybe this is the universe doing you a favor. You have no idea how happy Luke was when I told him today.” Luke. Just hearing his name brought a flicker of warmth to my chest. He had been a rookie cop back then, helping the seniors rescue us. He’d been so nervous his hands shook while he wrapped me in a blanket. When the traffickers tried to rush us with clubs, he’d stepped in front of me, taking a hit to the shoulder meant for my head. Now, he was Mallory’s boss at the precinct and one of our only true friends. And soon… he would be more than that. We reached Mallory’s place, and I could hear someone in the kitchen. She winked at me. A tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged from the kitchen holding two steaming bowls of noodles. “Sutton—I mean, Cora. Dinner’s ready.” Luke looked at me, looking uncharacteristically shy. Mallory started eating, glancing between us with a smirk. I put my chopsticks down. “Alright, you need to go home, Mallory. We have a busy few days.” “Oh, right!” she squeaked. “Dress fitting tomorrow! Let’s get some sleep!” Before he left, Luke looked at me. “Don’t worry about the hotel or the vendors. I’ve got it. Just… pick the dress you love.” He turned red, then added, “You won’t regret this, Cora. I promise.” I smiled and nodded. I pulled out my phone. Gordon’s chat window was still open. I hesitated, then tapped his profile. Block. Contact list. Block. I opened our shared family tracking app. Leave Family Circle. Delete Device. Grandmother, I thought. In five days, I’m getting married. I hope you’re happy for me.

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I started with nothing—a ghost of a man from the wrong side of the tracks. Yet Isla, ignoring the yawning chasm of our social standings, insisted on marrying me. She didn’t just give me financial security; she handed me a respectable seat at the table of the elite. But that debt of gratitude only served to nourish the weeds of inferiority growing in my heart. Even now, as I occupy a corner office with a view of the skyline, I feel like a subordinate in her presence. To reclaim some twisted sense of dignity, I began an affair. I chose a girl named Amber. She barely finished high school and spent her days detailing cars at a grime-streaked shop. In her eyes, I finally found what I craved: the look of someone gazing up at a god. I guarded this secret with the precision of a clockmaker. I made sure to be home every evening, simmering gourmet soups for Isla and kneading the tension from her shoulders, masking my betrayal with layers of increasingly soulful lies. I used Isla’s money to buy Amber a condo, indulging in the sick thrill of playing a billionaire’s daughter for a fool. I thought I was the one in control. I thought I had rigged the game. But fate has a cruel sense of humor. The day I took my mistress to the clinic for her prenatal check-up, I ran straight into Isla. … The sound of hot oil popping hissed from the kitchen, followed by Isla’s sharply stifled cry of pain. I rushed in and killed the flame. She was standing there, looking helpless. Those hands—hands that glided over Steinway keys and signed multi-billion dollar mergers—were already blooming with a row of angry blisters. Beside her sat a messy, half-finished attempt at a Boeuf Bourguignon. “I realized today was our third anniversary,” she said, looking up at me like a child caught in a lie. “You always used to mention this dish—how no restaurant ever got the seasoning quite like your mother’s. I tried to learn it from the chef at the club.” She let out a frustrated breath. “I didn’t realize the heat was so hard to manage.” I grabbed her wrist and pulled her to the sink, blasting the cold water. My movements were frantic, my eyes wide with manufactured panic. As the water rushed over her skin, I forced a hint of moisture into the corners of my eyes, turning them a sympathetic red. “Why would you be so reckless?” my voice trembled, thick with performative heartbreak. “These hands weren’t meant for grease and heavy pans. Isla, just sitting across the table from you is enough to make me happy. The food doesn’t matter. It’s about who I’m with. Please, never risk yourself like this again.” I fetched the first-aid kit and knelt before her on the cold marble floor. With a cotton swab, I gently applied burn cream to her delicate skin. Isla’s eyes shimmered with tears, and she squeezed my hand. “Caleb,” she whispered, using my name with a reverence that made my skin crawl. “The vows you made the day we signed the papers… do they still hold true?” Women are so sentimental. It was an anniversary; she just wanted to hear the script. I adjusted my expression to one of solemn devotion, acting as if I were baring my very soul. “Isla, if I ever betray you, let me lose everything. Let my bloodline end with me, and let me rot in the gutter where I belong.” Her face went pale, and she pressed her hand over my mouth. “Don’t say such things!” she scolded, her voice softening into pure, unadulterated tenderness. Late that night, I watched Isla sleep. Even her rest was perfect—her skin glowing like fine porcelain under the moonlight. It was a perfection that felt like a chokehold. I slipped out of bed and left a note on the nightstand: Something came up with the Waterfront project. I have to handle it. There’s warm milk in the kitchen—drink it when you wake up. Love you. Thirty minutes later, I parked my Bentley outside a dark alley on the outskirts of the city. Amber was waiting for me on the steps. She had just finished the night shift, still wearing her ill-fitting, grease-stained coveralls. She was shivering in the biting wind, an old, battered SAT prep book open on her knees. She was silently memorizing vocabulary by the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. She looked like a weed pushing through a crack in the sidewalk, desperate for a drop of water. A strange, sharp ache hit my chest. Isla would never understand this. She was born on third base; anything she wanted was a mere reach away. She thought cooking a difficult meal was the ultimate sacrifice. Before I put on these bespoke suits, I was the one in the shadows, eating cold bread and staring up at the lights of the skyscrapers. That desperate, ugly scramble just to survive—only Amber understood that. I stepped out of the car, my polished shoes clicking through the oily puddles. She looked up, her eyes igniting with hope. She scrambled to her feet, trying to hide a plastic bag behind her back. “Caleb… what are you doing here? I’m filthy. I smell like a garage.” She retreated, embarrassed. I stepped forward and pulled her into a hard embrace. I could smell the cheap shampoo in her hair; I could feel her body trembling against mine. With her, I wasn’t the “trophy husband” who had to watch his step. I was the savior. I was a god she looked up to. “Amber, don’t move. Just let me hold you.” I closed my eyes, burying my face in her hair. When I thought of Isla, a sliver of malice rose in my throat. Some people are born with everything, while people like Amber and me are stepped on, forced to claw through the mud just to reach the starting line. But so what? The little princess of the elite had turned into my lapdog anyway. “Yes, the project in the neighboring city has hit a snag. I’ll need to oversee it for a couple of days…” I held the phone to my ear, my voice tired and professionally stern. Beneath me, Amber was biting down on a pillow, sweat beading on her forehead, letting out soft, muffled whimpers. I gripped her waist, my movements relentless and frantic. On the other end of the line, Isla’s voice remained soft. “The forecast says there’s a storm coming, Caleb. A big temperature drop. Did you pack a heavy coat?” “I did,” I said, forcing my breathing to stay steady while I played the martyr. “It’s freezing here. I think my gastritis is flaring up from the stress; it’s a dull ache that won’t go away.” “What?! Is it bad? Did you take your medicine?” Isla’s tone immediately sharpened with anxiety. I let out a weak, performative sigh. “Don’t worry. I bought something at the pharmacy. I’ll just have some tea and try to sleep it off. Isla, I’m exhausted. I think I need to go.” “Of course. Rest, honey. Don’t push yourself. Goodnight, Caleb.” She was so easy to play. I tossed the phone onto the carpet and, amidst Amber’s gasps, continued our night of entanglement. The rain began to hammer against the floor-to-ceiling windows, only making the room feel hotter. I had taken her on this “business trip” on the company dime, and I wasn’t going to waste a single second. At 3:00 AM, while I was in the shower, my phone buzzed. It was the hotel front desk. “Mr. Sterling, there is a lady in the lobby. She says she’s your wife.” I froze, the towel halfway to my head. I threw on my clothes in a panic. Amber was dead to the world, exhausted from the night. I took the elevator down. When the doors slid open, I stopped dead. Isla was there. She was soaked to the bone. Her hair, usually perfectly coiffed by professionals, was a tangled mess. In her arms, she clutched a waterproof bag. I knew what was inside: the specific herbal tea blend I used for my stomach. It was a three-hour drive from our house. The highway had been closed due to the storm; she must have taken the back roads, navigating dangerous, flooded stretches of blacktop. All because I told her I had a stomachache. Seeing me, her blue-tinged lips curled into a weak smile. “Caleb!” I rushed to her, my eyes welling up as I wrapped her freezing body in my arms. “Are you insane?!” My voice was hoarse, a mix of faked horror and calculated anger. “Driving through this for some tea? If something had happened to you, how would I even go on?” Isla leaned into me, her voice trembling. “I was worried you wouldn’t be able to sleep from the pain. I’m fine! See? I’m right here.” “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs for a hot bath.” I led her toward the elevators, but I pressed the button for the 8th floor. I have always been a cautious man. From the first day of this “trip” with Amber, I had booked two rooms just in case Isla checked in. Amber was in the executive suite on the 18th floor. This room on the 8th was a standard business double, filled with my suitcase, my laptop, and a few changes of clothes. It was seamless. I boiled water for her, blew on it until it was cool enough to sip, and dried her hair. Once I was sure she was deeply asleep, I stepped out. The elevator climbed back to the 18th floor. Amber was awake. She was in a robe, holding the shirt I had ripped earlier in our heat, carefully sewing the buttons back on. “Caleb? You’re back?” she asked softly. “Was it… was it Mrs. Sterling?” I nodded, not wanting to discuss it. I brushed my thumb over the calluses on her fingers—marks of a life of hard labor. “You clearly aren’t tired enough if you have time for sewing,” I whispered in her ear. She blushed. “I can’t help you with the big things, so I try to do the little ones.” I pulled her to me, a fresh surge of adrenaline hitting me. Downstairs, a woman worth billions had risked her life in a storm for a lie. And here I was, betraying her. What good was a powerful woman if she was this easy to manipulate? It was my special talent. I pulled her toward the window. “Round two.” ——– When I returned from the trip, I was forced into another family dinner. I sat next to Isla like a polished piece of furniture. “So, Caleb,” her Uncle Silas said with a thin, mocking smile. “I hear the Waterfront deal hasn’t closed yet? Still dragging your feet?” “We’re still negotiating the finer points…” I replied, keeping my head down and my voice deferential. “Business requires a certain… killer instinct,” a cousin chimed in, interrupting me with a smirk. “But I suppose we can’t all be like Isla. Honestly, Caleb, you’re lucky. Not many men get to collect a six-figure salary for a desk job while their wife does the heavy lifting. It’s quite the charmed life.” “Exactly!” another added. “There are perks to being a house husband. It saves you thirty years of climbing the ladder, doesn’t it?” The table erupted in polite, cruel laughter. I gripped the linen napkin on my lap, remaining silent. Clink. The sharp sound of a glass hitting the table cut through the noise. Isla wrapped her arm through mine, her eyes flashing with ice as she surveyed her family. “My husband’s capabilities are not up for debate,” she said, her voice dropping into a dangerous register. “The Waterfront project is being held at my request. Caleb is patient enough to listen to my strategy. Unless any of you feel the need to audit my executive decisions?” The cousin’s face shifted. “Isla, we were just joking…” “I don’t find it funny,” she snapped. “An insult to Caleb is an insult to me. If I hear another ‘joke’ like that, don’t bother looking for your year-end dividends from the holding company.” She stood up, taking my hand, and led me out of the restaurant without looking back. In the car, the streetlights flickered across her face in rhythmic pulses of shadow and light. “Still angry?” She turned to me, her expression softening. “Don’t listen to them. I value you, Caleb. I know what you’re capable of, even if they don’t.” I looked at her profile. There was no gratitude in me; instead, my chest felt like it was bleeding. She was so perfect. Strong, protective, and in total command. But it was that very perfection that made her defense feel like charity. She didn’t snap at them because she loved me; she snapped because I was hers. I was a piece of property. If they mocked me, they were mocking her taste in acquisitions. The more she protected me, the more she reminded me that I was a nobody who had climbed into her bed to find a life. I was the pathetic man who needed his wife to fight his battles at the dinner table. “I’m fine,” I muttered. My throat felt tight. “Isla, the wine tonight made me a bit restless. Drop me at the next corner. I want to walk for a bit, clear my head.” She thought my ego was just bruised. She reached over and stroked my cheek. “Okay. Just remember, in my eyes, you’re the best. You know that, right?” I nodded and stepped out. I watched her taillights fade into the night before hailing a cab and heading straight to Amber’s cramped apartment. It was her birthday. The place was dark. She was sitting at her small table with a cheap, five-dollar cake, her hands folded in a wish. “Caleb! You… you said you had to go to a gala with her tonight. I didn’t think you’d come.” I didn’t say a word. I placed two envelopes on the table. “I brought your presents. Open them.” She hesitated, then opened the first. It was an enrollment form for the city’s top adult education program, tuition paid in full. The second was a key and the deed to a renovated condo downtown. It was in her name. “Caleb… this is too much. I can’t take this! I just want to be with you, I don’t need—” “Take it,” I said, my voice firm. “I told you, as long as you’re with me, you won’t suffer. You want to go back to school? Go. I want you to live a life of dignity.” Suddenly, Amber was on her knees, clinging to my legs, sobbing into my slacks. “Caleb! Why are you so good to me? I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you. I’d die for you…” Watching her gaze up at me with that raw, unfiltered devotion, the wounds from the dinner party began to heal. This was what I wanted. I never expected to see those two red lines. Amber held the pregnancy test out to me, tears streaming down her face. “Caleb, I’m so sorry. I took the pill, I don’t know how this happened…” She was shaking, but she was so incredibly “selfless” about it. “Don’t worry. I know who I am. I’m not good enough for you. I won’t be a burden. I’ll go to the clinic tomorrow morning and take care of it. I’ll never mention it again, I promise.” The more she groveled, the hotter the flame of my twisted protective instinct burned. Just a few days ago, Isla and I had “argued.” Except Isla didn’t argue; she lectured. She had tapped her expensive fountain pen against a project proposal I had stayed up three nights straight to finish. “Caleb, this is too aggressive. The risk management is non-existent. We can’t move forward with this.” She was calm, logical, and effortlessly dissected every flaw I had. The calmer she was, the more humiliated I felt. It was like a slap in the face—the high-and-mighty Isla looking down at my hard work and dismissing it. She was always right. Always rational. Always unreachable. But here… here was a woman carrying my child, willing to sacrifice it just to keep me from being inconvenienced. Isla and I had been married for four years, and she had never gotten pregnant. She said we should “let it happen naturally,” but I knew the truth: she didn’t want a child interfering with her status at the company. But this child would be mine. My blood. A legacy that didn’t have to carry her family name. “You aren’t getting an abortion,” I said, pulling Amber up and locking her in my arms. “We’re having this baby. I’m going to give him everything.” Once I drained enough from the Sterling accounts, once I controlled the connections… I would bring this mother and son into the light. In the weeks that followed, I became a master of the balancing act. At home, I was the devoted, doting husband. I apologized to Isla for my “mistakes” at work. I cooked her healthy meals, took her on dates, and made everything feel like it used to. The CEO of Sterling Holdings was wrapped around my finger. She thought she was in control, never dreaming her husband had planted a seed elsewhere. I thrived on the thrill of it. I was the ultimate predator in the jungle of marriage. This afternoon, I canceled my meetings. I took Amber to the most prestigious private clinic in the city to start her prenatal file. I bought her the VIP package. Holding the ultrasound, seeing that tiny speck of life… my heart actually felt something. “Look, Caleb,” Amber whispered, leaning into me. “The doctor says the baby is healthy.” I kissed her forehead. “Of course he is. He’s ours.” We walked out of the exam room, laughing and talking. Ding. The elevator doors directly across from us slid open. My smile froze. The blood drained from my face, leaving my limbs cold as ice. Isla. She was stepping out, flanked by the hospital board members and a fleet of senior physicians. I instinctively stepped back, my mind screaming: Hide! But it was too late. Amber didn’t notice my terror. She had been walking all day and let out a soft, playful whine. “Caleb, my legs are so sore. Carry me to the car?” That flirtatious “Caleb” echoed through the quiet, sterile hallway like a gunshot. Isla stopped. The board members stopped. Slowly, Isla turned her head. Her gaze drifted over Amber’s arm linked through mine. It drifted over Amber’s slight baby bump, which I was carefully shielding. Finally, her eyes locked onto mine.

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It seemed the only reason I existed was to serve as a cautionary tale for my brother’s upbringing. I remember when Tyler first started middle school and developed a junk food habit. My mother decided to fill an old Gatorade bottle with concentrated weedkiller and left it sitting right on my nightstand where it couldn’t be missed. I drank it. The agony that followed was a white-hot serrated knife twisting in my gut, sending me heaving and thrashing across the floor. My dad threw me into the car, racing through the night toward the ER, only to be pulled over at a sobriety checkpoint. Even though the breathalyzer came back clean, my mother sat in the passenger seat and laughed. She screamed at the officer that the machine was a piece of junk, insisting my father had a six-pack of beer. She stared at Tyler in the backseat, pointing at my seizing body as if I were a prop. “See that?” she told him. “That’s what happens when you’re reckless with what you put in your body.” She didn’t even notice that my breathing was becoming a series of shallow, broken stutters. When Tyler blew fifty dollars on a gaming app, she stripped me of my clothes and tried to force me to go on a live stream to “earn it back,” claiming she was teaching him the value of money. When Tyler got caught shoplifting a candy bar, she dragged me to the store manager, forced me to my knees in the middle of the aisle, and made me slap my own face until my cheeks were bruised, just so Tyler could witness the weight of “shame.” Well, Mom… this time, I’m using my life to give you your final lesson. Are you satisfied yet? … 1 “Your equipment is a joke. My husband just polished off a bottle of whiskey, and you can’t even pick it up?” When I heard my mother say those words, my body was already wracked with tremors. A spray of dark blood hit the back of the driver’s seat. I looked at her, my vision blurring, unable to grasp the cruelty of it. The officer’s face hardened instantly. “Sir, step out of the vehicle! We’re going to need a blood draw!” My father’s eyes were bloodshot, bordering on hysterical. “Are you insane, Lydia? You know I’m allergic to alcohol! Stop playing games—our daughter is dying!” Tyler lunged forward from the backseat, grabbing my mother’s arm and shaking her. His voice was a panicked vibrato. “Mom! Please, stop! Daisy drank poison! If we don’t get her there now, she isn’t coming back!” But my mother wouldn’t budge. She insisted he was drunk. Even with a clean breathalyzer, the protocol for a “refusal” or a suspected malfunction meant the officers had to take my father in for a blood test. Dad was the only one who could drive. Tyler didn’t have a license. Every second we sat idling under the harsh blue and red lights was a second I didn’t have. As the officer reached for the door handle to pull my father out, I forced myself upright. My throat felt like it had been scrubbed with glass. “Officer… please,” I wheezed, my voice a ghostly rasp. “My dad is sober… my mom, she’s just… she’s making it up. Please, I’m poisoned. I can’t… I can’t breathe…” The words were cut short by a violent, wet cough. Thick, copper-tasting blood spilled over my lips. The officer’s expression shifted from professional sternness to pure alarm. He knew what weedkiller did to a person’s internal organs. But it was the height of rush hour. The intersection was a gridlocked nightmare, and the small task force at the checkpoint was already stretched thin. There wasn’t a spare cruiser to rush me to the hospital. He glanced at his body cam, then barked at my mother, “Did he drink or not? If he’s sober, you leave now! If you’re lying about him being drunk and he actually is, the consequences are on you. Decide right now!” I looked at her, tears streaming down my face. “Mom, please tell the truth… I’m slipping. Just tell them the truth, let me live, and I’ll let you punish me however you want later. I’ll do anything.” People in the cars nearby were starting to roll down their windows, shouting. “Lady, look at your kid! Just get her to the hospital!” “What kind of sick joke is this?” Stung by the public judgment, my mother finally waved a dismissive hand at the officer. “Fine, fine. Good lord, everyone is so dramatic. I was just having a little fun!” The tension in my chest eased for a fraction of a second. My body went limp against the upholstery. But just as the officer backed away and my father went to shift the car into drive, my mother let out a sharp, mocking chirp of a laugh. “See? You people are so easy to fool. My husband was at a party all afternoon—he’s hammered. If you let him drive, he’ll probably plow into a minivan and kill a whole family.” The officer’s face went livid. He lunged into the car, physically dragging my father out of the driver’s seat, shouting for his partner to get the handcuffs. I felt my heart stutter. The pain in my stomach and the suffocating pressure in my chest collided. The world began to tilt into blackness. Tyler, watching my body begin to convulse, finally broke. He screamed at her, a raw, guttural sound of pure hatred. “Mom! Are you crazy?! Look at her! Daisy is dying right in front of you!” My mother remained eerily calm. “Why are you screaming? Look at her closely, Tyler.” “This is a lesson. I am using her pain to teach you something you clearly haven’t learned.” “You need to remember: never touch a bottle if you don’t know what’s in it. And stop reaching for soda every five minutes like an addict!” I stared at her, my eyes wide and stinging. In a moment of life and death, she was holding a seminar. My father was shaking so hard he could barely stand. “Daisy is… she’s… how could you…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. My mother just rolled her eyes. “I diluted that stuff with plenty of water. It’s not that strong. Daisy is young and healthy; she’s tougher than she looks. Stop overreacting.” She turned back to Tyler, her tone sharpening. “I’m sick of seeing you with a Coke in your hand every day. Maybe seeing this will finally make it stick.” I lay there, the chemical fire climbing from my stomach to my throat. The sounds around me—the sirens, the shouting, the radio chatter—all began to bleed into a dull, underwater hum. Suddenly, a black SUV pulled onto the shoulder. A middle-aged man jumped out and ran toward us. It was Mike, my dad’s best friend since grade school. He shouted at the police, “Hey! I know these people! That’s my best friend! I’m sober—I haven’t touched a drop today. Check my dashcam if you want.” “I’ll take the girl! You guys do your protocol with Tom, but don’t let this kid die on the side of the road!” Tyler, cradling my cooling body, began to sob. He bowed his head toward Mike, incoherent with gratitude, and started to lift me to carry me to the SUV. My father looked at Mike, his voice breaking as he whispered a promise to repay him for the rest of his life. I curled into Tyler’s arms. Even as the pain tore me apart, a tiny spark of hope flickered. Uncle Mike was like family. He would get me to the hospital. They’d pump my stomach. I’d have a chance. But just as Tyler reached the door of Mike’s car, my mother lunged forward. She grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut, blocking our path. 2 The world seemed to stop. The frantic noise of the highway faded into a chilling silence. Tyler was shaking so violently I thought he might drop me. His grip on me tightened. My mother glared at Mike, her voice rising to a shrill, hysterical pitch. “Who the hell are you?! I don’t know you! Why would I let my daughter get into a stranger’s car? For all I know, you’re a predator!” Everyone froze. Even Mike looked like he’d been slapped. “Lydia? What are you talking about? It’s Mike! Mike Miller! Tom and I grew up together. We literally had dinner at your house three weeks ago. Have you lost your mind?” My father stepped forward, grabbing her shoulders, his face a mask of shock and fury. “Lydia! Stop it! You know Mike. He was at the hospital when Daisy was born, when Tyler was born. We spend every holiday together. You’ve known him for twenty years!” “I don’t know him!” she shrieked, shaking his hands off and planting her feet. She wouldn’t budge from the door. “The world is full of look-alikes! Why should I trust him? What if he’s a liar? If anything happens to my daughter, are you going to take responsibility?” Tyler collapsed to his knees right there on the asphalt, still holding me. He began to beg, his voice thick with tears. “Mom! Please! She’s stopping… she’s barely breathing! Mike is Mike! He wouldn’t hurt us! Please let us go!” She didn’t even look down at him. My father’s hand went to his chest, his voice dropping to a dangerous, ragged growl. “Lydia, what is this? That is your daughter. She is dying. What do you actually want?” “What do I want?” Her voice suddenly peaked, dripping with a strange, poisoned combination of self-pity and spite. “This is your fault, Tom!” My father looked bewildered. What did Mike trying to save me have to do with him? Under the confused stares of the paramedics and police who were finally closing in, my mother finally spat out the truth. “Last Thursday was the twentieth anniversary of the day we first met! I told you two weeks in advance I wanted to go to that French place downtown. And you forgot! You didn’t even say ‘Happy Anniversary’!” “Tom Miller! You claim you have a bad memory? You claim you can’t keep track of the things that matter to me? Well, now you can see exactly what happens when you’re ‘careless.’ This is the consequence of your negligence!” My father looked like he was watching his entire world crumble. “Lydia… are you serious? Do you know how many anniversaries you make me keep track of?” “The wedding, the first date, the first kiss—hell, the anniversary of the first time we held hands! I try, Lydia. I really do. But I just started that new project at the firm. I’ve been sleeping two hours a night. I was exhausted! I gave you my credit card and told you to buy whatever you wanted to make up for it. Why are you bringing this up now?” Seeing him push back only fueled her fire. “Don’t you dare raise your voice at me!” “If you make a mistake, you pay for it! Accepting a ‘gift’ doesn’t mean I forgave you. And don’t act like I’m the problem now—you used to call me ‘romantic’ when we were dating. Now I’m just ‘too much’?” My father realized there was no reasoning with her. He looked down at me—my eyes were rolling back, my consciousness flickering like a dying candle. In a desperate move, he turned and dropped to his knees before the police officers. “Officers, please. Arrest me. Do whatever you have to do. But please, take my daughter. She drank weedkiller. She’s fading. Please don’t let her die because of this.” The two officers hurried to help him up. They looked at my limp form in Tyler’s arms, signaled to their backup, and lifted me into the back of a squad car. With the sirens screaming a deafening, mournful wail, we tore through the traffic toward the emergency room. I thought that once I passed those sliding glass doors, I would be safe. I thought the nightmare was over. But my mother wasn’t finished. 3 I had just been moved onto a gurney when the trauma room doors burst open. My mother flew at the nurses, reaching for the IV line they were trying to start in my arm. “You people are nothing but thieves! This is a scam!” she screamed. “Ten thousand dollars for an admission deposit? For what? She drank a little diluted poison. You’re price-gouging because we’re in a panic!” Tyler’s face was beet red, his eyes streaming. He was just a student; he didn’t have a dime to his name. He grabbed her hands, trying to pin them down, sobbing for her to just stop, to let them save me. She shoved him back with surprising strength. “I gave birth to her! I wouldn’t hurt her! It was a tiny amount—she’s not going to die. This hospital is just trying to take advantage of us. We’re leaving! We’ll find a clinic that isn’t a rip-off!” She actually tried to drag me off the bed. It took three nurses to physically restrain her. In the middle of the chaos, my father arrived, having finished his blood draw. When he saw the scene, something in him snapped. His eyes were a terrifying, dark red. “Lydia! If you interfere one more time, I am filing for divorce tonight. I will take the kids, and you will never see them again as long as you live!” The word “divorce” seemed to hit her harder than the reality of my dying. She froze, then frantically fumbled in her purse for her wallet. My father and Tyler let out a breath they’d been holding for a lifetime. They thought she was finally surrendering. But no one expected what she did next. She clutched her bank card and bolted out of the room. My father and Tyler chased after her like madmen. Their shouting grew faint, then disappeared entirely down the hallway. In the trauma room, it was just me and a team of helpless doctors and nurses. The chemicals had already done their work, searing through my vitals. My eyelids felt like lead. The rhythmic beep of the monitor became a frantic, high-pitched scream. The doctors grabbed the paddles, the “clear!” ringing out, but my spirit was already drifting, untethered, toward the ceiling. When I opened my eyes again, I was hovering above them all. I saw my own body—pale, still, and utterly broken—on the table. That’s when my mother burst back in, waving a stack of cash. My father was shaking, his voice a ghost of itself. “Lydia… she’s almost gone. Why did you run to an ATM? Why did you waste twenty minutes getting cash when you could have just swiped the card? Do you realize those minutes cost her her life?” My mother just rolled her eyes, breathless. “Last month, Tyler clicked a bad link on his phone and someone hacked fifty dollars out of his account.” “I needed to show you both the risks of digital payments. I wanted to make sure you never, ever use your cards online again. I had to make a point about security!” She stepped forward, shoving the door to my room open.

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