Category: English

The night my parents were kidnapped, my brother, a cop, was on his way to take the girl who replaced me bungee jumping. I didn’t try to stop him. I just hung up, called the police, and started arranging the ransom. In my last life, Ethan blew off the fake-tress to save our parents. The bungee cord snapped. She fell into the canyon, and they never even found her body. Afterward, my brother said nothing. Not a word. Then, on my birthday, he drugged me and drove me to that same canyon overlook. “You planned the kidnapping,” he’d hissed, his face a mask of cold fury. “All of this, just to get their attention. You’re a monster.” “Sophie’s gone. Now you can be, too.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of the kidnapping. Only this time, Ethan wasn’t running a rescue. He was running to her. And later, he would be ripped apart by a regret so profound it would nearly drive him insane. 1 My eyes snapped open, my forehead slick with sweat. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, threatening to shatter my chest. The phantom sensation of falling still clung to me, a cold dread that only began to recede as the familiar floral wallpaper of my bedroom swam into focus. I glanced at the clock. I was back. Reborn. It was the day my parents were taken. In five minutes, the kidnapper would call, demanding an impossible sum within the hour, or they would be executed. I am Paige Sinclair, the daughter who was lost for eighteen years. I’d been back in my parents’ arms for less than a year, and they had become my entire world. I couldn’t let the tragedy of my first life happen again. Not this time. I flew downstairs and planted myself by the landline, my police-officer brother, Ethan, following close behind in his tactical jacket and cargo pants. “Paige, who are you putting on this little show for? Mom and Dad aren’t even here,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. “Weren’t you the one who arranged for their ‘kidnapping’?” A sliver of ice slid down my spine. In that single, mocking smile, I knew. He remembered, too. His expression was a cold, clear message: Don’t bother fighting it. It’s useless. Without him playing along, my “little drama” would be over before it began. Last time, he was convinced I’d masterminded the entire thing—a desperate, pathetic ploy for the attention I felt I was losing to Sophie. I never understood how he’d reached such an insane conclusion. This time, he was simply choosing to sidestep my “trap” altogether. “Paige, let me give you some brotherly advice,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Conspiracy is still a crime. When you end up behind bars, don’t come crying to me to pull you out.” I opened my mouth to argue, but the shrill, insistent ring of the telephone cut me off. Each ring was a needleprick to my heart. Ethan acted as if he didn’t hear it. As he turned to leave, a flicker of contempt crossed his face. “Go ahead, play your games. I’m going to take Sophie to Eagle’s Peak.” He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “They’re not in any real danger, so don’t bother calling me.” That wasn’t what he said last time. In my first life, Ethan had used his years of detective skills to pinpoint the kidnappers’ location in record time. He’d brought our parents back, shaken but unharmed, in just over an hour. I was so consumed with their safety that I completely missed the suspicion and rage simmering behind his eyes. I only understood when he had me dangling over the edge of that cliff. He told me then that during the rescue, Sophie—the girl my parents had adopted to fill the void I’d left—had called him over and over. He didn’t answer. So she went bungee jumping alone. And the cord failed. Now, the phone’s ringing was a relentless death knell. I snatched the receiver, and the kidnapper’s voice, gravelly and distorted, filled my ear. “Five million dollars. You have two hours to get it ready. Or your parents die.” My eyes widened in terror. What? Last time, it was only two million. 2 My hand tightened on the receiver, a cold sweat beading on my skin. It seemed this new reality wasn’t an exact copy. If the ransom was different, the kidnappers’ location might be, too. My confidence shattered, and a raw panic began to set in. “Can you give me a little more time? I…” I pleaded, my voice cracking. The line went dead. I slammed the phone down, forcing my emotions back into a box. I knew weakness was useless against men like this. The priority was the money and the location. My hand trembled as I scribbled down what I remembered from last time. Two kidnappers, both young men. The location was one of their apartments. The drop-off was two million dollars in a duffel bag, left in the third trash can outside the south entrance of the train station. Ethan had busted them before they could even collect it. Money safe, parents safe. With that thought, I grabbed my cell and dialed 911. Then, I called my father’s closest friend and business partner, Marcus. “Marcus, it’s Paige. They have my parents,” I choked out. “The kidnappers—” “I’m on it, Paige,” he said, his own voice tight with alarm. “Call the police. I’ll handle the cash.” A tiny sliver of stability returned to my world. Two minutes later, a patrol car pulled up. But when the door opened, my heart sank. It was my brother’s partner and best friend, Ryan. He walked in without a hint of urgency, his expression soured. “Paige, Ethan just called me. Lucky I was in the area,” he began, not even trying to hide his annoyance. “You know filing a false report is a felony, right?” In that single moment, all my courage, all my hope, collapsed. Ethan, so certain of my guilt, had dispatched his best friend to shut down my “hysterical little game.” Without the police, without a trained detective to analyze the situation, how could I possibly win? The note in my hand, filled with clues, crumpled into a tight ball. The image of my parents, terrified and at the mercy of violent men, flooded my mind, and a sob tore from my throat. “Officer Ryan, I’m not lying,” I cried, the words tumbling out between gasps. “I’m an adult. I’ll take full responsibility for my actions. Please, I need your help. I need you to help me save my parents!” I was hyperventilating, my eyes darting to the clock on the wall. Nearly ten minutes had passed. Time was slipping away. Ryan leaned back on the sofa, casually scrolling through his phone as if I were a mildly interesting television show. My tears didn’t seem to move him in the slightest. “They say kids who grow up in the system get real cunning,” he said with a sigh. “You think turning on the waterworks is going to manipulate me?” He shook his head. “Ethan was right. You can’t raise a kid for a few years and expect them to be family. Their heart’s just not in it.” He paused. “Sophie is so much more mature than you.” Sophie. My replacement. Taken in by my parents at eight years old, raised like a precious jewel. My brother’s devotion to her was almost pathological; even after they were both adults, they still sometimes slept in the same bed, curled up together. The ticking of the clock pulled me back. I forced down the wave of rage and despair, compelling myself into a state of cold calm. “Ryan,” I said, my voice level and firm, making him look up. “You responded to a 911 call. You are obligated to investigate my report.” A cruel, mocking laugh escaped him. “Oh, a real little princess, aren’t you? Think just because you’re a Sinclair now, you can order everyone around? You’re still just an outsider in this house.” His words were like shards of ice in my veins. “Ethan told me everything,” he continued, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a loud bite. “He said Mom and Dad don’t even love you that much. They’re always mixing up your name with Sophie’s. He said you schemed and plotted to get attention until Sophie couldn’t take it anymore and had to move out.” I knew these weren’t his own observations. They were poison, dripped into his ear by my brother over months. In their eyes, I was nothing more than a manipulative, jealous shrew. I stood before him, my own feelings irrelevant. “What will it take for you to believe me? My parents are in mortal danger. If we miss the window to save them, can you live with that responsibility?” Ryan’s hand froze mid-air. He pushed himself up from the sofa. “Go ahead and report me, then. A spoiled little brat like you needs to learn a lesson…” He never finished the sentence. Two uniformed officers were standing in the open doorway. “We’re looking for Paige Sinclair? We received a report of a kidnapping.” My legs gave out, and I nearly crumpled to the floor. Finally. My parents had a chance. 3 Ryan’s face paled. He immediately shifted gears, walking over to the officers with an outstretched hand. “Hey, fellas. I’m a colleague. Just came by to check on Ethan’s sister.” It was only then that I noticed Ryan was in his street clothes. He’d come here off-duty. As the officers stepped inside, he tried to slip past them, but one of them calmly blocked his path. I hurried forward. “Officers! My parents have been kidnapped. I have a recording!” I had instinctively recorded the call on my phone. The moment the distorted, menacing voice filled the room, the color drained completely from Ryan’s face. “But Ethan said… he said it was an actor,” he stammered. “He told me this was all a performance you staged.” I shot him a withering look, too exhausted to waste another word on him. I carefully smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper in my hand. Rummaging through the hazy, fragmented memories of my past life, I tried to grasp the smaller details. I pieced them together in my mind until I found a plausible way to present the information I had. “Officers,” I said, my voice gaining strength. “I think I can provide information on the suspects. I saw two men hanging around the neighborhood recently. Their voices… they sound very similar. They asked me for directions once. I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but…” It was enough. A sketch artist was brought in, and monitoring equipment was set up on the phone line. I focused all my energy on describing the two kidnappers’ faces. The sketches were cross-referenced with a database of individuals with prior offenses, and we got a hit. Two young men with a history of robbery. One of them had rented an apartment under his real name. A tactical team was immediately dispatched. I sank onto the sofa, feeling as if I’d been pulled from a frozen lake. My clothes were soaked through with cold sweat. Twenty minutes later, one of the officers who had stayed with me received an update on his radio. He turned to me, his expression grim. “Paige… I’m sorry. Your parents weren’t at the location.” His voice softened. “But we did find this.” He showed me a picture on his phone. The kidnappers’ apartment was wallpapered with surveillance photos. Photos of my parents, and photos of me. “They’ve been planning this for a long time,” the officer said gently. “Don’t worry. These two won’t get far.” My mind felt like it was about to short-circuit. My worst fear had come true. They had moved my parents. My intel was useless. Across the room, Ryan was on the phone with my brother. He was trying to keep his voice down, but I heard every word. “It’s real, Ethan. It’s a real kidnapping. They have suspects. You need to get back here now.” I heard Ethan laugh on the other end of the line, the sound tinny but clear. He was speaking loud enough for me to hear. “Just stop, Paige. The bigger the lie, the harder you’ll fall. When Mom and Dad have to disown you to save face, don’t come crying to me.” The terror and resentment of my past life surged through me. Even if he hated me, the sister he’d only just gotten back, how could he refuse to believe his own partner? I had done nothing wrong. Our parents had done nothing wrong. The son they had loved and nurtured for over twenty years was, at this very moment, choosing a day of fun with his surrogate sister over their lives. If they knew, their hearts would break. I ached for them. As I wiped a tear from my eye, the landline screamed again. The officer in charge of the wiretap caught my eye and gave me a subtle nod. My heart hammered against my ribs. The kidnappers were calling back. 4 The officer gave me a thumbs-up. My hand was trembling so violently I could barely hold the receiver. One of his colleagues held up a small whiteboard. 【STALL FOR TIME】 I took a shaky breath. The words still came out as a sob. “I’m getting the money. Please, I’m begging you, don’t hurt my parents.” A harsh laugh crackled through the line. “Then move faster! You’ve got one hour left. When time’s up, so are they.” The officer scribbled on the board again. “Where do I bring the money? And how do I know my parents will be safe?” The man’s impatience was palpable. “Leave the money in a locker at the main bus terminal. Don’t worry about your parents. The money shows up, they show up. Simple.” My temples throbbed. The drop-off location was different, too. I kept talking, trying to give the tech team more time to get a trace. “Are they okay? Can I please just hear their voices?” He swore under his breath. “You’re a real piece of work.” A moment later, I heard the muffled, terrified voices of my parents. “Paige,” my mother cried, “finding you again was the greatest gift of our lives. We have no regrets.” “Don’t you risk anything for us,” my father added, his voice strained. “You just take care of yourself.” “Paige, I need you to know,” my mother’s voice broke, “we love you more than you can ever imagine. We wanted to make up for everything… we just didn’t know how.” My father’s older, weaker voice came through. “Honey, I’m so sorry I lost you at the park all those years ago. If I ever get the chance, I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing to your face.” Tears streamed down my face. I opened my mouth to tell them I didn’t need apologies, I just needed them to be safe, to hang on, that I would save them— The kidnapper cut them off. I heard a dull thud, as if he’d kicked someone, followed by a stream of curses. “Enough of this rich-people-crying bullshit! Get the money there, or I can’t guarantee your parents will come home in one piece.” The line went dead. Every officer in the room looked at me, then shook their heads. No trace. The kidnappers were using sophisticated tech to block their location. My anxiety exploded into full-blown terror. The money had to be delivered. It was the only thing keeping my parents alive. I frantically redialed Marcus, the man who had promised to get the cash. The call wouldn’t go through. It went straight to voicemail, over and over. On my tenth try, my cell phone rang. It was Ethan. His laughter echoed in my ear. “Had enough of your little play yet? It’s time for the curtain call.” A cold dread washed over me. “What did you say to Marcus?” Ethan’s voice was breezy, unconcerned. “The truth, of course. I told him not to give you a dime. Five million dollars? That’s a steep price for a little stunt, even for you. I told him you were just trying to drain the family fortune the second you got back in the door. He’s not going to call you back.” In that instant, my world fell away. I was a balloon that had been pricked, all hope hissing out of me. Without that money, my parents had no chance of survival. I remembered the case file from my last life. The two kidnappers already had blood on their hands. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill again. If the money didn’t arrive, they would murder my parents. The landline shrieked again. The kidnapper’s voice was a razor’s edge against my heart. “Time’s almost up. You don’t bring the money now, I kill them both. Right now!” 5 An invisible hand clamped down on my heart, squeezing the air from my lungs. Sweat dripped from my forehead into my eyes. The ticking of the clock was a hammer blow, each second an eternity. I grabbed the receiver, my lips trembling as I spoke. “The time’s not up yet. We’re getting the cash from different banks,” I lied, my voice shaking. “It’s a lot of money to withdraw at once. It takes time.” The kidnapper snorted. “The Sinclair family? Don’t have that kind of cash lying around? Don’t bullshit me.” I held my breath, terrified of saying the wrong thing. In the brief, crackling silence that followed, I heard it—a faint but familiar sound in the background. The mournful wail of a train whistle. The officer monitoring the call heard it too. He gestured frantically for me to keep him on the line. “Let me hear their voices again,” I demanded, trying to sound stronger than I felt. “I need to know they’re still safe.” The kidnapper’s anger flared. “Who do you think you are, some goddamn queen? Everyone has to do what you say?” A pause. “Last thirty minutes. If I don’t see the money, you’ll never see your parents again.” He hung up. Thirty minutes. He’d cut the time. Arguing with a man like that was pointless. The room erupted into controlled chaos as officers began coordinating with banks to expedite a cash withdrawal. But I was frozen, my mind replaying the last few seconds of the call. I was sure of it. That sound. The ghostly echo of wind rushing through a narrow space. I grabbed the arm of the listening technician. “Play back the recording! The last few seconds, now!” Startled by my intensity, everyone paused. The technician complied, isolating the end of the call. And then they all heard it: a low, eerie howl, like the moan of a ghost, just before the line went dead. I shot to my feet. “I know where my parents are.”

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His mother was dying, and the surgery papers were waiting for his signature. But my husband was busy trying to win back the ghost of a girl he could never forget, the one who was about to leave the country again. I made a show of frantic calling, and after he sent me to voicemail, I watched his mother slip away. In my last life, I moved heaven and earth to get the message to him. He’d dropped everything—dropped her—and raced to the hospital, only to arrive a second too late. He was met not by his mother, but by her cooling body. And just like that, the ghost vanished from his life for good. 1 He told me he didn’t blame me, but a week after her death, he knocked me unconscious and dragged me to her grave. He drove a knife into my heart, his hands twisting the hilt, turning my insides to shreds. I watched the life bleed out of me, the edges of the wound a mangled mess, and saw the crimson rage in his eyes. “Why did you have to call me? Why did you make me come to the hospital?” he’d snarled, his face a mask of madness. “I’m not a doctor. What could I have done? Because of you, I’ll never hear from Isabelle again. Because of you, she’s gone forever. So you can go keep my mother company in hell.” I opened my eyes, and I was back. Back on the day his mother died. This time, if he wanted to chase his great ‘what if,’ I wouldn’t be the one to stand in his way. The frantic beeping of the hospital monitors jolted me back to reality. I was alive again. Reborn. His mother, Eleanor, was lying in the same bed as before, her lips a dark, bruised purple—a cruel signature of her failing heart. The machines monitoring her vitals screamed in unison, a shrill, metallic chorus of doom. On pure instinct, I slammed the call button. Nurses rushed in. One look at Eleanor and they were paging her doctor. Her doctor was Mark, Ethan’s best friend since childhood. Ethan had specifically asked him to keep a close eye on his mom. Mark took one look at her charts and his face hardened. “She’s critical. We have to operate now. Get the family to sign the consent forms.” My eyes darted to the phone on her bedside table. As the nurses and I wheeled her bed towards the operating room, I dialed Ethan’s number and put it on speaker. The first call went straight to voicemail. The cold, robotic voice of the carrier service filled the tense silence. Mark’s brow furrowed. “He’s not picking up? Call him again. We can’t proceed without a signature. It’s hospital policy, and not even I can bend that rule for him.” I nodded, my hands performing a perfect imitation of a panicked tremor, and dialed again. This time he answered, his voice crackling with irritation. “What is it now? Haven’t I told you not to call me today? The hospital is full of staff, why do you need me?” The same cold indifference as last time. A chill ran down my spine, erasing any doubt. I remembered the feral look on his face as he’d killed me. “Are you with Isabelle?” I asked, my voice carefully measured. “You need to come. Your mom… it’s not looking good.” I heard him take a sharp breath. His voice rose into a full-blown shout. “It’s never looking good! How many times have I rushed over there for a false alarm? Does my mother’s health only take a nosedive the second I’m with Isabelle? What kind of game are you playing, Zoe? Is your life that empty? Can’t you survive a single day without me?” He wasn’t finished. “If she’s not well, call a doctor! What am I supposed to do, cure her myself? I told you I was busy today. Leave me the hell alone.” Before I could respond, another voice chimed in from his end, sweet and cloying. Isabelle. “Ethan, is it your mother? You should go. Don’t worry about me. I shouldn’t be complicating your life anymore… maybe it’s better if we just don’t see each other again…” He hung up before I could say another word. My nails dug into my palm, the knuckles of my fist turning white. Of course. In this life, just like the last, Isabelle was the only thing that mattered. His furious tirade had echoed from the phone’s speaker, and now every nurse and orderly in the hallway was staring at me with a mixture of pity and discomfort. They all knew. They knew I’d quit my stable government job to care for his mother. Ethan had insisted he didn’t trust hired nurses. So I’d become one, living out of a bag in this sterile, hopeless place for an entire year. And while I was here, changing bedpans and monitoring IV drips, my husband was out trying to recapture his past. The few times he did show up were after I’d frantically called him during a crisis. By the time he’d finished placating Isabelle and finally arrived, Eleanor would be stable again, the immediate danger passed. Then he’d accuse me of crying wolf, of using his mother’s health to manipulate him. His attitude toward me had grown colder and more impatient with each passing month, until he’d just started ignoring my calls altogether. A few times, when things got really bad, Mark had been the one to call, unable to watch me struggle alone. In the beginning, Ethan would drop Isabelle in a heartbeat and race over. But after a few more “false alarms,” where his mother pulled through, he started to see it as a conspiracy. He decided Mark had taken my side, that we were both playing him, scheming to tear him away from his true love. The story of the boy who cried wolf. It was our story. Except this time, I was praying the wolf would come. I wanted him nowhere near this hospital. Let his precious Isabelle bear the weight of this. Mark saw the disconnected call, his expression grim. “I’ll go in and do what I can to buy us some time,” he said, his voice tight. “You keep calling him. We can’t delay this surgery any longer.” He spun on his heel and disappeared into the O.R. A nurse placed a clipboard in front of me, the consent forms clipped neatly to the top. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her eyes full of genuine sympathy. “It’s the rules. We have to have a signature from immediate family.” I nodded, understanding. For the benefit of my audience, I dialed again. This time, the call didn’t even ring. He’d blocked my number. On the outside, I was the picture of desperation. On the inside, a profound wave of relief washed over me. I let my body slump into one of the hard plastic waiting-room chairs, finally allowing myself a moment of rest. Ten minutes later, Mark emerged from the O.R., his face heavy. He looked at a nurse. “Notify the chaplain. It’s not looking good.” His gaze found me, scanning the hallway, and his brow tightened when he saw I was still alone. “Still no word?” he asked, his voice low and sharp. I nodded, forcing two fat tears from my eyes. “It’s my fault,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I shouldn’t have called him all those other times. Now he doesn’t believe me… he’ll never believe me again…” Mark and Ethan were close, so he knew all about Isabelle. He knew the whole pathetic, sordid story. He let out a long, heavy sigh. “It’s not your fault, Zoe. The only one to blame here is Ethan for losing his damn mind.” He stripped off his surgical gloves and marched to the nurses’ station, picking up the landline to dial Ethan’s number himself. I rushed over, my face a carefully constructed mask of earnest anxiety. The second the call connected, Mark’s voice was like steel. “Your mother needs emergency surgery, right now. You’re the only one who can sign. Where are you? Get to the hospital. Now.” The background on Ethan’s end was noisy; it sounded like he was driving, probably on his way to the airport to stop Isabelle. He was even dismissive of his best friend. “You’re there, Mark. You’ll handle it. What could possibly happen?” “Zoe playing games is one thing, but you’re in on it too? Don’t you know Isabelle is leaving today? If I don’t catch her, I’ll never see her again.” “I missed my chance five years ago, Mark. I’m not missing it again. I know you’ve always had a soft spot for Zoe, but I can’t spend the rest of my life with a woman I don’t love. That’s it. I’m driving. Gotta go.” Mark stood there, phone in hand, his face a canvas of disbelief and fury. His eyes turned red, his chest heaving. He slammed his thumb on the redial button, again and again, but each time was met with the same robotic rejection. The anger in his eyes slowly curdled into a deep, profound disappointment, and then, finally, into weary resignation. He let his fist fall onto the counter with a soft thud. My voice now a desperate, cracking sob, I begged a nearby nurse to let me use her cell phone, one last attempt to reach my husband. The call went through. The moment Ethan heard my voice, his tone dropped into a dangerous growl. “Are you fucking kidding me? Have you not had enough? You knew Isabelle was leaving today. You picked this exact day to pull this shit, didn’t you?” “Fine. I’m not coming. Let’s see what you do then. Maybe we should just get a divorce! I am sick to death of your paranoia! But I swear to God, Zoe, if you so much as touch my mother, I will make you pay with your life.” He didn’t give me a chance to reply. The line went dead. A bitter, mocking smile touched my lips. Five years. Five years of my life, wasted. Five years of playing the dutiful wife, of caring for his sick mother, of cleaning up her filth and holding her hand through the night, only to be told I was not the one he loved, not the one he wanted to spend his life with. I could still feel a phantom ache in my chest where the knife had gone in during my last life. A tear escaped, and I angrily wiped it away. From inside the O.R., a nurse shouted for Mark. He was needed. He finally gave up, all hope draining from his face. With a final, resolute look, he turned and walked back into the operating room. The words on the form left on the counter were stark and piercing: Do Not Resuscitate. I took a deep breath and sat back down. I made two calls. The first was to a lawyer, to draw up divorce papers. The second was to a funeral home. Soon, the light above the O.R. door switched off. Mark emerged, pulling his mask down with a slow, heavy hand. He looked at me and simply shook his head. The same scene as last time, but this time, my heart was filled with a completely different emotion. Ethan hadn’t seen his mother’s last moments. Ethan hadn’t been able to stop Isabelle from leaving. And this time, the person to blame for it all wasn’t me. I finally let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. But my eyes burned with tears. Last time, Ethan’s reaction on the phone had been just as cold. But I hadn’t given up. I had jumped through hoops to reach him, sending him photos of his dying mother, a snapshot of the doctor’s grim prognosis, anything to make him believe. He had been on his way to the airport then, too. The proof I sent made him turn his car around and speed toward the hospital. But all that time spent arguing, begging, and convincing him had been too much. He’d arrived just as his mother took her last breath. He had collapsed right there in the hallway, his hands clutching his head as he sobbed like a broken child. He went through the motions of the funeral arrangements with me, a hollowed-out shell of a man. When the dust settled, he discovered Isabelle had blocked him on every platform. The ghost was gone, and this time, there was no way to reach her across the ocean. For seven days, he was silent. When I tried to talk to him, he would just shake his head and say he was fine. I even booked him a flight overseas, telling him to go, to explain things to her. He refused, saying coldly that it was over between them, that this tragedy had made him realize he should cherish the person in front of him. After five years of waiting, those were the words I had longed to hear. I believed him without a second’s hesitation. I was giddy with the hope that his heart was finally coming home. Then, a week after his mother’s death, he hit me from behind and I woke up at her graveside. The indifference in his eyes was gone, replaced by a pure, chilling hatred. The moment I came to, he plunged a dagger he’d spent seven days sharpening straight into my heart. The pain was so blinding I couldn’t even scream. He twisted the handle, his face contorted into the mask of a zealot who had lost his one true god. He watched, transfixed, as the blood soaked through my shirt, turning the fabric a dark, wet crimson. Only then, as my vision began to fade, did he speak. “Why did you have to call me? What difference could I have made?” “Because of a few pictures, I lost Isabelle forever. Forever.” “Do you have any idea how long I waited for her to come back? In the five years we were married, I never stopped dreaming she would look back at me. I begged for it in my sleep. And she finally came back, Zoe. She was finally here. And because of you, she’s gone.” “Since you couldn’t take care of my mother,” he’d hissed, “you can go join her.” He ripped the knife out and plunged it into me again. And again. The blood sprayed across the tombstone, staining the photograph of his mother’s smiling face. The ultrasound picture in my purse, the one showing I was two months pregnant, never saw the light of day. After I died, my soul lingered. I watched him flee the country. I watched him find Isabelle and fall to his knees before her. Before he could even get the words of apology out, the police who had tracked him down fired a single shot, and he fell dead at her feet. Only then did I understand how laughable it was. A five-year marriage sustained only by my sacrifice. He had changed his own last name for her years ago, a bizarre act of devotion she never even asked for. He didn’t care about family. Why would he ever care about me? Thank God, I was given another chance. I took the official death certificate from the nurse and left the hospital. But I didn’t go home. My first stop was a clinic. Mark, worried about my state, stayed with me the whole time. The more he showed me a simple, human kindness, the more hollow I felt. A friend of my husband’s could see that I was fragile, that I needed someone. But the man I had loved for five years, the man whose mother I had cared for, saw me only as an obstacle on his path to true love. Mark watched me schedule the procedure. He sat in the waiting room while it was done. He never said a word to stop me, and he had no more words to defend his friend. When I came out, he gently reminded me of the aftercare instructions. I listened, nodding weakly. “The funeral is in three days,” I told him, my voice thin. “Since Ethan won’t be there, and you were her doctor… could you come? Just to see her off.” Eleanor had been good to me. I didn’t want her to be alone. Her son’s sins weren’t hers. She deserved a proper goodbye. With that, I walked out of the clinic and hailed a cab home. For three days, there was nothing from Ethan. Not a single call. Not one question about his mother. The only updates I got were screenshots from Mark, showing Isabelle’s constantly updated social media feed. He couldn’t stand the thought of me being kept in the dark. It seemed Ethan had succeeded in winning her back. His mother’s body wasn’t even cold, and they were already on a whirlwind tour of every local tourist trap. I saved every picture, every post. Evidence for the divorce lawyer. On the day of the funeral, the chapel was nearly empty. Ethan and I never had a wedding, so I didn’t know his side of the family. The only people there were a few of Eleanor’s old friends I’d managed to contact. Mark stood beside me, his eyes dark and cold, fixed on the chapel doors. I knew he was waiting for Ethan. He couldn’t help himself; he’d sent him the details for the service. But the funeral progressed, and as we reached the final moments, there was still no sign of him. Mark’s expression was frozen solid. I clutched the urn containing Eleanor’s ashes, my thin black dress doing little to ward off the chill in the air. I couldn’t tell if the feeling in my chest was hatred or heartbreak. The stark white flowers surrounding us felt like a mockery. This was a funeral for two people: for Eleanor, and for the woman I used to be. Just as I stepped forward to place the urn in its niche, a man’s roar echoed from the entrance. “What the hell are you all doing? Who gave you permission to hold a funeral for my mother? She’s alive and well in the hospital! Are you insane?” My steps faltered. My grip on the urn tightened until my knuckles ached. The familiar venom in his voice made my whole body tremble. Ethan stormed in, his face contorted with rage. And on his arm was Isabelle, a vision in a blood-red dress, a color so violently out of place it felt like a wound in the heart of the solemn room. Before I could speak, Mark stepped forward. “She’s gone, Ethan! She died three days ago! You wouldn’t listen to Zoe, and you wouldn’t listen to me. What’s it going to take, for her to rise from the grave and tell you herself?” His voice rose, thick with disgust. “This is your mother’s funeral. Are you out of your mind, bringing her here, dressed like that?” “Ethan, I am so disappointed in you, I don’t even have the words. If you’re here to cause a scene, you can take her and get the hell out. Now.” Ethan looked stunned that his best friend would turn on him. The shock quickly morphed into fury. “So you’re in on this little drama too? First, she pretends my mom is sick, and now she’s throwing a fake funeral? You love the theatrics, don’t you, Zoe? Fine. You want a funeral? I’ll give you one.” He strode toward me, snatched the urn from my hands, and hurled it to the ground. Crack. The world dissolved into a cloud of grey ash. A scream tore from my throat. I dropped to my knees, trying to shield what was left, to gather the dust with my bare hands. Ethan kicked me, sending me sprawling into the middle of the desecrated remains. The ash coated my face, my hair, my black dress. Mark reacted in a flash. He lunged forward, his fist connecting with Ethan’s jaw in a sickening crunch. “You’re an animal! How could she have a son like you?” he roared, grabbing Ethan by the collar. “Get out. Get out now, and don’t you ever say you know me again! I’ll handle her funeral myself.” Eleanor had been fond of Mark, treating him like a second son. It was pathetic. Even a near-stranger knew she deserved to rest in peace, while her own flesh and blood, the boy she raised, had just smashed her earthly remains for another woman. Isabelle rushed forward to intervene, but Mark shoved her away. She stumbled, her hand landing on a sharp shard of the broken urn. A deep gash opened up on her palm. Ethan’s eyes went crimson. He moved to help her, ready to fight, but Mark pulled Eleanor’s death certificate from his pocket and threw it in his face.

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My stepbrother kicked me out because he couldn’t handle my “condition.” I have Skin Hunger. Severe touch starvation. Without physical contact, I feel like I’m burning alive. So, I found a roommate. A hacker. Quiet, mysterious, and an incredible cook. One night, while eating his tiramisu, glowing text floated across my vision like a Twitch chat: [ Run, girl! He’s a yandere! There are handcuffs under his pillow! ] [ He fantasizes about chaining you to his bed every night. ] [ You’re still eating? Once you’re full, it’s his turn to feast. ] That night, someone kissed me in the dark. I shivered with excitement. 1 Before my mom and stepdad left for their world tour, they told my stepbrother, Ethan, to take care of me. But my skin hunger was flaring up. Every night was torture. To cope, I took scalding hot showers until my skin was raw and red. Ethan hated it. He banged on the bathroom door. “Serena! How many showers are you gonna take? Are you that dirty?” I turned off the tap, guilty. “I… I just don’t feel well.” I craved touch. Desperately. The hot water was a poor substitute, but it was all I had. “What’s wrong with you?” Ethan’s voice was low. I wrapped a towel around myself and opened the door. He stared at my flushed skin, frowning. “Are you trying to boil yourself alive?” “The hot water… it helps,” I whispered, my eyes misty. “You’re weird. Stop it.” He looked away, but I saw the tips of his ears turn red. As he turned to leave, I grabbed his arm. “Ethan, wait. Can you…” I bit my lip. Ethan stopped. He looked at my hand on his arm. “Can I what?” “Can you… hug me?” The silence stretched for thirty seconds. “Serena,” he finally said, pulling away. “I’m your brother. Have some boundaries.” “We’re not related by blood!” I argued. “And we used to date! We hugged then!” “Mom and Dad aren’t home. Just one hug? Please? My skin hunger is killing me…” “Skin hunger?” He scoffed. “Sounds like delusion to me.” He looked at me sternly. “Serena, we are never getting back together. Stop making up excuses.” I froze. I let go of his arm. “Okay. I get it.” 2 Ethan and I dated in college. After we broke up, my mom married his dad. We became legal siblings. Not biological, but close enough to make things awkward. We never talked about our past. A year ago, Ethan asked to get back together. I said no. I like the possessive, obsessive type. Ethan was too normal. I told him, “Ethan, I’m your sister. We can’t.” Who knew he’d throw my own words back at me? Ethan works at his dad’s company now. My mom says he’s close with his secretary, Chloe. Maybe that’s why he won’t touch me. Or maybe our past relationship traumatized him. I went back into the bathroom and cranked the heat up. Suddenly, the water went cold. “One shower a day,” Ethan yelled from outside. “Or I shut off the water main.” I couldn’t sleep. My skin crawled. Ethan’s room was next door. He texted me: [ Can you stop? If you keep this up, move out. ] I thought for a second. [ Fine. I’ll move out tomorrow. ] 3 I found a two-bedroom apartment on Craigslist. First floor, garden access. My roommate was a 25-year-old guy named Julian. We lived together peacefully for two weeks. He was handsome, quiet, and cooked like a Michelin chef. He always made enough for two. Until tonight. I was eating his homemade tiramisu when text started floating in the air. [ Run! He’s a psycho! Handcuffs under the pillow! ] [ He wants to lock you up. ] [ You’re eating his food? Girl, you ARE the food. ] I peeked at Julian. Is he really a yandere? A psycho obsessive type? And he’s gorgeous? This is… exciting. Ethan broke up with me because he thought I was a freak. I used to tell him, “I wish you’d lock me up. Buy some handcuffs, okay?” Ethan looked at me like I was a monster. “Serena, you need help.” Yes, I do. Once, we got stuck in an elevator. Ethan was checking his watch, waiting for rescue. I was secretly hoping the rescue team would never come so we could die together in that metal box. Ethan was terrified by my thoughts. I broke up with him because he wasn’t possessive enough. Back to reality. I finished the tiramisu. “I take long showers,” I told Julian. “If you need to use the bathroom, go ahead.” “No rush,” he said calmly. “You go first.” “Okay.” I went to my room to get a towel. As I closed the door, more text floated by. [ Want to see what Julian is doing right now? Look through the crack. ] I froze. I peeked through the gap in the door. Julian was in the living room. He dipped his finger into the leftover cream on my plate. He brought it to his lips and licked it off slowly. Then he looked up. His eyes met mine through the crack. Dark, intense, and hungry. Like a predator. I slammed the door shut. My heart was pounding. He watched me eat every time. He never ate with me. Now I know why. He eats my leftovers. So perverted. I love it. 4 I walked out with my towel and pajamas. Julian was washing the plate in the sink. His back was straight, his demeanor cold and distant again. Like the cream-licking psycho never existed. I went into the bathroom. The text appeared again. [ You know why he waits for you to shower first? ] [ Because he likes to use your used… ] [ You have skin hunger. He has an addiction. ] [ Match made in heaven. ] My face burned. No way. That’s too much. Is there more? [ He has hundreds of photos of you on his phone. ] What? How? [ He’s a hacker. A genius. Your life is an open book to him. ] [ He hacked your phone ages ago. ] [ He knows your search history. ] [ Scary, right? You should run. ] I was getting more excited by the second. Scary? No. This is my dream. My search history is basically: What does it feel like to date a yandere? How to cure skin hunger? Dreams about being chained up meaning? How to attract a possessive man? If he hacked my phone, he knows exactly what I am. [ Of course he knows. He baited you with that rental ad. ] [ He’s been obsessed with you for years. ] [ He says your name in his sleep. ] Wow. I turned the shower heat up. My skin hunger was raging. Hot water wasn’t enough anymore. I wanted… Julian. Handcuffs under the pillow? Even better. I wondered what it would be like. A girl who needs touch and a man addicted to her. [ You guys wouldn’t leave the bedroom for a week. ] [ You’re a fish out of water. He’s the ocean. ] [ He’ll never let you go thirsty. ] The steam made me dizzy. “Mmm…” I moaned softly. “Serena?” Julian’s voice came from outside the door. Low and husky. “Do you need help?”

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There’s a running joke among the women who lunch on the Upper East Side. “When you get married,” it goes, “you can be anyone you want. Just don’t be Audrey Hayes. Her husband’s mistress is practically sleeping in their bed, and she just swallows it down for the sake of her son. The woman’s a walking tragedy.” The men, however, always say it with a note of envy. “A dutiful wife at home and a hot little thing on the side? That’s not a tragedy, that’s the dream.” But here’s the secret no one knew. Audrey Hayes, the most docile and accommodating wife in all of Manhattan, was about to give up custody of her son, just to get a divorce from her husband. Not that my husband, Grayson Hayes, would ever believe it. … I watched him across the vast expanse of our dining table, spooning soup into his mouth. The word divorce slipped out of me before I could stop it. The sound of it shocked me, but what followed was a wave of relief so profound it felt like taking my first breath after nearly drowning. Grayson’s hand paused mid-air. He placed the spoon down with a soft clink and delicately dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “The soup’s a little salty tonight. Tell the chef to use less sodium tomorrow.” His phone, lying face-up on the polished mahogany, lit up. The hard lines of his face, the ones that were always set in a look of mild indifference whenever he looked at me, softened instantly. A small smile touched his lips as he tapped out a reply. The name on the screen was Isabelle. The world knew her as the mistress who had all but shoved me out of my own life. I took a steadying breath and hardened my tone. “Grayson. I want a divorce. Right now.” He didn’t even look up, just glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist. “Noah will be home in five minutes. Are you really going to make a scene?” There it was. He was playing his trump card, using the son I had nearly died to bring into this world as a shield. He was warning me to behave. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know that yesterday, I had decided to give up on every last one of them. It happened yesterday. My son, Noah, got into a fight with some townies over his girlfriend and ended up at the local precinct. When I got the call and rushed over, still in my apron, his little girlfriend looked me up and down and piped up. “Noah, is that your housekeeper?” The group of teenagers around them burst into laughter. Noah, chewing his gum with a pained expression, shot me a venomous look. “So embarrassing,” he muttered. I froze, my hands instinctively tugging at the apron I hadn’t had time to change. A hot flash of anger surged through me. “Noah, have I not told you about getting into relationships so young?” “Hey!” Noah snapped, cutting me off. It had been years since he’d called me ‘Mom.’ “Why don’t you try holding on to your own husband before you start lecturing me about my life? Can’t manage him, so you take it out on your son to feel important?” The blood drained from my face, a chill spreading from my scalp to the soles of my feet. I blinked, and tears I hadn’t known were there began to stream down my cheeks, hot and unstoppable. “Hehe, look, she’s crying,” the little girlfriend giggled, poking Noah in the chest. “Go easy on her, Noah. I guess yelling at her kid is the only way a housewife can maintain her so-called status, hahaha.” “What’s the point of crying at me?” he said, his voice laced with impatience. A cruel, sarcastic smile twisted his lips. “My dad is the one you should be crying to. Besides,” he added, his voice dropping with contempt, “you’re not exactly a young girl anymore. The whole damsel-in-distress routine doesn’t work. It’s just… pathetic.” Just like that, the tears stopped. The raw emotion was shattered by his words. I looked at my son’s face, a face that was an eighty-percent echo of Grayson’s, and saw it with terrifying clarity. They were father and son, through and through. They even looked at me with the same expression. The same dismissiveness. The same arrogance. A profound exhaustion settled deep in my bones. I turned to leave, but a figure smelling faintly of Chanel No. 5 brushed past me. I stopped. It was Isabelle. Her eyes were red-rimmed as she frantically checked Noah over from head to toe. “Noah, sweetie, are you hurt? You have to tell Aunt Isabelle, don’t be brave.” And Noah, who had been all swagger and defiance with the police officers just moments before, bowed his head like a tamed wolf cub. He awkwardly reached out to wipe a tear from her cheek. “Aunt Isabelle, don’t cry. I’m fine, really.” Looking at the two of them, anyone would have thought they were the real mother and son. “Audrey. Where do you think you’re going?” Grayson had arrived. His brow was furrowed, his eyes flashing with anger as he stared at me. “Noah is still in a police station, and you were just going to walk out? What kind of a mother are you?” Noah’s girlfriend shot a sly, triumphant smile and looped her arm through Isabelle’s. “Aunt Isabelle, you’re so good to Noah. I really wish you were his real mom.” Her gaze flickered over to me, dripping with insinuation. “I mean, some people don’t even care if their own son is hurt. They’re just looking for a chance to throw their weight around. It just breaks my heart for Noah.” Every eye in the room turned to me, their gazes filled with varying degrees of condemnation. I was the one who had been insulted, the one who should have been hurting. But I wasn’t even allowed to cry, because the son I had carried for ten months and brought into the world through a near-death ordeal would find my tears disgusting. Grayson let out a derisive snort. “Go home, Audrey. Isabelle and I have it covered here. We don’t need any outsiders.” 2 The silence in the dining room stretched, thick and heavy. At some point, our housekeeper had entered, placing a thick manila envelope on the table beside him. “Ma’am,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “A lawyer asked me to give this to you.” Grayson impatiently flipped through the divorce agreement. My signature, clear and steady, was already on the final page. For the first time all evening, he finally looked at me, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “What new brand of insanity is this?” In the past, the slightest hint of a frown from him would send me into a spiral of anxious apologies, regardless of who was at fault. Marrying Grayson Hayes was the catch of a lifetime, the fulfillment of a girlhood dream where he was the moon I had spent my youth reaching for. But this time, I met his gaze without flinching. My voice was calm. “I’ll leave with nothing.” His fingers, clutching the papers, turned white at the knuckles. “Audrey…” Just then, a figure burst through the door. It was Isabelle, who laughed and promptly settled herself onto Grayson’s lap, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Gray, honey, Noah’s parent-teacher conference is today! We’re going to be late.” In our circle, there was an unspoken rule: no matter how much you fooled around, you never brought it home. Grayson had always been discreet with his other flings, keeping them hidden away. But Isabelle… Isabelle was different. Short of the legal title I still held, Grayson had given her everything. Sensing my stare, Isabelle made a show of scrambling to her feet. “Oh, Audrey, I’m so sorry. Am I interrupting something?” Grayson pulled her back onto his lap, his smile indulgent. “Just a little trouble. It’ll be sorted out in a minute. We won’t be late.” Isabelle let out a sigh of relief. “It’s just that this conference is really important. I guess I got a little anxious.” Watching them together, a bitter smile touched my lips. So that’s what I was. Anything to do with me was “trouble.” I, myself, was trouble. He rubbed his temples, a sign of his growing impatience. For the first time in our marriage, the great Grayson Hayes lowered his head to me, but only because he didn’t want to keep Isabelle waiting. “I admit I was a little harsh yesterday. It won’t happen again. And Noah… I’ll talk to him. I’ll remind him to respect you. Okay?” Isabelle bit her lip, her eyes pleading with me. “Audrey, Noah is what’s most important. Can you really stand to see him get reprimanded by his teacher for being late?” She leaned forward, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Please. For Noah’s sake. Can’t you just show a little more concern for him?” A lump formed in my throat, hot and suffocating. I wanted to scream at them. How could it be that I, Noah’s biological mother, had no idea he even had a parent-teacher conference? But what was the point? The last time I’d tried to pick him up from his private school, he had spotted me from a block away and deliberately turned to walk in the other direction, a look of disgust on his face. “Can you please not come to my school and embarrass me?” he’d hissed at me later that night. “You smell like kitchen grease. You look like a frumpy housewife.” “Someone asked me if I was the housekeeper’s son yesterday.” I closed my eyes, pushing down the familiar surge of acid heartbreak. I opened them and spoke, enunciating each word with chilling precision. “Sign the papers. Then you’ll have no one to hold you back.” “Are you sure you want a divorce?” 3 Grayson’s jaw was set in a hard line. I knew he was furious, but for the first time, I didn’t shrink. I didn’t abandon my own needs to soothe his temper. Isabelle’s eyes darted to the divorce agreement on the table, my name signed at the bottom. In a flash, her eyes filled with tears and she crumpled to the floor, sobbing. “I’m so sorry,” she wailed. “It’s all my fault. You want to divorce Gray because of me.” “I feel so awful. But I love him so much, and I love Noah so much. Please don’t be angry. I’ll never show my face again, I promise. Just… just let me be his pet. Something he can visit once in a while. That’s all I ask.” “It has nothing to do with you,” Grayson said, his voice a low growl as he tried to pull her up. But Isabelle threw off his hand and crawled on her knees toward me, clutching at my legs. “I’ll kneel for you. I’ll beg for your forgiveness.” “Just please, don’t do this out of spite. If you and Gray really get a divorce… what will happen to Noah?” I was pinned, unable to move. And in that space where no one else could see, Isabelle’s lips twisted into a triumphant, mocking smirk. The Hayes family never wanted you, she mouthed silently. Get out. Her words didn’t even register. The whole display was so absurd it was almost funny. I reached down to push her away, but she used my momentum, collapsing dramatically onto the floor and scraping her wrist against the leg of a chair. It immediately turned a raw, angry red. Before I could even process what had happened, a powerful force shoved me from behind. I stumbled, my feet tangling, and fell hard. My forehead struck the sharp corner of the dining table. A thick, warm liquid streamed down over my eyebrow, blurring my vision in a wash of crimson. “Are you crazy? Taking it out on Aunt Isabelle just because you’re upset!” “Audrey, have you had enough?!” Through the red haze, I saw the undisguised loathing in the eyes of my son and my husband. And finally, I laughed. It was such a clumsy, pathetic performance, but because it was Isabelle, they believed every second of it. Noah was already on his knees beside her, cradling her reddened wrist, his own eyes welling with tears. He produced an antiseptic wipe and a bandage from a nearby first-aid kit, applying them with the same gentle technique I had taught him years ago. “Don’t be scared, Aunt Isabelle,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “As long as I’m here, that crazy woman won’t ever hurt you again.” I could still remember twelve years ago, Noah in his incubator, his tiny eyes looking out at me with complete and total dependence. The delivery had been brutal. I had hemorrhaged, and Noah was born severely deprived of oxygen. He spent a full month in the NICU. No one thought he would make it. Grayson’s mother had already made arrangements at a funeral home. There was a fifty percent chance he would have severe developmental disabilities. “I can accept the Hayes family having no heir,” she had told me, her voice like ice. “But I will not accept an heir who is a vegetable.” Only I hadn’t given up. I begged, I groveled, I wore my knees raw pleading with Grayson’s family until his grandmother finally agreed to keep paying for his care. I spent every waking moment outside the NICU, separated by two layers of glass, talking to him, singing to him, doing anything I could to stimulate his tiny brain. I prayed to every god I could think of, offering up thirty years of my own life in exchange for his. Just let him be safe and sound. Year after year, safe and sound. So when Noah opened his eyes for the first time, I knew I would give up anything for him. I gave up a promotion at the gallery, trading my career for a kitchen, meticulously planning his every meal. I gave up my own feelings, enduring Grayson’s nights away from home, his constant neglect, his subtle devaluations. The divorce papers were scattered across the floor. Noah saw them, and his hands, still tending to Isabelle, froze. His voice rose to a shrill cry. “So that’s it. You blame Aunt Isabelle for the divorce, so you attack her. How can you be such a vicious woman?” “I will never leave with you! Someone like you doesn’t deserve to be my mother, and you don’t deserve to be Dad’s wife!” His words were like daggers. And all I could think of was the first time he spoke. The words he had said. “Love… Mommy… the most.” I remembered when the first rumors of Grayson’s affairs had surfaced. Noah, just a little boy then, would stand guard at the front door with his little face set in a serious frown. “You have to apologize to Mommy before I let you in.” 4 For so long, he had been my reason for living, the pillar that held up my world. But I didn’t need him to hold me up anymore. Grayson’s brow was furrowed, his voice a low threat. “If you divorce me, you will never see Noah again.” Father and son, their spines bristling in unison against me. I looked straight at Noah, my voice quiet but firm. “I’ll leave with nothing. And of course, I don’t want you.” The anger on Noah’s face popped like a balloon, replaced by a flash of panic and confusion. Grayson let out a cold laugh. He snatched a pen, scribbled his name on the final page with such force that he nearly tore the paper, and threw the entire document at me. “Don’t you come to regret this.” I bent down and picked up the scattered pages, one by one. With each sheet, it felt as though I were removing a link from a heavy chain I had been dragging for more than a decade. The relief was overwhelming. “Regret? Never.” I stood up, and for the first time in this house, my spine felt straight and strong. My family was never prominent in the city’s social hierarchy. At every gala and benefit, I was the wallflower, watching from a distance as Grayson held court, a sun surrounded by fawning planets. Our marriage was the result of a stupid bet he’d lost with his friends. He’d turned to me, a dare in his eyes, and asked if I would marry him. I’d said yes. He took me to City Hall that very night. There was no ring, no ceremony. It wasn’t until I gave birth to Noah that the world even knew a Mrs. Hayes existed. I turned to leave, but a glint of moisture in the corner of Noah’s eye caught my attention. I sighed. “The weather’s getting colder. Remember to wear a jacket. Your immune system is weak; it takes you longer than others to get over a cold.” Every time the seasons changed, Noah would get sick. When he was little, he couldn’t sleep with a fever unless I was sitting by his bed. I often stayed up with him for four or five nights in a row. “And stay away from shellfish. It’s too harsh on your system. It gives you stomach cramps.” Noah couldn’t touch any kind of seafood. The first time Grayson, in a rare moment of paternal indulgence, had let him have whatever he wanted, Noah had gorged himself on lobster behind my back. The resulting illness led to the entire family blaming me for my carelessness. I had nearly cried my eyes out from guilt and exhaustion. “In the fridge…” “That’s enough,” Noah cut me off, the panic in his eyes gone, replaced by a contemptuous smirk. “You just said you didn’t want me. Who are you putting on this touching motherly performance for now? Just get out of here. You don’t belong in this house anymore.” I swallowed the rest of my words. I went upstairs to pack. The sound of a car engine starting up echoed from the driveway below. My hands didn’t pause. But as I looked around, I realized the only things that were truly mine were a simple summer dress I’d worn the day Grayson and I went to City Hall, and the clothes on my back. With a sense of futility, I stopped. I twisted the diamond ring from my finger, placed it on the dresser, and walked out of the room empty-handed. I was stopped at the front door. Grayson had come back. He pulled me into his car, and we drove in silence until we reached the bridge over the river. Noah glared at me from the back seat. “This is all your fault! If you hadn’t said those things, Aunt Isabelle wouldn’t have been so wracked with guilt that she jumped into the river! She was trying to convince Dad to make up with you!” Isabelle was huddled in Grayson’s arms, soaking wet and shivering violently. “Audrey, you can hit me, you can scream at me, whatever you want,” she sobbed. “But please, don’t let this family fall apart because of me.” Grayson was beside himself with worry. He grabbed me, his fingers digging into my neck, and forced me against the cold metal railing of the bridge. “Apologize!” he snarled, his face inches from mine. “Apologize, or I’ll throw you in there so you can feel a fraction of the misery she just went through.” I clenched my jaw. “Never.” Isabelle’s sobs grew louder. Noah balled his fists. “Bitch! Dad, just do it! Throw her in!” The pressure on my neck tightened. Grayson’s eyes were squeezed shut. With a final roar of fury, he shoved me away. But the force of it sent me stumbling backward, over the low railing. The icy water of the river shocked the air from my lungs. The last thing I saw was the image of the three of them on the bridge, huddled together in a protective embrace. I stopped struggling. My fingers found a small button on the side of my watch and pressed it. I let myself sink. If they wanted me dead, then I would grant their wish.

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I’ve always been the quiet one in my family. So quiet that in most of our family photos, you can’t find my eyes. It’s not that the camera missed them. It’s that I never dared to look at the lens. 1 My mother was the reigning queen of the city’s main stage. My father’s voice was the golden baritone of NPR’s morning drive. My brother, Owen, was born for the spotlight—class president, the one chosen to give the speech at graduation, the guy who led the team to victory. So, when I came along as a surprise, all our relatives said the same thing: “Owen’s little sister? She’s bound to be a firecracker.” I was a disappointment to them all. My voice was thin, like it had been sanded down. My face was as plain as a glass of water. I had managed to perfectly sidestep every single one of my parents’ talents and gifts. Owen was the first light of dawn. And me, Nora, I was the last, faded gray of sunset. Children don’t know how to hide their feelings. In the kindergarten play, I was cast as a tree. As the teacher tied green ribbons to my arms, I whispered, “Ma’am, I know the rabbit’s lines.” She patted my head. “That’s nice, Nora, but trees don’t have to talk.” Still, I saw it—a flicker of pity in her eyes. My parents prided themselves on being progressive, on never comparing me to my brother. But whenever guests came over, my father would have Owen recite a poem or tell a charismatic story. Me? My job was to bring out the cheese and crackers, then settle quietly into a corner. “Nora’s the introspective one, like her grandmother,” my mother would explain. But my grandmother was a woman of the silent generation, taught to be seen and not heard. I was a child of the twenty-first century. By middle school, Owen was already a big man on campus. His essays were printed out and passed around as examples for the entire grade. My father held one of them, his voice thick with emotion. “If Owen follows in my footsteps, I’ll know I’ve done something right with my life.” I was peeling an apple beside him. The knife slipped, slicing my finger. My dad jumped, rushing to find a Band-Aid. As he wrapped it around my finger, he murmured, “That’s not what I meant, Nora.” I knew. He hadn’t meant it. If he’d meant it, he never would have said it out loud. The themes were there from the beginning. Owen and Nora. One who shines, one who fades. You see, my cultured parents were masters of metaphor, even in naming their children. 2 On my parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary, when I was twelve, we all went to a recording studio to record a song together. The sound engineer was an old friend of my dad’s. He laughed and said, “Lee, you wouldn’t know these two kids came from the same parents just by listening to them.” Owen stepped up to the mic and sang a line, clear as a bell. The engineer gave him a thumbs-up. When it was my turn, I’d barely opened my mouth before the engineer’s brow furrowed. “Relax, kid. Don’t be nervous.” I clutched the hem of my shirt and tried again. “…The pitch is a little shaky.” In the end, I was given two lines in the chorus, and my voice was auto-tuned into oblivion. My parents loved the final version. They sent it to our family group text. My aunt replied first: “Owen has a voice destined for the radio!” Her next text came a moment later: “Nora is just… getting quieter and quieter, isn’t she?” Quiet. Such a convenient word. Peaceful, no trouble, like a shadow. I sat on the floor of the study, headphones on, listening to that song over and over. My voice, sandwiched between three bright, confident ones, was like a loose thread on a bolt of smooth silk. It didn’t belong. In eighth grade, I fell in love with writing. I’d cut up notebooks into little booklets and fill them with ink, word by word. I wrote about the clouds, about the ants on my windowsill, about the boy from the next class who always stayed late to practice basketball. I never dared to write about Owen. He was too bright; he would have burned the tip of my pen. I hid the notebooks under my mattress. I thought it was the safest place in the world. Until one day, my mom found them while cleaning. She didn’t tell me. She took them straight to my dad. That night at dinner, my dad stirred his soup and asked, seemingly out of nowhere, “Nora, have you been doing a lot of reading lately?” My stomach clenched. “…Just some stuff for school.” “The writing is still a bit raw,” he said, setting down his spoon, “but your observational skills are sharp.” My mom chimed in. “Yes, that part about the boy next door was very vivid.” My face caught fire. Blood rushed to my head, a roaring in my ears. They had gone through my secrets, and now they were discussing them with the casual air of someone critiquing a meal. Owen slid a piece of chicken onto my plate. “Mom, Dad, ever hear of privacy?” My dad waved him off. “What’s privacy to a child? We’re just showing we care.” That night, I tore the notebook apart, page by page, and flushed it down the toilet. Watching the vortex swallow the pieces, I told myself: See, Nora? Even your secrets don’t deserve to exist. 3 Owen got a full scholarship to Georgetown his senior year. My parents threw a dinner party that filled three tables. Relatives took turns raising their glasses, saying, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” I sat in the corner, quietly peeling a shrimp. An aunt came over and patted my head. “And Nora’s a sweet girl, so quiet. She’ll have no trouble finding a husband someday.” My father, his face flushed with wine, laughed. “That’s right. For our Nora, a peaceful life is all we ask for.” A peaceful life. Such a low bar to set. Like a weed in the garden—you don’t expect it to flower, you just hope it survives. After the party, my dad sat Owen down in the living room for a long talk. I walked past the study and heard the passionate blueprint of my brother’s future. “D.C. is full of opportunities…” “I’ve already spoken to a professor there…” “An internship at NPR headquarters…” I slipped back to my room. A college course catalog lay on my desk. I flipped to the last page, to a small liberal arts college in North Carolina I’d never heard of. It had a Media Studies program. Small. Far away. The required GPA hovered right around my mock exam scores. I folded the corner of the page. Like hiding a dream no one else knew existed. The day I declared my college choice was the first time I ever truly fought with my parents. “Media Studies?” My mom’s voice shot up. “What are you doing chasing after that?” “Your brother has the talent for it, his path is already paved! But you? With your personality, your… disposition? You’d be eaten alive in that world.” My dad was calmer, but his words were heavier. “Nora, I’m not trying to crush your spirits. But the media industry… it requires charisma, connections, a certain look. You don’t have any of those.” “Why not major in education? Or accounting? Something stable?” I looked at them. I looked at the quiet, stable, ordinary girl they saw. And for the first time, I didn’t back down. “I want to try.” They eventually gave in. Not because I’d convinced them, but because they figured I’d “hit a wall and come to my senses.” “Fine,” my mother sighed. “Go and see for yourself how hard it is. Then you’ll understand we only want what’s best for you.” The day my acceptance letter arrived, the house was empty. Owen was already in D.C. for a summer program, and my parents were at a colleague’s wedding. I retrieved the thin envelope from the mailbox myself. I opened it and saw the unfamiliar school name and the words “Department of Media & Journalism.” There were no cheers, no tears. I just folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the deepest pocket of my backpack. It felt like a secret handover had just been completed. 4 My dad drove me to the airport. The silence in the car was heavy. Before I went through security, he pressed a debit card into my hand. “I’ll deposit money for you every month. If it’s not enough… let me know.” I clutched the plastic and nodded. He looked at me, his lips parting as if he wanted to say more. In the end, he just patted my shoulder. “Take care of yourself.” The plane took off, banking over the city. I watched the landscape shrink below, feeling a strange sense of calm. Even, a little bit, of relief. I had finally escaped the gravitational pull of the place called home. I could just be Nora, not just “Owen’s sister.” College life was quieter than I’d imagined. No one here knew who Owen was. No one had pasted the “quiet” label on me. I could hide in the crowd and start to grow again, on my own terms. The coursework wasn’t easy. Especially the practical classes. While other students spoke eloquently to the camera, my hands would sweat holding the microphone. My professor’s feedback was always the same: “Nora, the content is solid, but your delivery is weak.” I’d lower my head, accustomed to the critique. Until one day, the professor for my elective course asked me to stay after class. He was young, a Mr. Davies, who had apparently been a journalist for a few years. “Nora, I’ve read the last few essays you submitted.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Your perspective is sharp, and your writing has a coldness to it. It’s not what I’d expect from you.” My stomach tightened. “But,” he continued, “that coldness can be an asset for certain subjects.” He recommended a few online platforms for narrative non-fiction, and a couple of niche blogs with a unique style. “Give it a try. You don’t always have to be the one standing in front of the camera.” That afternoon, I sat in the library and read every article he’d recommended. Something in my chest slowly began to wake up. I realized there wasn’t just one way to have a voice. I realized that quietness could also be a kind of strength. I started submitting pieces to online magazines, secretly, under a pen name. I wrote about the driver of the late-night bus on the edge of the city, about the old man in a crumbling apartment complex raising his grandson by collecting cans, about the boy on the other side of the screen who only used text to talk because of his stutter. The pay was next to nothing—fifty dollars, a hundred here and there. But every time I sent an email into the void, the wait for a reply felt like planting a seed in the dark. Occasionally, one would sprout. During my sophomore year, an article I wrote about people with selective mutism was picked up by a major online journal. An editor reached out. She asked if I wanted to write a regular column. For the title, she suggested “The Unvoiced.” I stared at those two words for a long time before replying. I never told my family I was writing. Whenever we talked on the phone, the conversation was always centered on Owen. “Your brother won another scholarship.” “Your brother is interning at the NPR headquarters.” “Your brother has a girlfriend. She’s from D.C., too. Her family is very well-off.” I held the phone, murmuring “mhm” and “that’s great.” My eyes were fixed on my laptop screen, on the columnist contract that had just arrived in my inbox. “What about you, Nora? Are you dating anyone?” my mom asked suddenly. “…No.” “Good. College relationships never last. When you graduate and come home, your mother will find you someone suitable.” Suitable. Meaning, appropriate, from a good family, the kind of person a “quiet” girl like me was supposed to end up with. I went home for Christmas break to a strange atmosphere. Owen had brought his girlfriend home. Her name was Brooke. A D.C. girl, bright and confident, like sunshine in the middle of winter. At the dinner table, she was dazzling, making my parents laugh constantly. “You have such wonderful taste, Mrs. Clark. No wonder Owen is so handsome.” “Mr. Clark, this soup is incredible. Better than any restaurant in D.C.” My mother was beaming, piling food onto her plate. I ate my meal in silence, part of the background scenery. Suddenly, Brooke turned to me. “So you’re studying down south, Nora? Are you used to it?” I nodded. “I am.” “What’s your major again?” “Media and Journalism.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, so you’re in the same field as Owen! He’ll have to show you the ropes.” Owen wrapped his arm around her shoulder, smiling. “Not everyone is a powerhouse like you, babe. Our Nora just likes to keep things simple.” I lowered my head, pushing the rice around in my bowl. Keep things simple. See, even my own brother defined me that way. 5 After dinner, my mom and Brooke were in the living room, looking through old family albums. I got up to get a glass of water from the kitchen. I heard Brooke’s hushed voice: “Nora and Owen are so different… their personalities are worlds apart.” My mother laughed softly. “I know. Nora takes after her grandmother. She’s an introvert.” Brooke replied, “It’s nice, though. So quiet and calm. Not like me, I never shut up.” I stood in the kitchen doorway, the glass in my hand feeling cold. So, even to the brilliant, sun-like people in my brother’s world, I was just the “quiet and calm” wallpaper. That night, I logged into the backend of my column. There was a new comment from a reader. “Your writing reminds me of the cold silence and deep compassion in Willa Cather’s work. Please, keep writing.” Outside my window, the city lights flickered. I typed back: “Thank you. I will.” Brooke and I stayed in touch, a friendly but distant connection. She’d send me links to cultural events in D.C., and sometimes she’d complain that Owen was a typical guy, completely clueless about romance. “Nora, when you start dating, make sure you find someone who pays attention.” I’d reply with a smiley face emoji. A boyfriend. Of the four girls in my dorm suite, I was the only single one. Leah, the girl in the bunk below me, asked me about it one night. “Nora, you’re pretty and smart. How come you don’t date?” I was quiet for a moment. “I never know what to say.” She laughed. “Dating isn’t a speech, you don’t need a script. You just need to feel a connection.” A connection. I looked at my plain face in the mirror. I remembered the vague crush I’d had on the basketball captain in high school. That crush died the day he came up to me to ask for Owen’s number. “Hey, can you send me your brother’s contact? I want to ask him about the athletic scholarships at Georgetown.” See? Even my insignificant little crushes were just a reflection of Owen’s light. Junior year, Brooke came to my city for a business trip. She took me out for dinner. She looked thinner, but her energy was still high. In between conversation, she mentioned an argument with Owen. “He wants to stay in D.C., and so do I. But the pressure is insane.” “Your parents want him to move back home, they say they have everything lined up for him there.” She stirred her coffee, a bitter smile on her face. “Nora, sometimes I really envy you.” I was stunned. “Envy me?” “Yeah,” she said, looking up at me, her eyes complicated. “You’re just… quiet. You don’t have all these expectations weighing you down. You can make your own choices.” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My own choices? In my parents’ eyes, my choices were just me being stubborn, a phase of rebellion. But in that moment, I didn’t want to correct her. Maybe Brooke was right. In the unvoiced places, there was a different kind of freedom. After I saw Brooke off, I got a call from my dad. His tone was serious. “Nora, are your brother and Brooke having problems?” “…I don’t know.” “You should talk some sense into him. Brooke’s family is impressive, but the gap between our families is too big. It’ll cause problems down the road. It would be better if he came home. We could find him a nice local girl, someone we know.” Listening to him, a cold dread washed over me. Look. Even my brother’s sun-drenched life had to be forced onto the track of what was “suitable.” So what did that make my little patch of shadow? 6 My column slowly gained a small following. A book editor contacted me, asking if I’d be interested in publishing a collection of my essays. I hesitated. Publishing a book meant stepping into the light. It meant the name Nora Clark would be connected to those words—“cold,” “compassionate.” It meant my parents would find out. I could already hear their reactions. “What is this nonsense?” “It’s not a real job.” “How much can you possibly earn from that?” Mr. Davies encouraged me. “This is a good thing. Your writing has value. More people should see it.” Leah was even more excited than I was. “A book! Nora! You’re going to be an author!” I looked at her shining eyes, and the hesitation in my heart was slowly replaced by a strange, unfamiliar courage. Maybe I could. The day I signed the contract, I sat in a coffee shop for a long time. I watched the people walk by outside the window. Every one of them, carrying their own story, moving in silence. And I was going to be the one to tell those silent stories. During fall break of my senior year, Owen and Brooke came home together. The atmosphere was better than I expected. Brooke didn’t mention their previous arguments. She went shopping with my mom and charmed her completely. My dad and Owen spent an afternoon in the study and came out looking much more relaxed. It seemed some kind of compromise had been reached. At dinner, the conversation somehow turned to me. “Nora’s a senior now. Have you thought about grad school or work?” Brooke asked. Before I could speak, my mom jumped in. “Oh, we’re not putting any pressure on her. A nice, easy job. Something stable is all that matters.” My dad nodded. “A girl doesn’t need to be too ambitious.” Owen put a piece of fish on my plate. “Listen to Mom and Dad, Nora. They know best.” I stared at the piece of white fish in my bowl. Suddenly, I put down my fork. “I signed a publishing contract.”

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My boyfriend of seven years, Liam, spent our entire joint savings on a new Mercedes. I assumed he was finally doing it—buying a luxury car so we could drive home for the holidays and look like we’d made it. But as I was loading my suitcase into the trunk, he stopped me. “Hey, you should probably take the bus. I’m pretending to be Julia’s boyfriend again this year. It’s… complicated.” The next day, I saw his Instagram story: him, in the new Mercedes, driving Julia and her mom around for holiday shopping. The caption: “Finally made good on my future mother-in-law’s request for a new Benz. Now I just have to figure out how to make her my actual mother-in-law!” That night, his post had 99 likes and a flood of congratulations. I couldn’t get a bus ticket, so I took an unlicensed cab. It hydroplaned on the highway and nearly flipped. When I woke up, I dialed my boss. “Hello, Alex? That transfer to the branch office you mentioned a few months ago. Is it still on the table?” 1 “It is, Jenna. If you still want it.” My chest ached. But I took it. After I hung up, I saw my phone. Twenty-nine missed calls from Liam. I almost laughed. What a joke. He was so busy—playing the dutiful son-in-law, doting on the girl he’d been obsessed with since we were kids—and he still found time to call me? As if on cue, the 30th call came through. I answered. “Jenna, what the hell is your problem?” he yelled. “Are you ignoring my calls? You won’t believe this. I got a call three days ago from some guy claiming to be a cop, said you were in a car accident, told me to go to City General. A scam. I almost fell for it.” He was breathing hard, genuinely angry. “Did you set that up? Are you that desperate to ruin my trip with Julia? You’re unbelievable.” His words helped me place the time. I’d been unconscious for three days. The post-accident headache was pounding against my skull. “Oh. Okay. I get it. I have to go.” I hung up. He immediately called back. “Don’t you hang up on me, Jenna! What is this, another one of your little scenes? You have to do this every holiday, don’t you? Make everyone miserable.” I gripped the phone. “Liam,” I said, my voice shaking, “I was in an accident. My head is killing me. I really don’t want to fight. If you need to yell at someone, can it wait until I’m discharged?” The line went dead silent. I don’t think he’d ever, in seven years, considered that I might be telling the truth. He was used to me fighting, crying, and throwing fits about Julia. He’d already decided this was just another “Jenna tantrum.” The police call, my silence—it was all just a ploy to him. Finally, his voice came back, hesitant. “You… you’re at the hospital? Send me the address. I’m coming.” He hung up. I let the phone drop, and the tears I’d been holding back finally came. Liam, Julia, and I all grew up in the same small neighborhood. For as long as I can remember, I was chasing Liam, and Liam was chasing Julia. Seven years ago, after she’d rejected him for the hundredth time, he finally turned to me. “Jenna, fine, I’ll date you,” he’d said. “But I have one rule. As long as Julia needs me to be her fake boyfriend for her family, I won’t marry you.” I agreed. I thought I could make him love me. For seven years, I tried. But he never once offered to take me home to meet his parents. In our old neighborhood, Julia was his girlfriend. I was just… the other kid who grew up there. I even tried to trap him. I told him I was pregnant. The next day, he handed me a pamphlet for an abortion clinic. “My parents think Julia and I are getting married, Jenna,” he’d said, his eyes full of that awful, tragic sincerity. “I can’t be a father right now.” I don’t know why I loved him. Maybe because when I was a kid, when my stepmom would lock me out, he was the only one who would sneak me into his basement, put toothpaste on my bruises, and share his dinner with me. But this accident… it finally woke me up. Love you have to beg for isn’t love. 2 He said he was coming. He showed up at 8 PM the next day. He looked exhausted. I almost felt sorry for him. I’d seen Julia’s Instagram stories. He’d been busy—helping her pick out a “promise ring,” taking her mom shopping, playing mahjong with her entire extended family. He walked into the hospital room and tossed his jacket on the chair. “Why were you so stupid, Jenna? Taking a sketchy cab.” He walked past my bed and opened the mini-fridge, grabbing a water. “Now I have to drive all the way back tonight. You’re such a headache.” I watched his reflection in the dark window. Half my face was a swollen, purple mess. My head was wrapped in bandages. Was I not pathetic enough? No. The only explanation was that my accident was an inconvenience. An annoyance that forced him to drive 50 miles. He finished the water and tossed something onto my blanket. “Here. You’ve been whining for one of those ‘J’ monogram rings for three years. Consider this my apology for the accident.” I saw the “J.” My name is Jenna. Her name is Julia. It was the exact same ring from her Instagram post—the one where she and Liam were holding hands, showing it off. My chest felt tight. “Liam,” I said, my voice hoarse, “you shouldn’t just give rings to people. Not unless you mean it.” He flinched. “Oh, here we go,” he sneered. “Are you obsessed with getting married? I told you, Jenna. As long as Julia needs me, I’m not getting married. I know you’re upset about the accident, but you can’t use it to threaten me.” My heart felt like it was full of needles. I was about to say, “Fine. We’re done.” But his phone rang. He looked at the screen and his whole demeanor changed. “Hey, Julia! What’s up? Your mom needs me to come back for more cards? No problem. I’m on my way.” He hung up and grabbed his jacket. “I checked with the doctor. You’re fine. No major damage. I hired a temp nurse for you. I’ll pick you up in three days when you’re discharged.” He was halfway out the door when he turned back. “And Jenna? Just… stop being so dramatic. It’s the holidays. Don’t make this a thing.” 3 He never came back. He just sent a single text, late at night: ‘How’s the head?’ I didn’t reply. I used to be so desperate for that scrap of warmth he gave me as a kid. I’d let him get away with anything. But I almost died. I wasn’t cold; I was dead. When I was discharged, he was there, idling in the new Mercedes. I just stood on the curb. He honked. “What are you doing? Get in. I have to take Julia to her aunt’s house for dinner.” I remembered him agonizing over the options for this car. “What do you think of this color, Jenna? We’re going to look so good pulling up to the old neighborhood.” I’d been so stupid. I’d been so excited, thinking he was finally going to introduce me to his parents. The day he bought it, I’d hugged him. “Can we go for a drive? Just us?” He’d pushed me away. “Don’t be weird, Jenna. This car is for Julia. It’s to impress her parents. I can’t let you be the first person to ride in it.” He’d left me at the dealership. Now, looking at the car, all I could think was… it felt dirty. “Liam,” I said, “that car was $40,000. $10,000 of that was from my savings account. I need it back.” He looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “You’re… you’re charging me?” “I am.” I’d already done the math. “I pulled our bank records. You’ve transferred $30,000 to me over the last seven years for bills. The total cost was $40k. You owe me $10k.” He was furious. “You’re bringing out spreadsheets? After seven years?” “You said it yourself, Liam. The car is for Julia. I’m not paying for it.” He just stared at me. Then he got in the car, gunned the engine, and sped off. I guess the only time he remembered I was his “girlfriend of seven years” was when it benefited him. 4 I took a cab to our old neighborhood. As I was walking up to my childhood home, I saw the neighbors. “Jenna! We heard about the accident! Are you okay?” “You, Liam, and Julia are all in the city now, right? Hey, when are those two finally tying the knot? Their parents are getting so impatient!” My heart just seized. Of course. Everyone here thought Liam and Julia were the couple. Ten years. He’d been playing this game for ten years. Longer than he’d even been with me. I forced a smile. “It should be soon. He just bought her the ring.” I walked away. I heard them playing mahjong before I even got to Julia’s door. “Liam, you’re terrible!” Julia shrieked, her voice playful. “You can’t just take my mom’s money! She’s your future mother-in-law!” I looked through the screen door. Liam. Julia. Julia’s parents. And Liam’s parents. Liam’s mom laughed. “Hush, Julia. You’re our future daughter-in-law. You should be on my side.” The room was full of laughter. My chest felt like it was caving in. I was the secret. I pulled the door open. “Hi, everyone. I heard the noise from outside. Thought I’d stop by.” Liam’s face went white. Julia just looked… smug. “Oh, Jenna,” she said, bouncing over. “You’re out of the hospital! You should have told me you were coming home. I would have had Liam pick you up. You shouldn’t have taken an unlicensed cab.” I’d had enough. “I wouldn’t have had to,” I said, “if my boyfriend wasn’t busy being your boyfriend.”

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On what was supposed to be my wedding night, I lifted the white silk veil with a heart full of joy. But the bride beneath it wasn’t my fiancée. It was the gardener’s daughter, the girl they always said wasn’t all there. Willow. A wave of snickering rippled through the room. Ryan, Ava’s best friend, grinned with pure malice. “Well, rules are rules, Ethan,” he said, his voice slick with schadenfreude. “You lifted the veil. Tradition says the groom has to spend the wedding night with the bride.” He winked. “I’ll take one for the team and keep Ava company tonight.” Just then, Ava herself drifted into the room, a picture of unbothered elegance. “It was just a joke, Ethan,” she said, her voice laced with a familiar, dismissive chill. “Don’t be so sensitive.” 1 “Besides,” she added with a shrug, “she’s a simpleton. She won’t know the difference. It’s not like you’ll lose a piece of yourself by spending one night with her.” Looking at her, at the casual cruelty in her smirk, I didn’t feel anger. I felt a profound sense of clarity. I laughed, a low, hollow sound. “If I’m the one who lifted her veil,” I said, my voice steady, “then one night isn’t enough.” I turned my back on them and their shocked faces. “If I’m going to be responsible for her, it has to be for life.” The room fell silent. My groomsmen, who had been ready for a night of drunken revelry, just stared, their mouths agape. “Make Ethan spend the night with a girl who’s mentally disabled? Ava, what the hell were you thinking?” one of them finally muttered. “It’s your wedding day,” another added, shaking his head. “There are lines you don’t cross.” Ava just arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “What’s it to you? I’m his fiancée, and I’m not bothered. Why should he be?” She stepped toward me, her tone dropping into a threat. “You embarrassed Ryan at the charity auction last month. You cost him his bonus. Tonight was about settling that score.” “So, you have two choices,” she declared. “Spend the night with the freak, or this wedding is off.” Being threatened by Ava wasn’t new. But this… this was beyond cruel. It was absurd. Last month, Ryan, my own assistant, had accompanied me to a major charity auction. I’d given him clear instructions, a strict bidding limit. He ignored every word, getting caught in a bidding war and forcing the company to acquire a piece of art for nearly half a million dollars over budget. Company policy dictated immediate termination. I gave him a lighter sentence—forfeiture of his mid-year bonus—as a favor to Ava. And yet, she was convinced I had orchestrated the whole thing just to humiliate him. She refused to listen to reason, calling me cold and ruthless. She’d made me kneel in the lobby of my own damn building all night and hand-write a ten-thousand-word letter of apology to Ryan before she’d finally dropped it. I thought it was over. I never imagined she would resurrect it like this, on our wedding day. In that moment, any remaining warmth I felt for her turned to ice. To settle a score for Ryan, she had concocted this grotesque theater, designed to make me the laughingstock of our entire social circle. She was standing there, radiating confidence, so utterly certain of my devotion that she believed I would willingly walk into this fire for her. She had no idea that even the most intense love can be extinguished when it’s treated with such reckless contempt. I let out a short, sharp breath and turned away from them completely. I walked over to the girl in the borrowed wedding dress, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, happily unwrapping a piece of candy. I knelt down on one knee before her. I took her hand. It was small and warm. I looked up into her face. “Willow,” I said softly. “Will you marry me?” Ava’s gasp was sharp and loud. “Ethan, are you insane? I told you to spend one night with her, not actually marry the idiot!” Ryan grabbed her arm, hissing in her ear. “Ava, calm down. He’s bluffing. It’s a power play to make you back down. If you lose your cool now, he wins.” Hearing that, Ava composed herself, a smug little smile playing on her lips. “Fine, Ethan,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “And remember to get a new ring tomorrow. I don’t want anything that simpleton has touched.” I ignored her. She rolled her eyes in frustration. “Well, since the groom seems to be occupied, I guess that means we can finally have a proper bachelor party for me,” she announced to the room. “Drinks on me. Let’s not let the night go to waste!” She turned and walked out, pulling Ryan along with her, without a single backward glance. I remained on one knee, my hand hovering in the empty air, a vast, hollow feeling spreading through my chest. Just then, a soft, warm hand gently placed itself in mine. I looked up, and my eyes met Willow’s. A slow, gentle smile spread across her face. Her voice was a quiet whisper, but it cut through the silence of the room with perfect clarity. “I do.” I was taken aback. For some reason, while her mannerisms seemed simple and childlike, the eyes looking back at me were crystal clear, lucid. The thought vanished as quickly as it came, and I dismissed it. I softened my voice, speaking to her as one would a child. “Willow, if you’re agreeing to marry me, we have to go to City Hall first. We need to get a marriage license to make it real.” I paused, holding her gaze, and asked again, my voice serious. “This isn’t a game, Willow. Are you absolutely sure?” She didn’t answer with words. She just clapped her hands together, her face lit with pure, unadulterated joy. Seeing her so happy, a bitter smile touched my own lips. I drove us to the County Clerk’s office myself. The process of filling out the paperwork was a chaotic ordeal. When it was time to sign, she gripped the pen and scribbled wildly, finally managing a shaky, crooked version of her name. When we did the fingerprints, she was fascinated by the red ink, getting it all over her hands and even smudging it on her cheek. She just giggled at her reflection, looking like a little kitten. Soon enough, two crisp, new marriage certificates were in our hands. Willow held hers like it was a priceless treasure, her eyes shining. She clutched it to her chest, refusing to let go. As we walked out of the building, I called my driver. I gently stroked Willow’s hair. “Willow, I need you to go with the driver, okay? I have something I need to take care of. I’ll be back very soon.” She looked at me, confused, but nodded obediently. I turned my car around and headed for the bar. When I pushed open the door to the private room, only Ava and Ryan were left. She was dabbing his mouth with a damp towel, her movements careful and tender. His shirt collar was stained with vomit. I remembered Ava’s obsessive cleanliness. Once, when I had a terrible flu, I’d been sick in the middle of the night. Her first reaction was to leap out of bed, pinching her nose. “Ethan, you’re disgusting! Can’t you make it to the bathroom?” she’d snapped. I was the one who, burning with fever, had to strip the bed and change the sheets. She never once asked if I was okay. She spent that night at Ryan’s place. Yet here she was, completely unfazed by the filth on him. Ryan, his eyes glassy with drink, saw me and grinned. “Ethan, my man. I thought you were supposed to be enjoying your wedding night with the pretty little fool. What happened? Regret it already?” Ava didn’t stop cleaning his face. “Ryan, shut up,” she murmured, before finally turning her gaze to me. Her tone was flat, bored. “Ethan, I think you’ve learned your lesson today, so I’ll let it slide.” “We can have another ceremony in a few days. I have to get Ryan home. He’s had way too much to drink.” Watching the obvious care she had for him, and contrasting it with the cold indifference she’d always shown me, the frozen part of my heart felt a sharp, dull ache, as if pierced by an icicle. The last ripple of emotion I had for her stilled into absolute silence. I nodded slowly. Then, I pulled the marriage certificate from my jacket pocket. “Do whatever you want. But there’s no need to reschedule the wedding. Willow and I are already legally married.” The sight of the certificate wiped the bored expression from Ava’s face. Her complexion turned ashen. “Are you kidding me, Ethan? You actually went and legally married that… that thing?” she seethed. “You must be as sick in the head as she is to pull a stunt like this. If word gets out, how am I ever supposed to show my face in public again?” Even now, all she could think about was her own reputation. The idea that the CEO of the Cole Corporation had left her at the altar to marry a mentally disabled girl—the public humiliation would be unbearable for her. Ryan let out a drunken snort. “Wow, Ethan. I have to hand it to you. Going this far just to make Ava angry? That takes dedication. But humiliating yourself is one thing. Why drag Ava down with you?” Their words were a mockery. They were the ones who set this whole grotesque play in motion. When I said I’d marry Willow, Ava did nothing to stop me. And now it was somehow my fault? Just then, Ryan gagged again, spewing vomit onto the sleeve of Ava’s designer dress. She cried out but didn’t push him away. Instead, she frantically looked around for something to clean it with. The cocktail napkins were all used. Her eyes landed on me. “Ethan, your handkerchief! Give it to me, quickly!” she demanded. I froze. The handkerchief she was talking about was one she had embroidered for me when we first started dating. It had our initials stitched into the corner. She’d called it a symbol of our love, something I should carry with me always. For all these years, I had. It had never left my pocket. And now, she wanted it to wipe another man’s vomit off her dress. My heart didn’t just break. It shattered into dust. After a long moment of silence, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. I didn’t hand it to her. I threw it on the floor at her feet. “We’re done, Ava.” She bent down, snatched it up, and immediately started cleaning her sleeve, shouting at me over her shoulder. “It’s just a stupid piece of cloth! Are you really going to be this dramatic? I can wash it! Or, God, I’ll stitch you a new one when I have time!” I didn’t bother replying. I just turned and walked toward the door. A new one? There was no future for us. Seeing me leave, her voice grew louder, laced with fury. “Go on, walk out! You really think I need you, Ethan?” “You’re going to regret this! And when you do, don’t come crawling back to me!” It was late when I returned to the villa. Willow was curled up on the living room sofa, fast asleep. She was still clutching her marriage certificate tightly in her arms. Seeing her like that, something inside my chest softened. I walked over quietly, intending to carry her to the bedroom. But my movement startled her awake. Her eyes were hazy with sleep, but when they focused on me, they lit up. “You’re… you’re back.” “Yeah.” I smiled, leaning down. “From now on, if I’m late, you don’t have to wait up. Just go to bed when you’re tired, okay?” After I got Willow settled in her room, I went to my study. A moment later, my phone screen lit up. A text from Ava. [Ethan, if you come back and apologize to me right now, I might consider forgiving you.] [Be angry, throw a tantrum, I don’t care. But you do not get to disgust me by actually marrying that imbecile!] I stared at the screen, feeling nothing. The words that once would have twisted my insides into knots now just seemed… annoying. I didn’t reply. I just blocked her number. The world suddenly felt very quiet. The next morning, I took Willow out. I realized that in all the years I’d known of her, she’d never had a phone of her own. I thought it would be better if she had one, in case I ever needed to reach her. At the mobile store, after we got her a new number, I saved it in my contacts. When the field for the name came up, I paused for a moment, then carefully typed in one word: “Wife.” As we were leaving the mall, we ran headlong into Ava and Ryan. Ava’s gaze was like a razor blade, slicing from our intertwined hands to my face. Her expression was a mixture of fury and derisive amusement. “Ethan, are you ever going to get tired of this little game?” she sneered. “Parading this… thing… around in public. Have you no shame? What about the Cole family name?” Ryan chimed in, his tone condescending. “Come on, man. It’s gone far enough. Ava’s not angry anymore. Just apologize and we can all put this behind us.” “Excuse me,” I said, my voice flat and devoid of emotion, cutting them both off. “I need to take my wife to pick out a wedding dress.” Hearing me call Willow my wife so intimately, Ava finally snapped. “Ethan! Have you forgotten how you begged me to be with you? Have you forgotten that you swore you would only love me for the rest of your life?” “How long are you going to keep up this pathetic charade with this simpleton? Are you really telling me you’re not going to marry me anymore?” I met her furious gaze without flinching and delivered the final blow. “That’s right, Ava,” I said calmly. “I don’t want you anymore.” And as the color drained from her face, I gently guided Willow past her, and we didn’t look back. 2 Three days later, Willow and I held our wedding. As expected, Ava showed up. She didn’t come alone. She brought Ryan, her entire clique of sycophantic friends, and a swarm of media reporters she’d clearly tipped off. Our small, private ceremony was suddenly overrun. Before Ava could even speak, the reporters descended on me like vultures. “Mr. Cole, is it true that you’re marrying a woman with a known intellectual disability simply to spite your former fiancée, Ms. Lynch? Have you considered the emotional damage this will cause her?” Ava stood behind them, her face a perfect mask of wounded innocence. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “Ethan, I know you’re still angry with me, but how could you do this? How could you try to punish me like this? What will people think?” Even though I had prepared myself for this, standing there under the glare of a dozen cameras made a hot wave of humiliation wash over me. Ava saw my discomfort, and a triumphant smile flickered across her lips. She pushed through the reporters and glided towards me. “Ethan,” she said, her voice now a patronizing coo. “You went to all this trouble, didn’t you? All just to win me back.” “I won’t hold it against you. All you have to do is apologize. Kneel, right here, in front of everyone, and beg for my forgiveness. If you do that, I might… consider it.” She tilted her chin up, her face a portrait of smug certainty. She was so sure that I would take the escape route she was offering.

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My first day at a new high school, and the king already had it in for me. Because I wore the same band t-shirt as Chloe, the queen bee, I was a “pathetic try-hard.” Zach, the school’s star quarterback, deliberately “tripped” and poured a carton of milk over my head. He gave me a slimy, insincere apology while yanking my hair. When he saw my face, he stopped, and his eyes narrowed. He sneered. “Whoa, colored contacts on day one? Desperate much? Who are you trying to hook?” I just looked at him calmly. “It’s not a contact. It’s a prosthetic.” 1 “What?” Zach looked like I’d just started speaking another language. He frowned, his expression a weird, subtle mix of confusion and disbelief. “What did you say? If it’s not a contact, then what is it?” I sighed. This was the part of transferring I always dreaded. I calmly pushed his hand away. I slicked my milk-soaked hair back from my face, grabbed a napkin, and wiped the sticky mess off my forehead. My face was probably pale as a sheet. I met his eyes steadily. “Watch.” Zach just frowned, totally confused. The next second, in front of the whole class, I expertly pulled up my upper eyelid and popped the prosthetic out. I held the golden-flecked piece of acrylic out to a suddenly pale Zach and repeated myself. “It’s not a contact. It’s my prosthetic eye.” “Am I clear enough now?” The noisy classroom had gone dead silent. Zach stared at the empty, hollow socket in my face for a long time, taking two involuntary steps back. “How…?” he looked dazed. He instinctively reached out, as if to touch my face, but I slapped his hand away. I quickly re-inserted the prosthetic, blinking hard to get it seated right. I knew I must look like a total mess. It didn’t matter. I’d been through worse. This was nothing. After a few blinks, I looked up and met Zach’s complicated, horrified expression. “I thought you…” he stammered, his lips trembling, looking like he wanted to say more. But just then, the bell rang. I didn’t wait. I just walked around the frozen-stiff Zach and went to my desk. My hair was dripping. I silently dabbed at it with more tissues. It was useless. Still disgustingly sticky. I ran out of tissues. Screw it. I ignored the damp patches on my clothes and pulled out my textbook, ready for class. Zach just stood by my desk, not moving. He stared at me as I tried to clean myself up, the empty milk carton still clutched in his hand. When I stopped dabbing at my hair, his gaze lingered on the damp strands. Finally, he knocked on the desk of the girl in front of me—Chloe. “Give me some tissues,” he said, his voice hoarse. Chloe glared at him. “Zach, what the hell are you doing? The teacher’s about to walk in. Go sit down!” “I said, give me some tissues!” he suddenly yelled. “Are you deaf?” 2 The quiet classroom amplified his voice. Everyone stared. Chloe, startled by his yelling, bit her lip. Her eyes went red as she angrily dug half a pack of tissues from her desk and threw it at him. “You’re insane! Why are you yelling at me?” Zach ignored her, took the tissues, and held them out to me. I didn’t take them. His hand just hung there, frozen. “They’re for you. Just… use them,” he said, his face tight with irritation. I finally, slowly, looked up and met his eyes. As soon as Zach saw my golden eye, he flinched like he’d been poked and quickly looked away. “What are you staring at? Just take them,” he snapped. I realized, belatedly, that ever since I took my eye out, his entire attitude had flipped. Looking at this awkward, flustered version of Zach, an inappropriate thought popped into my head. “Is this you apologizing?” I asked calmly. He froze. Even his fingertips twitched, betraying his panic. “If taking your tissues means I have to forgive you, then no thanks.” I kept my voice even, looking at his scowl. “I have no intention of accepting your apology. So please, take your stuff and get away from me. Thanks.” He looked pissed. Seeing I wouldn’t budge, he gave up and just shoved the tissues into my desk. I immediately pulled them out and dropped them on the floor. He silently picked them up, trying to hand them to me again. Just then, the teacher walked in. Chloe, who had been watching us, finally snapped. She stood up and yanked Zach’s arm, pulling him toward the back of the class. “She doesn’t want it, idiot! Why are you still kissing her ass?” She dragged him, knocking my desk hard as she passed. I didn’t look at either of them. Didn’t give them an ounce of my attention. Halfway through class, I heard a loud SMACK from the back row. It was sharp. He’d really hit himself. Several kids turned to look. Even Chloe in front of me kept glancing back at him, and every time she did, she’d shoot me a look of pure hatred. Like I was the one who’d done something wrong. Whatever. I ignored them both. I just pretended they didn’t exist. 3 The bell finally rang. The sticky feeling was unbearable. I stood up to go to the washroom, but my foot caught on something, and I pitched forward. I threw my hands out, but my arm still scraped hard across the floor. “Hss,” I sucked in a breath. The skin on my wrist was torn, and blood was already starting to well up, staining my sleeve. It looked worse than it was. I was pushing myself up when someone shoved through the crowd of onlookers, scooped an arm under my legs and another around my back, and lifted me off the ground. I had no warning. I panicked and grabbed his shoulders. “Are you okay?” Zach’s voice was right by my ear. He saw my bleeding arm and his brow tightened. “Don’t move. I’m taking you to the nurse!” “I hurt my arm, not my leg,” I said evenly. “Put me down. I can walk.” He just ignored me, tightening his grip. “I can carry you,” he glanced at me. “Stop being stubborn.” I almost laughed. I was about to say something else, but right then, Zach’s foot twisted, and he lost his balance. A wave of vertigo hit me. Bad memories flashed in my mind, and my whole body went rigid. “Zach!” I screamed. He reacted instantly, trying to twist and shield my head. But it was useless. We fell hard. And since he was holding me, I was trapped underneath him, taking his full weight. My head hit something hard on the floor. THUNK. My skull rang like a bell. Right before I blacked out, I heard Zach yelling frantically at the crowd. “Chloe, quick, come here! I think your cousin just passed out!” My heart skipped. Cousin. So, he knew. No wonder he hated me so much. 4 I woke up at a bad time. “…you promised me! You promised you’d give her hell!” That was Chloe’s shrill voice. “So why are you backing out now?” I didn’t open my eyes. I could hear Zach’s fingers drumming rhythmically on a tabletop. “I said I’d teach her a lesson,” he sighed, his voice rising in irritation. “But you didn’t tell me she was disabled! You want me to bully a disabled person, Chloe? What do you think I am? An animal?” Chloe’s angry question got stuck, turning into a wounded wail. “She’s just a one-eyed bitch!” Chloe’s voice was sharp. “If she ruined your life, stole everything from you, I bet you wouldn’t be playing Mr. Nice Guy!” Zach went quiet. He was thinking. The drumming stopped. Chloe moved closer. I could hear her breathing. “Zach, you promised,” she said, her voice low and vicious. “Last spring, I took the fall for you. You owe me. I don’t want anything else. I just want you to… wreck her.” I heard her lean in close to his ear. “Ruin her.” “I don’t care how you do it.” Long silence in the nurse’s office. I could hear the wind rustling the blinds. I could hear Zach’s tiny, almost unnoticeable sigh. And then: “Fine. I’ll do it.” Chloe’s mood flipped instantly. She stopped caring about his attitude and happily offered to buy him lunch. Zach didn’t refuse. They left, one after the other. The second the door clicked shut, I opened my eyes. My head throbbed, but it wasn’t too bad. I calmly turned off the voice recorder app on my phone and sat up. I knew Chloe didn’t like me. From the day I moved into her house, she’d been hostile, hiding it behind a fake smile. But I never knew she hated me this much. Hated me enough to have Zach “ruin” me. I remembered Zach slapping himself in class, regretting bullying me. And then his “Fine. I’ll do it.” It was almost funny. Honestly, I was almost… curious. I wanted to see exactly how Zach planned to “ruin” me.

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After Julian Vance’s car accident left him blind, the flock of “it girls” who surrounded him vanished. I took care of him for three years. In the third year, miraculously, his sight returned. The Vance family proposed we get engaged. Julian agreed. Shortly after, his old flame, Chloe Vanderberg, moved back to New York. That night, the usually polished, arrogant Julian Vance lost control. He cornered her at a party, his voice a low growl. “Elara Shaw. What gives you the right to even be in the same room as me?” “You want me to call off my engagement? Fine. Get on your knees and beg.” 1 Of course, Elara Shaw didn’t kneel. She just stood there, looking fragile and perfect, tears welling in her eyes. A second later, Julian yanked her into his arms. They kissed. Hard. They looked like two lovers who had survived a war and were finally reunited. I had never seen that side of Julian. He clutched her, kissing her like he was trying to devour her—possessive, wild, and desperate. It was a kiss of deep, agonizing love and just as much hate. It was nothing like how he had been with me. Julian was always gentle with me. He would cup my face, his kisses feather-light, tracing from my chin to my forehead, my cheeks to my earlobes. He was so careful, so tender, as if he were afraid he’d break a priceless piece of art. But back then, his eyes were still dark. And Chloe was on another continent. Back then, it was just me and Julian in the Nantucket house, inseparable. I was his whole world. And he was mine. 2 The next day. “Sadie, you’ve been a godsend these past three years.” Mrs. Vance smiled at me, that warm, professional smile of hers. “The family has decided to sign the deed to the Nantucket house over to you. As a thank you for taking care of Julian.” I understood exactly what she meant. You can’t let yourself get greedy. For a split second, I wondered what would have happened if Chloe had come back just a little bit later. If Julian and I had… It was a shame. We were so close. “You’re a good girl. I’ve always wanted to thank you properly for what you did for Julian,” she said, though she couldn’t quite meet my eyes. Two weeks ago, she was the one who had asked me if I’d be willing to marry her son. Now, clearly, that plan was off the table. I shook my head, forcing my voice to be steady. “You don’t need to thank me, Mrs. Vance. I was just doing my job.” I’d seen this coming since last night. 3 After leaving Mrs. Vance, I went back to the staff annex. A moment later, my mother came into my room. She tapped my shoulder and signed, ‘Are you hungry? Want me to make you something?’ I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.” She tilted her head, then signed again. ‘What did Mrs. Vance say to you?’ I debated for a moment, then told her. “She’s giving me the Nantucket house. As a ‘bonus’ for taking care of Julian.” My mother looked worried. ‘That’s too generous. We were just doing our jobs. You didn’t accept, did you?’ I nodded. Of course I accepted. If I refused, they’d think I was holding out for something else. Thankfully, the Vances had never mentioned the engagement to my mother. They’d only asked me. Suddenly, my mother’s face lit up with a huge smile. ‘Mr. Roberts said Ms. Chloe is coming for dinner tonight! I think she and Mr. Julian are getting back together. Oh, he must be so happy!’ Three years ago, Chloe had broken up with Julian and left the country without a backward glance. He’d driven to a bar, gotten wasted, and wrapped his car around a pole, costing him his sight. Everyone in the Vance household knew how much he had suffered. A golden boy, the heir to the Vance fortune, struck down in his prime, living in darkness. Now, he finally had his miracle. Not only was his sight back, but the girl was back, too. For the Vance family, this was a celebration. No wonder my mom was so happy. 4 I spent the afternoon in the kitchen, helping my mom. Chloe was, as always, incredibly particular. The lobster had to be fresh from the tank. The asparagus had to be trimmed to only the tips. The filet mignon had to be cut to exactly 1.5 centimeters. My mom was always on high alert when Chloe came to visit. At dusk, Ms. Vanderberg finally arrived, on Julian’s arm. They got out of his car, a perfectly matched set. He, the handsome heir; she, the stunning heiress. As they sat down for their romantic dinner, I tried to slip away. Chloe stopped me. “Sadie. Get me a glass of ice water.” I went to the kitchen, filled a glass with ice and water, and brought it to her on a tray. She took it and frowned. “I asked for hot water.” I was sure she’d said ice, but I just nodded. “My apologies. I’ll get it now.” I returned with a glass of warm water. She took it. Just as I was pulling the tray away, the glass “slipped” from her hand and shattered on the floor. “Ugh!” she yelped, then looked at me with a perfectly innocent, annoyed expression. “Sadie, if you didn’t want to get it for me, you could have just said so. You didn’t have to be so dramatic.” I don’t know why she always hated me. She’d been like this from the day we met. Her acting was terrible. I knelt to pick up the broken glass. A pair of white sneakers stopped in front of me. “Are you okay? Did you get burned?” Julian’s voice was full of honeyed concern. He wasn’t talking to me. “My hand,” Chloe whimpered. “It’s hot. Kiss it and make it better.” I couldn’t see Julian’s face, but I knew his ears were turning red. They always did when I teased him. Back when he was mine, I’d thought it was so strange that this powerful, confident man could be so shy. Chloe’s soft, victorious giggle brought me back. He must have kissed it. I finished cleaning up the glass and stood. “Sadie,” Julian said, his voice hesitant. “Are… you okay?” I met his gaze. It was the first time he’d spoken to me directly in a week. I gave him my best customer-service smile. “I’m fine, Mr. Vance.” A flicker of shock crossed his face. I hadn’t called him that in years. I’d been eight when my mom and I came to the Vance estate. She’d told me to call him “Mr. Julian.” I’d called him that until I was twenty-one. Until he lost his sight, and we fell in love. He’d made me promise to just call him “Julian.” He said he loved the way his name sounded when I said it. 5 I went to my room and showered. I sat at my desk and opened a GMAT prep book. A little while later, my mom came in. She signed that she’d warmed up some milk and asked me to take it to the second floor. Chloe must have left. I didn’t want to go. I told her I wasn’t feeling well. She nodded and left. A minute later, my phone rang. It was Julian. “Are you hurt?” I was confused. “What?” “Your hand. Did you burn it?” I understood. He had a glass of warm milk every night. My mom has arthritis in her knee, so for the last three years, I was the one who brought it up. He must have been waiting. “No, I’m fine. Just… must be the change in the weather. I feel a cold coming on.” Silence on his end. Then… “…I’m sorry.” And… “…Thank you.” It was abrupt, but I knew exactly what he meant. I’m sorry I can’t marry you now that Chloe’s back. Thank you for the last three years. After a long, heavy silence, I heard my own voice, sounding very far away. “It’s okay, Mr. Vance. I’ve already forgotten all about it.” He hung up.

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A meteor, the color of a flash of cobalt, tore across the night sky with a magnificent, burning tail. I snapped the photo, my heart thrumming, and immediately sent it to Leo, a thousand miles away. He’s been my boyfriend for years, ever since we met during my semester abroad. Back when his family was still footing the bills, before the fall. Now, he was just another broke student in London trying to make it work. I texted: This one should sell for a good price. As soon as the payment hits, I’ll wire you the money. Get yourself a decent meal. Don’t starve. He replied with a single word: Okay. The next day, my meteor picture was everywhere online. I followed the digital breadcrumbs back to an Instagram account belonging to a girl in the UK. She was listed as the “original artist.” The account wasn’t just for photography. Sprinkled among the professional shots were glimpses of her life, a curated story in filtered squares: navigating a supermarket in dreary, gray London with a tall, slender man whose face was always just out of frame, hunting for discount vegetables; sharing a single scarf on a snowy walk down a city street; kissing on a blanket in the grass on a rare sunny day. It was so romantic. It would have been perfect, if the watch on his wrist wasn’t the exact one I’d given Leo. 1 My vision blurred as I scrolled back, my thumb moving frantically. I landed on a video. A girl’s sweet, playful voiceover. “Someone said he wanted to celebrate landing the project bonus, so he booked this place as a surprise! I’m so spoiled!” The camera panned to the man sitting across from her. Only his jawline and the hand cradling a wine glass were visible. On that wrist, the watch I’d bought him was a searing brand. He murmured a low “Mm,” and the sound was laced with a familiar, lazy smile. It was the tone he only used when he was in an exceptionally good mood. A project bonus? My mind flashed back a week. Leo had vaguely mentioned being part of some group project, that there might be a small stipend. I’d been so happy for him that I’d transferred him the eight hundred dollars I’d saved by eating ramen for a month straight. Buy yourself some supplements, I’d texted. Don’t work yourself to death. Now, the thought was a bitter pill. My money probably just covered the bouquet of flowers sitting on their romantic dinner table. At the end of the video, the girl cooed, “I love that watch. You wear it every time I see you.” The man’s voice was laced with a casual, indulgent affection. “It’s an old thing. But it felt right for tonight.” An old thing. Felt right for the occasion. Every word was a needle dipped in ice, piercing my eardrum, plunging straight into my heart. I’d spent three months taking on every freelance gig I could find, working until I was so exhausted I ended up in urgent care on an IV drip, just to save up for that watch. And he wore it to accessorize a romantic dinner with someone else. “Anya!” Mark, a guy from the university photography club, tapped my shoulder, pulling me from the screen. “You can’t wear that busted old coat to the desert next month. It’s literally got holes in it.” He gestured to my frayed parka. “It’s not professional, and it’s definitely not warm enough. You should get a real technical jacket.” I forced a smile. “No money.” He looked completely baffled. “How is that possible? Anya, your work is incredible. Magazines would kill for some of your shots. How are you always broke?” “The money I’ve earned the last few years? I fed it all to a dog.” I laughed, a hollow, self-mocking sound. My eyes dropped back to my phone. I dialed Leo’s number. “The meteor photo that’s all over the internet,” I said, my voice flat. “What’s going on?” He paused, then his voice turned cool. “You were going to sell it anyway, right? I just sold it to a classmate ahead of time.” “Where’s the money?” “I kept it. Saves you the trouble of wiring it back to me.” I took a deep breath, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Leo, are we still a couple?” His tone sharpened, turning dark. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you breaking up with me?” A raw, painful laugh escaped my lips. “I’m not the one who wants to let go. But I’m not so sure about you.” The line went silent. All I could hear was his breathing, each exhalation heavier than the last. The cool, self-possessed man I knew, the heir who never lost his composure, was finally angry with me. “Anya Ross,” he seethed, his voice tight with fury. “Say that again.” But before I could speak, he hung up. It was just like when his family’s fortune first collapsed. He couldn’t handle the loss of status, and he’d lash out just like this—angry outbursts, hung-up calls. And within a day, I’d be the one crawling back, apologizing, sending him money, waiting for him to graciously accept my apology. But not this time. Ignoring the stabbing pain in my chest, I opened an airline app, my face a mask of stone. Destination: London, United Kingdom. I confirmed the booking. My passport and visa were still valid from a trip we’d planned and canceled. The entire process was brutally fast. The flight was on the 23rd. Fine, Leo. If you don’t want to listen to what I have to say, I’ll just have to come show you the proof in person. 2 My fingertips were trembling, but I forced myself to keep digging through her account. The girl, Chloe, wasn’t just sharing her life; she was a well-known photography influencer on the platform. The Northern Lights, the Milky Way over snow-capped peaks, star trails in the desert… she had posted dozens of breathtaking, magnificent photos, earning her a legion of adoring fans. They called her a prodigy, a visual queen. Her latest post had just gone up. My favorite photo of the year. Come enjoy the cosmic fireworks with me~ The attached image: my meteor photo. Including that one, every single one of her posts with over a hundred thousand likes was a photo I had taken. I was the original artist. But I had no capital to prove it. Because I had sold them all. I’d sold them completely—usage rights, credit, everything. It was the only way to get a high price quickly, the only way I could make enough money to support Leo’s life abroad. I opened my message history with my regular buyer, a private account that went by “Mr. S.” Leo, is it fun using my photos to pave the way for your new girlfriend? A single question mark appeared in response. You’re a real piece of work. (This message could not be delivered. You have been blocked by this user.) Ha. Hahahaha! I clutched my stomach, laughter bubbling up and turning into gasping sobs that tore from my throat. I remembered, before he left the States, a crisp autumn day when Leo had driven me deep into the mountains to a forest of golden aspen trees. He was wearing a dark gray cashmere sweater, and his warm hand enveloped mine as we pressed the shutter button together. The proud, privileged man I knew had leaned in, for the first time, and whispered softly in my ear. “Anya,” he’d said. “I will always love the world I see through your camera.” He was the one who led me down this path, and then he was the one who bled me dry, sucking the marrow from my bones. All to elevate his bright, dazzling new love. I had become a ghost, a photographer with no name and no dignity. The irony was crushing. The moment I stepped into my dorm room, my roommate’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Well, look who it is. If it isn’t the great photographer Anya, always too busy for us mere mortals.” She rolled her eyes. “All that time shooting and not a single decent photo to your name. And you’re still president of the photo club…” She scoffed. “You’re not half the artist Chloe is.” I tilted my head. “Who’s Chloe?” That was all the invitation she needed. She shoved her phone in my face. Oh, I knew that face all too well. The girl who had built her fame on my work. “Her full name is Chloe Reed,” my roommate gushed. “Her family doesn’t have much, but she worked her ass off and got a full scholarship to study in London! She’s talented, beautiful, and she has a super hot boyfriend.” She pointed to the screen. “Look, this meteor shot that’s gone viral? She took it.” I pushed her hand away. “I took that picture,” I said, my voice low and heavy. I hadn’t signed a contract for that one. It was still mine. “Bullshit!” she snapped, instantly defensive. “Just because you can’t produce anything good yourself, you’re going to steal credit for someone else’s hard work?” My other roommate, who had been reading, looked up. “Seriously, have some self-respect.” I was about to argue, but the first roommate suddenly shrieked. “Oh my god, Chloe just posted again! She’s in such a good mood today, she put up a bunch of new pics with her boyfriend!” I immediately unlocked my own phone. A new post had just appeared on her feed. Waves and sand~ The photo was of her in a cute, sexy bikini, her chest pressed tightly against a man’s bare torso. There were faint, ambiguous red marks on her neck, her waist, even near her bikini line. Someone in the comments mentioned she must be rich. She replied instantly: Not me, but the people around me are! lol~ I think he comes from some big, important family. Even though all the signs had been pointing to the fact that Leo wasn’t as broke as I’d believed, seeing it laid out so clearly was like a punch to the gut. “Hey,” my roommate taunted, “I heard you have a boyfriend abroad too. How does he stack up against Chloe’s?” My mouth opened, but no words came out. My heart felt like it was being squeezed and torn apart. What could I possibly say? That my boyfriend had already been sleeping with someone else? That while he was working up a sweat in bed with Chloe Reed, I was wearing through the soles of my boots in the desert just to capture a landscape that would sell for a high price? I ate cheap bread and skipped meals, I wore clothes until they fell apart, all so I could send every last cent to him. In all these years, I could count the number of times he’d kissed me. But the number of times he’d been with that girl… it was probably more than the number of words he’d said to me all month. Anya Ross, how pathetic can you be? I pushed past them and dialed a number I kept buried deep in my contacts. “Hello?” A deep, commanding male voice answered. I picked at a hangnail. “I need to file a lawsuit. Someone stole my photography, and it’s getting a lot of attention. I need your help.” “Anya Ross?” The man’s voice softened, a note of lazy amusement creeping in. “Give me one good reason why I should help you.” “Because you’re in love with me.” 3 A stunned silence hung on the other end of the line. Finally, the man’s voice came back, tight and strained. “You’ve got a lot of nerve. Do you really think I’m some dog you can keep on a leash? That you can just call whenever you feel like it?” My own voice was eerily calm. “You’re not a dog, Evan. You’re the only person I trust right now.” I could almost hear Evan Grant trying to suppress a smile. He adopted a strange, mocking tone. “What’s wrong? Why not ask Leo? Your precious boyfriend, the one you’ve poured your heart and soul into for all these years?” “He cheated on me. And he’s been lying to me for years, using my work to build a platform for the girl he’s sleeping with.” “…What?” Each word was clipped, precise. Evan’s voice had turned arctic. “That bastard. How dare he?” I didn’t say any more. I hung up and sent him a text. [I’ll send you the evidence and her account info later. I have something to take care of first.] [?? Where are you going?] [To catch a cheater.] On the morning of the 23rd, I boarded the plane. I didn’t sleep for a second during the ten-hour flight, and by the time we landed, my eyes were shot with red. Ding-dong. I rang the doorbell of Leo’s apartment. After a long moment, I heard the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching. A woman’s delicate, breathy voice came from behind the door. “Who is it?” She pulled it open. I was face to face with the girl I’d seen a thousand times on my phone. Chloe Reed, looking sweet and pretty, was wrapped in nothing but a bath towel, her lips suspiciously red and swollen. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin was covered in fading marks, and she had the languid, dazed look of someone who’d just been thoroughly fucked. From the bathroom a few feet away, I could hear the shower running. Leo’s voice, husky and satisfied, drifted out. “Chloe, baby, who’s at the door?” She tilted her head, looking at me with confusion. “Can I help you?” “Chloe Reed?” I asked, my voice flat. She nodded, frowning, and started to close the door. I jammed my foot in the opening and then kicked it hard. As she stumbled back, off-balance, I swung my arm in a wide arc and slapped her across the face. CRACK. “Ahh!” she screamed, a hand flying to her cheek where a red mark was already blooming. “Are you insane?!” Hearing the commotion, Leo rushed out, not even bothering to put on pants. He had a towel wrapped around his waist. “Chloe! What’s wrong?” When he saw me, his furious expression froze. He stared in disbelief, murmuring my name like a ghost. “Anya… Anya Ross?” I just looked at him, saying nothing. Hidden at my sides, my nails were digging so deep into my palms that I was sure I’d drawn blood. His face was a kaleidoscope of emotions—shock, embarrassment, regret… Finally, he swept his damp hair back from his forehead, revealing his sharp, handsome features. His eyes, however, were filled with a thick, suffocating… disgust. “Following me all the way here,” he said coolly. “You’re really overplaying your hand.” I thought I’d misheard him. The blood in my veins turned to ice. “I’m overplaying my hand?” Chloe scrambled behind him, grabbing his arm timidly. “Leo, she just hit me. It really hurts…” His brow furrowed into a deep line. He nodded at me. “Apologize.” “Chloe! I got the mini-cupcakes you wanted!” A cheerful voice interrupted the standoff. It was my younger brother, Sam. The bright smile on his face vanished the second he saw me. “Anya.” He shoved past me, his voice full of complaint. “What are you doing here? You’re going to scare Chloe.” I grabbed his arm, my own voice tight and strained. “You’re my brother, Sam. Leo is cheating on me. Why didn’t you…” Why didn’t you tell me? He wrenched his arm away. “It’s not cheating! Chloe is amazing, and she and Leo are in love!” He glared at me. “Besides, don’t you think showing up here like this makes you look like a crazy, jealous wife?” A… crazy wife? I stared at my empty hand, numb. “Sam, don’t talk to your sister like that. You’ll hurt her feelings,” Chloe chided, pouting. But the look she shot me was pure, undisguised triumph. Sam rolled his eyes. “Who cares? She dresses like a slob, never wears makeup. It’s so trashy. I’m embarrassed to even admit she’s my sister when we’re in public.” “Enough!” Leo rubbed his temples. He strode forward, grabbed my hand, and yanked me into his arms. His fingers clamped around my jaw, forcing me to look up at him. His tone was the same as always—arrogant, entitled. “I already told you I’m going to marry you. What I do for fun is none of your business.” My body was pressed against his bare chest. The thought of what he had just been doing with Chloe in this apartment made my stomach churn with nausea. Fighting the urge to vomit, I squeezed two words through my teeth. “We’re done.” Leo’s brow tightened. He didn’t believe me. “Stop playing hard to get. The position of Mrs. Maxwell will be yours eventually. All this drama is just annoying.” I screamed, my voice raw. “I SAID WE’RE DONE! YOU’RE A FILTHY ANIMAL WHO CAN’T KEEP IT IN HIS PANTS, AND THE THOUGHT OF YOU DISGUSTS ME!” His expression shuttered, the atmosphere around him turning dangerously cold. “Say that again.” He crushed my struggles, pinning me against him. I was burning with a helpless, bloody rage, completely unable to move. Suddenly, there was a sharp whistling sound through the air. THWACK! A fist connected with Leo’s jaw, sending him stumbling backward. A familiar voice, cold and vicious, came from behind me. “She said let go. Didn’t you hear her?” It all happened in an instant. A long, strong hand landed on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The person leaned in close to my ear, his voice a low, teasing drawl. “Good thing I made it in time. Wouldn’t want our Anya getting bullied, now would we?” Tears instantly welled in my eyes. It was Evan. He was here.

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