Category: English

The seventh year of our marriage was the year I found the proof. Not in a lipstick-stained collar, but in the digital breadcrumbs of an affair: a confirmation for a king suite at The Ritz-Carlton on his phone. It was three in the morning. I was sitting on the floor of our walk-in closet, the silk of a Hermès scarf he’d brought back from his “business trip” cool against my skin. The box, with its crisp orange corners, had a sticker from the Saks Fifth Avenue flagship, but there was no corresponding charge on our Amex statement. The sound of the shower cut off from the master bath. I quickly locked the screen, the WhatsApp chat he’d left open burning itself onto the back of my eyelids. The last message was a voice note from a woman named Chloe. “Ethan,” she’d purred, her voice a little husky. “Next time, try not to bite. People at the office will talk.” In the background, I could hear the faint, distinctive sweep of the second hand on the watch I’d given him last month. “Hey. Why are you still up?” Ethan emerged from the bathroom, rubbing a towel through his dark hair, droplets of water tracing paths down the hard lines of his abdomen. My eyes fixed on a fresh scratch, angry and red, just above his collarbone. The image was violently superimposed over the email I’d gotten from my doctor that afternoon. My latest blood work. CA-125 levels are significantly elevated. Abnormal tumor marker. He leaned in to kiss me, and I turned my head, the silk scarf whispering against my cheek. “You said you were in Chicago last week? For the conference?” “Yeah, closing the deal with the Henderson Group.” He answered so quickly. His thumb began to rub, almost imperceptibly, along the polished steel edge of his phone. His tell. The little motion that always gave away the lie. It was laughable, really. This was the boy who had once thrown his arm in front of a pot of boiling water to shield me in our crappy college dorm kitchen. Now, he couldn’t even be bothered to invent a new lie. My phone buzzed on the floor beside me. A new text from an unknown number. It was a picture—a grainy, black-and-white ultrasound. The message below it read: Mrs. Hayes, when the baby comes, should it call you Auntie Nora? Or Mommy? 1 Later that week, the champagne tower at the company’s IPO victory party reflected the ballroom’s crystal chandeliers in a thousand fractured points of light. I stood beside Ethan, a perfect portrait of the supportive wife, as he navigated the sea of investors with an easy, practiced charm. The sapphire cufflinks I’d given him for his last birthday flashed cold and blue as he lifted his glass in a toast. “You’re a lucky woman, Nora,” the wife of a board member murmured, squeezing my arm. “I hear you two were college sweethearts. From the dorm room to the NASDAQ… you don’t see that kind of story anymore.” I managed a tight smile, my gaze finding Ethan across the room. He was leaning in close to a female venture capitalist, his lips curved into that familiar, devastating smile. The woman wore a dark berry lipstick, and her fingers drifted, as if by accident, against the sleeve of his Tom Ford suit. A vibration in my palm. My phone. A notification from my patient portal. Your test results are ready to view. I swiped the screen open, my eyes scanning the document until they snagged on a single line. CA-125. Abnormal. Ovarian cancer marker. “What are you looking at so intensely?” Ethan was suddenly beside me, his breath warm with scotch. I locked my phone instinctively. “Nothing. Just a reminder from the clinic.” My hand went to straighten his tie, a gesture I’d performed a million times. As my fingers brushed against the side of his neck, they found it: a smear of rosy pink that wasn’t a trick of the light. Ethan flinched back, a half-step, but it felt like a mile. “What’s wrong?” I asked, my hand frozen in mid-air. “It’s just… hot in here.” He loosened his tie, his gaze darting away from mine. “Frank is waving me over. I’ll see you at home?” The rosy pink, I realized as he walked away, was the faint, blurred outline of a kiss. 2 It was in the seventh year that Ethan started locking his phone. “Just sensitive client data, you know how it is,” he’d explained, his finger tracing a pattern on the screen I couldn’t decipher. In college, we’d shared an Amazon account. In the acknowledgements of his senior thesis, he’d written, And to Nora Evans, for letting me scroll through her phone at all hours of the night in search of inspiration. Now, his phone was always, always screen-down on the nightstand. I stood in the closet, clutching the Hermès scarf he’d given me. The box was from the Fifth Avenue store, but our credit card statement showed no such purchase. Deep in his side of the closet, tucked into the pocket of a gray suit he wore often, I’d found it: a crumpled receipt from The Ritz-Carlton, Central Park. The date matched the Tuesday he was supposedly in Chicago. I’d pulled up Google Maps. The hotel was 1.2 miles from his office. The shower started in the en-suite bathroom. Mechanically, I tied the scarf around my neck. The silk felt like a cold snake against my skin. In the full-length mirror, my reflection was a ghost. My face was pale, drawn, with dark, sleepless circles under my eyes. At thirty, no amount of La Mer could compete with the effortless collagen of a twenty-something. The water stopped. I quickly closed the Maps app. Ethan walked out, a towel slung low on his hips, water beading on his abs. This was the body I had traced a thousand times with my fingertips, and now it felt like a stranger’s. “Your birthday’s tomorrow,” he said, picking his phone up from the charger. “What do you want?” I looked at the fresh scratch near his collarbone, the one I hadn’t mentioned. “I want you to come with me to the doctor,” I said softly. “My results came in.” “Tomorrow?” He frowned, his eyes already on his screen. “I don’t think I can swing it. An emergency meeting popped up, have to fly to Boston to meet a client.” He was typing rapidly now, the corner of his mouth ticking upwards into a slight smile. “I’ll have my assistant book a table at Per Se. You and your friends can celebrate.” I watched the muscles in his jaw work as he typed. He’d had that same suppressed smile ten years ago, when he was texting me to come meet him outside my dorm. I found out later he was live-texting the whole thing to his frat brothers, who had a running bet on whether he’d have the guts to kiss me. The curve of his lips was exactly the same. 3 On the morning of my thirtieth birthday, a delivery arrived. Ninety-nine long-stemmed Ecuadorian roses with a card bearing a generic, pre-printed message. Even his signature was just part of the font. My phone buzzed. A text from Ethan. Flight was moved up, heading to JFK now. Happy birthday. I’ll make it up to you. I called him. It rang seven times before he picked up. The background was silent. Not the chaotic din of an airport terminal. “In the Uber?” I asked. “Yeah, almost at Terminal 4,” he said. His breathing was strained, almost a gasp. “Signal’s probably spotty.” I opened the Find My Friends app. For “safety,” we’d agreed to share our locations years ago. His icon, a smiling picture of him from our trip to Italy, was pulsing steadily over an address on the Upper East Side. The Astor, a new, obscenely expensive condominium. The red dot burned into my retinas. “Which hotel did you say you were staying at last week?” I asked, keeping my voice light, conversational. “The Shangri-La, downtown,” he said instantly, then corrected himself. “No, wait, it was the Hyatt near the convention center.” A faint female voice drifted through the line. “Ethan, the water in the shower…” The call disconnected. I stood in front of the mirror, looking at the blush-pink silk dress I’d chosen for my birthday dinner. It was his favorite color on me. He said it reminded him of the slip I wore on our first real date. Now, the dress hung on my frame, loose and foreign. I’d lost twelve pounds in two months. On the coffee table sat his gift, still in its dark blue box. A pair of Patek Philippe watches, a matched set. The back of the men’s watch was engraved: To My Lighthouse. The women’s: To My Harbor. We were seniors in college, sitting on a cold beach in Maine, watching the distant beam of a lighthouse cut through the fog. He’d said I was his light when he felt lost at sea. I’d said he was the harbor I could always come home to. The doorbell rang. I turned, a stupid flicker of hope in my chest, but it was just a delivery guy. He handed me a small cake box. “From a Mr. Hayes. He requested a 7 p.m. delivery sharp.” I opened it. Tiramisu. He’d forgotten I was lactose intolerant. 4 I drove to The Astor. The doorman saw the Porsche and waved me through without a word. In the underground garage, on level B2, sat Ethan’s Audi A8. The last three digits of the license plate were 608, our wedding anniversary. June 8th. The elevator required a key fob. I stood in the marble lobby and called Ethan. On the seventh try, he answered, his voice tight with barely concealed anger. “What is it? I’m with a client.” “I’m in the lobby of The Astor,” I said. “Either you come down, or I start asking the concierge to let me up.” The silence on the other end of the line was absolute. Five minutes later, the elevator doors slid open. Ethan stood there, wearing a navy blue lounge set I’d never seen before. The collar was open, revealing a fresh, dark bruise on his neck. A hickey. Behind him stood a young woman in a silk robe, her bangs held back by the same designer hair clip I owned. “Nora?” the girl gasped. “Oh my god, Ethan, you didn’t tell me she was…” I knew her. Chloe. A management trainee from the marketing department we’d hired right out of college. I’d personally handed her her employee badge on her first day. She’d told me then how much she admired our love story. Now she was wearing my wedding ring on her finger.

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I am the hopeless Third Place. Every major exam, every ranking list—always stuck at number three. That is, until the day the results for the National Math Olympiad came out, and I suddenly saw the comments floating in the air. [OMG, the male lead totally tanked his score on purpose! He couldn’t bear to see Mia get punished.] [The heroine, Mia, purposely got the last question wrong too! The power couple is letting each other win. I am sobbing, I ship them so hard!] [They made a bet that whoever got second place had to run ten laps around the track, but they both tried to throw the game. Too bad they threw it too hard, and some NPC snatched first place.] [What’s her name? Zoe Reynolds?] Hearing my name, my heart hammered against my ribs. I am Zoe Reynolds. And it looked like my days of being the eternal bronze medalist were finally over. 1 In AP Calc, Mr. Harrison put a brutal problem on the board. I chewed on the end of my pen for ten minutes, calculating furiously, before accepting that this beast was outside my pay grade. I turned to the desk behind me. The resident genius. “Jace? Could you explain how to solve this? I’m stuck.” Jace Sterling was usually cold, the type who treated words like a limited currency. He rarely helped anyone. But this time, he glanced almost imperceptibly toward a certain seat in the front row, paused, and then set down his pen. His voice was cool, detached. “Sure.” He was concise. In three sentences, he untangled the knot in my brain. A true academic weapon. I looked at him with genuine admiration, completely missing the glare burning a hole in the back of my head. After the bell rang, I pulled out a tin of imported Danish butter cookies—my stash—to thank him. “Thanks for the help, Jace. Here.” I extended my hand. Clang. Before I could blink, the tin was slapped out of my hand. It hit the linoleum, cookies shattering into buttery dust. Mia Jenkins stood there, covering her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! It was an accident. I’ll buy you a new one, okay?” “No, it’s—” Before I could finish saying it’s fine, she cut in, her voice dripping with fake concern. “Besides, Jace doesn’t eat cookies. He’s gluten-intolerant. Didn’t you know?” I froze. I didn’t know that. Gluten-intolerant? But every time he came over to my place to drop off packages for his mom, he inhaled my Nana’s homemade apple pie. He’d eat three slices in one sitting. Before I could process the lie, Mia stepped over the mess she made, chin high, and marched up to Jace. She slapped a notebook onto his desk with the arrogance of a queen. “Hey, Ice Prince.” “Since you love helping people so much, explain this one to me, too.” Her voice was bright, bratty, and demanding. Jace, who usually froze people out for breathing too loud, didn’t get mad. Instead, the corner of his mouth ticked up. A smile so faint it was barely there, but his eyes? They were soft. He tapped the empty desk next to him with his pen. “Sit.” Smart, pretty girls get different rules. Without being asked, Jace’s lab partner scrambled out of his seat, winking as he left. “So, the derivative of this function…” Mia crossed her arms, pouting. “You think I’m dumb like the rest of them? I actually solved it ages ago. I have a different method. But if you call me a genius, I might deign to share it with you.” Social cues dictated I should leave. But they were discussing a new method for the problem. I stood there, listening, my brain lighting up. Wait, if you drop an auxiliary line between point A and E… I tried to chime in. “Actually, if you—” Ignored. I tried again. “What if we—” Nothing. It was like a force field surrounded them. I didn’t want to give up. A good scholar shares knowledge, right? If we pooled our brains, we could crack this three different ways. Just as I prepared to physically insert myself into the conversation, text started scrolling across my vision like a Twitch chat. [Jace is so sneaky. He helped that random girl just to make his wifey jealous.] [That girl asking for help is such a Pick-Me. Thank god Mia came in to mark her territory.] [Our Mia is a genius! Look at that Pick-Me trying to join the conversation and getting ignored. LOL.] [High IQ couple goals! I live for this academic rivals-to-lovers dynamic!] I frowned. Pick-Me? Who? Me? 2 It took me half a day of reading the floating text to figure it out. I was living inside a YA romance novel. Jace and Mia were the main characters. Jace was the textbook tortured hero: abusive dad, bedridden mom, little sister, brooding soul. Mia was the rich heiress destined to “save” him. At school, they were academic rivals. In private, they were apparently sucking face behind the bleachers. This should have had nothing to do with me. According to the chat, I was “NPC A.” A background character. But… I looked at the two of them, shoulders touching, and then at the comments screaming OMG SO CUTE. I furrowed my brow. How did I become the “Pick-Me”? I’m ranked third in the entire grade. I work my tail off. Why am I the villain just because I’m not them? Just because they hold the top two spots, does that make me a joke? And honestly, did they think Jace was some kind of prize? I bent down, cleaned up the crumbled cookies, and quietly swiped the scratch paper off Jace’s desk. Since they were geniuses, they didn’t need his notes. I handed the paper to my best friend, Chloe. She squealed and hugged me. “Zoe! You’re a wizard! How did you figure this out? I’ve been staring at this problem for an hour. You’re the GOAT!” I preened a little. “It’s nothing. Just math.” A crowd gathered around Chloe’s desk to see the solution. “Reynolds is a beast. Top three for a reason.” “Unlike some people who just brag.” “Seriously, Zoe, have you considered giving Einstein a run for his money?” I was laughing with them when I felt a cold stare. I turned. Mia was looking at me. Her expression was a mix of disgust, arrogance, and dismissal. She mouthed something at me. Don’t even try to compete. You can’t win. The chat exploded. [YAS QUEEN! Mia declaring war on the evil NPC!] [Put her in her place!] [I love a strong female lead! I hate these side characters who think the hero likes them just because he explained one problem. Sit down, honey!] Me: ? Literally, what did I do to you people? 3 From then on, every time I got within ten feet of Jace, the chat would appear. And Mia would swoop in like a hawk, staring me down with her big doe eyes as if I were about to trip and fall onto her precious boyfriend’s lips. Even though I did nothing. I took a deep breath. I tried to ignore the floating text. I tried to ignore Mia’s radar. I even quit our three-person study group. Last semester, Mia had approached me with a sweet smile. “Math Olympiad is coming up. Let’s form a study group!” I agreed. I even shared my “Holy Grail” binder—a collection of the hardest contest problems from the last ten years that I’d spent months compiling. I gave a copy to Jace, too. Scholars compete, sure, but I believed in rising tides lifting all boats. Apparently, that philosophy wasn’t mutual. I found out later they threw my binder in the trash. Mia’s high-priced private tutor had sneered at it. “Why waste time on problems from random state competitions? Stick to the Ivy League prep books.” The chat revealed the truth: The study group was just a cover so they could hang out at the library on weekends without their parents getting suspicious. I was the chaperone. The beard. While I was passionately explaining geometry proofs, they were holding hands under the table. I thought Mia’s flushed cheeks were from the library’s heating system. Nope. I was just part of their foreplay. Kermit sipping tea.jpg Gross. They didn’t know how valuable my binder was. I didn’t bother explaining. If they wanted to toss it, that was their loss. I kept my head down and grinded. The chat, however, knew the truth. [Stupid girl! That binder had legit questions from every state final! You can’t even find those online!] [Jace threw his copy out too. He has to show loyalty to his wifey. A true male lead doesn’t accept gifts from other girls.] [NOOOO! There was a question in there that’s exactly like the one on this year’s Olympiad!] Wait. Exactly like the one on the Olympiad? My eyes lit up. For the first time, I was grateful for the hallucinations. The binder was 180 pages. To finish it before the competition, I needed to do twenty pages a day. Forty problems. Let’s go. One afternoon, Mia breezed past my desk, smelling like Chanel No. 5. She saw me chewing on my pen, wrestling with a complex function. She smirked—a little curve of triumph mixed with pity. “Zoe, aren’t those questions a little… advanced? Above our syllabus?” I didn’t look up. “Just practicing.” “I just mean… if you don’t have the aptitude, don’t force it. Those problems aren’t meant for you.” She paused, widening her eyes innocently. “Don’t overthink it, though. I’m just looking out for you. You’re not mad, are you?” The malice was palpable. I didn’t get it. All I did was ask Jace for help once. I don’t usually curse. But I don’t let people walk all over me, either. I looked her dead in the eye. “None of your damn business.” The class went silent. Mia, who had clearly never been told ‘no’ in her life, turned bright red. She glared at me, eyes watering, and ran out of the room like a victim in a soap opera. The chat went nuclear. They called me every name in the book. Jace, who missed the interaction but saw the aftermath, marched over to my desk. The temperature in the room dropped. “Did you make her cry?” I looked up at him. “And?” I knew explaining was useless. To these two, reality was whatever they decided it was. Jace looked taken aback by my lack of defense. He squinted at me, analyzing. Then, with maximum arrogance, he said, “No matter what you do to get my attention, I won’t like you. I only love Mia.” I stared at him. It was so absurd I almost laughed. I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “You’re delusional.” What is his problem? We’ve been neighbors for years. He acts like I’ve been harboring a secret crush since kindergarten. Is narcissism a requirement for male leads? 5 I ignored them. I focused on the grind. The competition was held in D.C., a few hours away. It was my first time traveling without family. Nana was worried I’d get carsick, so she packed a bag of tangerines for me. On the bus, a classmate turned green. I pulled a tangerine from my reusable ‘Shop-Rite’ bag. “Here. The citrus smell helps.” “Oh my god, Zoe, you’re a lifesaver.” Mia was sitting two rows ahead, wearing a floral dress that probably cost more than my rent. She craned her neck like a swan. She spoke loudly enough for me to hear. “Ugh. The air in here smells like poverty.” She leaned onto Jace’s shoulder. Jace looked at her with a gentle expression I’d never seen at school. “Sorry, princess. Just endure it a little longer. Some people have no public decency.” I rolled my eyes again. Helping a sick kid is lacking decency? And what was Mia so proud of? The guy next to her was poorer than I was. I just wanted to get off the bus. When we arrived, I walked past them. Mia practically shouted: “Ice block, don’t look at her!” “Is she prettier than me? Is she? If you look at her again, I’ll gouge your eyes out so you can only look at me!” The chat laughed. [Hahaha, possessive Mia is so cute!] [The wifey is jealous! The cool guy melts for her.] [Does this Pick-Me have no shame? Always trying to insert herself.] I snapped. I stopped and turned around. “If you spent half as much time studying as you do inventing drama, maybe you wouldn’t embarrass yourself on the test.” I knew their “elite” tutor was a fraud who fed them flashy, impractical problems. I didn’t wait for their reaction. I walked into the exam hall. When the test landed on my desk, my heart soared. I recognized the patterns. I’d solved variations of these problems dozens of times. I had this in the bag. Ivy League application, here I come. I didn’t know then that Jace and Mia were about to pull their biggest stunt yet.

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In the seventh year of our marriage, the whole city was whispering about Jake Gesner’s secret son. Now, that son and his mother were sitting across from me in my own home. I said nothing. Today was the anniversary of my daughter’s death. And this was Jake’s idea of comfort: parading his mistress and her child through our front door. I gathered my daughter’s last belongings and laid the divorce papers on the table. 1 Back from the cemetery, I shrugged off my trench coat. Jake was lounging on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, his long, elegant fingers dancing across a tablet. I walked over to him, my voice a raw whisper. “I want a divorce.” He set the tablet down, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The living room was silent; he’d heard me. Was he already calculating how to get rid of me with the least amount of fuss? His posture was stiff, a knot of discomfort. “You haven’t spoken a single word to me in a year, and this is the first thing you want to say?” I didn’t know what else there was to say. I just nodded, feeling helpless. Jake’s lips thinned, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the sofa cushion. He was weighing his options. The rich aroma of dinner wafted from the kitchen, but instead of answering, Jake rose and moved to the dining table. The housekeeper served two bowls of rice, calling out softly to me, “Mrs. Gesner.” Those words shattered the last of my defenses. “Jake,” I said, my voice shaking. “Let’s get a divorce.” “Fine.” This time, he didn’t evade. A wave of relief washed over me. “I’ve already contacted a lawyer.” He picked up his bowl and began to eat, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “You don’t need to inform me about things like that.” I’d heard that line so many times before. When choosing a new rug, picking out bedsheets. Now, our divorce was just another household chore. I turned to go upstairs. As my foot touched the first step, Jake’s phone rang. He glanced at my retreating figure before answering. “Is this Jake Gesner? Your wife and son were in a car accident. Please get to the hospital immediately.” Jake’s face darkened instantly. He grabbed his coat, only then noticing I was still standing on the stairs. I started to move again, but he called out my name, his voice sharp. “Nora.” “Aren’t you going to ask where I’m going?” I turned slowly, forcing a brittle smile. “Does it matter?” Hearing the flat emptiness in my tone, he let out a cold, bitter laugh. “You’re really something, Nora.” He wrenched the door open and slammed it behind him. A gust of wind swept through the room, catching the family portrait our daughter, Mia, had drawn. It fluttered to the floor, and my vision blurred with tears. Mia, do you know, too? This thing we called a family… it’s been gone for a long time. Just as the first tear fell, my lawyer called. I had just finished the conversation when the doorbell rang. The housekeeper opened it to reveal Jake’s parents. “What is wrong with you two? Making such an ugly scene for everyone to see!” His mother, Eleanor, began berating me the second she saw me. His father, Richard, stood beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. “How do you plan to handle this?” he demanded. I uttered a single word. “Divorce.” “You’re both young, don’t be so impulsive,” Richard began, joining the campaign. “Jake is just playing around with that woman outside. He’ll come back to you eventually.” The unspoken message hung in the air: have another child, and you’ll tie him down for good. Suddenly, Eleanor threw her phone down in front of me with a cold snort. I picked it up. Tabloid pictures and sensational headlines told the whole story. [Unknown Dancer and Secret Son Move In: A Bid for Status or Pushing the Original Wife Out?] [The Next Gesner Heir Has Been Decided!] The accompanying photo was of Jake on a yacht with the other woman, Vivian, and her son, celebrating a birthday. Expensive gifts littered the table. The mother and son were wrapped around Jake, smiling sweetly for the camera. The online comments were even more vicious than the article. [The Gesners only have this one heir now. She can hang up her dancing shoes and marry into the dynasty.] [What can you do? She gave him a son. The ultimate trump card.] I handed the phone back to Eleanor with a faint smile. “Look what the media is saying! Even a woman off the street has more fight in her than you!” she snapped, her brow furrowed in disapproval. My voice was hoarse. “So, should I be congratulating him?” Eleanor slammed the phone on the floor, shaking her head at me in disappointment. “If you two had just had another baby sooner, would things have ever gotten this bad?” “Jake can’t be without a child. Have another one. It would be better for both of you.” I lowered my head, my lips pressed into a firm line as I shook my head no. Eleanor clutched her chest, sinking onto the sofa, gasping for breath. “A divorce is not a small thing. Have you and Jake truly thought this through?” Richard’s voice was laced with disbelief, his hands still clasped behind his back. “If you divorce him, you will never see Mia again.” He let the threat hang in the air. “Don’t forget, Mia is buried in the Gesner family plot.” 2 A thick film of tears clouded my vision. I looked up at Richard and laughed, a bitter, broken sound. Was the Gesner family reputation so important they would use their dead granddaughter as a bargaining chip? He brought up Mia, yet he’d completely forgotten that today was the anniversary of her death. On the way back from the cemetery, I had stopped at Mia’s favorite clothing store. A little girl who looked so much like her was standing by the entrance. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought it was her. I wanted to run to her, to hold her, to tell her how much I missed her. Then a young couple walked up and swept her into their arms, kissing her cheeks with adoration. I watched, mesmerized, until the reality crashed down on me. It was just a memory. Eleanor, having caught her breath, came over and took my hand. “Nora, your father-in-law and I only want what’s best for you. Don’t be so stubborn.” Divorce, it seemed, was my mistake. “He was just teasing you before, don’t take it to heart. We were heartbroken about Mia, too.” And how did they express that heartbreak? By pushing Jake to quit drinking, quit smoking, and get in shape, all so he could try for another child with me sooner. Their brand of grief was a fresh wound, carving pieces out of me. I refused Jake again and again. And then, the texts from Vivian started. Pictures of their happy little family of three. The images burned my eyes, a pain so sharp it stole my breath. It felt like Mia’s death had only affected me. I ran from the house. When I returned, it was empty, lifeless. He’d left a note, telling me he wasn’t coming back. “Ma’am, Mr. Gesner told us to tell you he’s going where he’s appreciated.” “He also said… he’s sick and tired of looking at your dead-inside face every day…” That evening, I changed and went to the Gesner family estate. They were hosting a party; my attendance was not optional. Standing at the entrance, I saw Jake with Vivian. When he noticed me, he sauntered over, hands in his pockets. “Nora, let me introduce you. This is Vivian, and this is Leo.” I nodded, my face a blank mask. Eleanor’s expression was thunderous, but it softened slightly when she saw the little boy, Leo. “Go get our guest a glass of water,” she instructed me. “And bring out some snacks.” I did as I was told. The house was crowded. Jake moved through it, a glass of champagne in hand, networking. Vivian cornered me. “Your marriage to Jake is over. Why won’t you just sign the papers?” I handed her the glass of water. “Jake won’t agree to it.” At that, she knocked the glass from my hand. “That’s impossible! You must be the one clinging to him!” The sound of shattering glass drew everyone’s attention. I called a housekeeper to clean up the mess and turned to leave. Suddenly, Vivian grabbed my arm, her grip tight. “You’d better divorce him soon,” she hissed. I struggled, but she squeezed harder. What was that around her neck? I looked closer, and my blood ran cold. I ripped the necklace from her. It was Mia’s. The last birthday present we ever gave her. Why was it around this woman’s neck? Vivian, seeing she’d been discovered, just smirked. “Surprised? Jake gave it to me.” Her face twisted into a grotesque, triumphant smile. “He said things are only meaningful on the living. And your daughter… she’s dead because you couldn’t take proper care of her!” I raised my hand and slapped her across the face with all the strength I had left. “Nora!” “There are guests everywhere! Are you determined to ruin this entire evening?” Jake appeared from nowhere, shielding Vivian. Leo burst into tears, his wails defending his mother. Jake’s face grew even darker, his eyes cold enough to freeze. I held up the necklace, my gaze fixed on him, my heart breaking all over again. “This was Mia’s birthday gift. Are you going to take even this from her?” “Can a necklace bring Mia back?” he retorted. “It’s better to focus on the people who are still here.” 3 His words struck me dumb. Jake’s cruelty plunged me into an abyss. My vision swam. I snapped the chain. Just like this necklace, the bond between Jake and me needed to be broken for good. Mia’s arrival was the greatest gift of my life. Every morning, Jake and Mia would surprise me with little things, eagerly waiting for my reaction. I would cook for them, basking in their praise. That life came to a screeching halt a year ago. I confronted Jake about the women he was seeing. We fought. He stormed out, furious. Mia tried to stop him with her tears, but for the first time, they didn’t work. He left, more determined than ever, and didn’t come home for a long time. After that, his scandals were all over my phone. Late one night, he finally came back, reeking of alcohol. Another fight erupted. He slammed the door, and in a moment of madness, I chased after him. Mia, quiet as a shadow, followed me. We were both in the car when it crashed. When I woke up, there was a death certificate on my bedside table. The hospital said they couldn’t reach Jake. Neither of us, Mia’s parents, were there for her final journey. On the television in my room, a news report showed Jake on a yacht, partying with some young starlet. My eyes were vacant. With a trembling hand, I dialed his number. “When are you coming home?” “What, you saw the news?” he sneered. “Feeling insecure seeing me with all these women younger and prettier than you?” I was silent, a lump forming in my throat. “Did Mia put you up to this?” He actually chuckled, proud of himself. My lips trembled. I couldn’t form the words to tell him she was gone. The starlet whined for his attention in the background. “I’m talking to my wife, shut your mouth!” he roared at her, his tone shifting in an instant. She covered her face and ran off, crying. I mumbled something, and finally heard him say he was coming home right now. But what good would that do? “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice dead. “Have fun out there.” “I already sent her away, what more do you want?” he demanded, his voice laced with frustration. I said each word slowly, distinctly. “Mia. Is. Dead.” That day, for the first time, I saw guilt and terror on Jake’s face. He rushed to the hospital and held me, murmuring reassurances. His voice was filled with a pain that mirrored my own, and we wept in each other’s arms. Back then, he told me Mia’s death wasn’t my fault. Less than a month later, he changed his story. He said it was all my fault. “You were her mother. You failed to protect her. How is that any different from killing her yourself?” I spent another night in Mia’s room. The door opened again. It was Jake. He took a step forward, reaching out to touch my head. I flinched away, telling him to get out of her room. “Nora, about the party… I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft as he opened his arms. “It won’t happen again.” I looked at him with swollen, red-rimmed eyes filled with disgust. He tried to pull me to him, and I bit his hand. The gentleness vanished from his face, replaced by pure rage. “It’s been a year! Haven’t you moved on yet?” he yelled. “Just because Mia is gone doesn’t mean our lives have to stop!” “Do you have any idea how disgusting it is to see you walking around like a zombie every single day?” He punched Mia’s small desk, then kicked over her toy box. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice cracking. “Nora, the reason we’re at this point… it’s all your fault.” “You deserve this.” 4 The door slammed shut, and silence returned. I cleaned up the mess he’d made and went back to my room, curling into a ball on the bed. You deserve this. I’d seen those words before. [Mr. Gesner loved his daughter so much, how dare Mrs. Gesner blame him?] [The fact that he hasn’t divorced her is his greatest act of mercy. She deserves all of this.] [The Gesners treated her so well, and she couldn’t even watch her own child. Of course he cheated. She deserved it.] [Good, if they can’t make it work, they should just split. Mr. Gesner will take care of Vivian and her son sooner or later.] [Yeah, hurry up and give up your spot as Mrs. Gesner. If you don’t want it, someone else does.] Did I really deserve all this? I’d lost track of how long it had been since I’d seen Jake. But I didn’t need to see him to know where he was. His relationship with Vivian was better than I imagined. With him as her patron, she was no longer some obscure dancer. She was suddenly a renowned artist. I only understood why Eleanor called when she got to the point. “When Jake’s reputation suffers, you, his wife, are the one people whisper about.” I nodded distractedly. I didn’t care anymore. The tabloids hadn’t used kind words for me either. Eleanor’s voice turned hesitant. “Can you two… really not work it out?” Clutching the phone, I remained silent. She sighed. “If you had just sat down and talked with him earlier, this all could have been resolved.” She started complaining, recounting the past. “I told him not to marry you back then, but he wouldn’t listen. And look at you now.” I held the phone away from my ear, hearing Richard in the background telling her to calm down. “How can I not be angry? If they had just lived their lives properly, would I be like this?” She grew more agitated, her voice rising as she pleaded with me. “Just talk to him, Nora. Settle things. Please?” Seeing my continued silence, she sighed again and hung up. The one she needed to plead with was never me. It was her son. After hanging up, the housekeeper brought me my coat. “Ma’am, the driver is ready.” I suddenly remembered I had one more thing to do today. “This is the jade pendant your daughter was wearing during the accident. We’ve repaired it,” the jeweler said gently. “But no matter how much we fix it, it can never be the same as it was.” I nodded. Repairing the jade was just a small comfort, a way to feel close to her. I slipped the pendant into my pocket. Before I could turn, I heard Vivian’s voice. “Nora, what are you doing here?” She was with Leo, browsing the jade displays. I studied them. Leo clung to Vivian, looking scared. “Jake said a child should wear something for protection, to ensure they grow up safe and sound,” she explained, though it sounded more like a taunt. Jake paid for their selection and then effortlessly lifted Leo into his arms. His face was unreadable, his gaze flickering away when it met mine. My phone buzzed. A message from my lawyer. The divorce papers had been sent to Jake. “Why haven’t you responded to the lawyer?” I held up my phone, my voice calm. Asher, the appraiser, had returned. I wasn’t going to listen to any more of Jake’s excuses. I knew he was just ignoring it, like always. “Mr. Asher,” I said, turning to the man who had just re-entered the shop. “I have some time today. Shall we go now?” Mr. Asher smiled warmly and nodded. “Nora!” Jake’s voice cut through the air behind me. I stopped, and turned to face him.

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1 I was laid off from the big auto plant. Middle-aged, with no other marketable skills, the only work I could find was managing the stockroom at a small private manufacturing firm. On my first day, I saw it in the corner, a massive machine shrouded in dust. It was a state-of-the-art imported precision instrument, worth over half a million dollars, just sitting there like a heap of scrap metal. A new coworker snickered. “Don’t even bother looking. The boss paid a fortune for it, hired eight different experts, and none of them could get it working. It’s just an expensive paperweight now.” I walked over, my hand tracing the familiar lines of its chassis. “I can fix this.” The entire workshop fell silent. The boss, hearing the commotion, came over and looked me up and down with contempt. “You fix it, and I’ll give you half my shares in this company. You can’t, and you’ll spend the rest of your life paying me back for it.” The hot, dry air of the workshop smelled of machine oil and metal dust. Every eye was on me, a spotlight of disbelief and scorn, as if they were looking at a madman. The boss, Rick Thorne, a man in his forties with a growing paunch and gold-rimmed glasses, pushed through the crowd. He sized me up, his gaze as sharp as a scalpel, traveling from my faded, washed-out work shirt down to my dust-covered, steel-toed boots. Finally, his eyes settled on my hands, a roadmap of calluses and small, silvery scars. “You?” he grunted, the sound a mix of disbelief and open mockery. “John Carter, is it? HR told me you used to manage a warehouse at the old GM plant.” “I was a senior technician,” I corrected him. My voice wasn’t loud, but each word was clear. “Senior technician?” Rick acted as if I’d just told the joke of the century. He let out a booming laugh, his belly shaking. A wave of sycophantic laughter echoed through the workshop. “A senior technician working in a stockroom? Come on, Carter, that’s not even a good lie.” “I’m not lying.” I met his eyes and repeated, “I can fix it.” My gaze drifted past him to the behemoth slumped in the corner. A German DMG MORI 5-axis machining center. Its ivory-white enamel casing was coated in a thick layer of grime, like a forgotten work of art. My heart gave an unexpected twinge—the bittersweet ache of seeing an old friend again. Rick’s laughter died in his throat. A muscle in his fleshy cheek twitched, and his eyes turned hard and cold. “Alright, fine.” He clapped his hands together. “I’ve got twenty engineers on my payroll. I’ve spent over seventy grand on eight so-called experts and professors, and not one of them had the balls to say what you just said.” He stepped right up to me, his stubby finger nearly poking my nose. “And you, a new stockroom guy, you’re telling me you can fix it?” “I am.” I didn’t flinch. “Done!” He threw his arm out. “We’ll make a bet, right here, right now! You get this machine running, and I’ll give you half of this company! We’ll draw up the papers, sign them on the spot!” A collective gasp went through the crowd. Half the company. That was millions. Rick’s eyes turned vicious, like a cornered animal’s. “But if you can’t fix it, or if you break it even more…” He gritted his teeth, his voice a low growl. “This machine cost me five hundred thousand dollars. You’ll be working for me for the rest of your life to pay it off.” The workshop was dead silent. Even the whirring of the fans seemed to have stopped. “Boss, don’t waste your time with this idiot,” the shop foreman said, trying to smooth things over. “Yeah, Rick, he’s just trying to make a name for himself.” Rick ignored them, his eyes locked on mine. “You in or out?” An image of my wife, Sarah, her face pale and thin, flashed through my mind. The cost of her medication had already drained our savings. My daughter had just gotten into college; she needed money now more than ever. I’d been “downsized,” tossed aside like a fish on the shore. This trade, this skill that everyone else looked down on, was all I had left. Dignity? Dignity doesn’t pay the bills. But this fire in my chest, this burning need to prove them all wrong, was suffocating me. “I’m in,” I heard myself say. A cruel smile spread across Rick’s face. “Good. You’ve got guts.” He turned and barked at his assistant. “Mark! Get the contract! No, not a contract—a betting agreement! I’m going to teach this guy a lesson today about running his mouth!” A few minutes later, a sheet of paper, still warm from the printer, was slapped down in front of me. Equipment Repair Betting Agreement. Party A: Rick Thorne. Party B: John Carter. The terms were brutally simple: If John Carter successfully repaired the DMG 5-axis machining center, Party A would transfer 50% of the company shares. If the repair failed or caused further damage, John Carter would be liable for the full depreciated value of the equipment, totaling five hundred thousand dollars. “And I mean it about you paying me back for the rest of your life,” Rick said, lighting a cigarette. The smoke swirled around his face, making him look even more menacing. “If you can’t pay, you’ll be my indentured servant. I’ll be sure to ‘take good care’ of your wife and kid, too.” It was a naked threat. The other workers gathered around, whispering. “He’s crazy. He’s actually going to sign it.” “Look at him. How’s he ever going to pay that back? He’s signing away his entire life.” “Serves him right for being a loudmouth.” I picked up the pen, its tip hovering over the paper for a second. I remembered my wife that morning, grabbing my hand, her eyes full of worry. “John, don’t push yourself too hard. Your health is what’s important. We’ll make the money back, slowly.” I remembered my daughter’s excited voice on the phone. “Dad, I got a scholarship! It’ll help you and Mom out!” I couldn’t fail. I had to win. Without another moment’s hesitation, I signed my name, John Carter, on the line for Party B. After I finished, I looked up, meeting Rick’s contemptuous gaze. “Boss, I need an advance. Three months’ salary.” Rick stared at me, dumbfounded. Then, he burst out laughing, even louder and more derisive than before. “Ha! Hahahaha! You haven’t even started working, and you’re already asking for money? You son of a…” He caught himself, his expression shifting to one of pure disgust. “Fine! You want it? You got it!” He had the accountant bring a stack of cash and, in front of everyone, slammed it onto the table in front of me. “Two thousand bucks! Go buy your wife her medicine!” The green bills scattered like leaves, fluttering across the floor. Some slid under the greasy base of a nearby lathe. In that moment, all sound faded away. I could only hear the roar of blood rushing to my head. Humiliation, like a dull knife, sawed at my insides. I bent down in silence. Under the watch of dozens of pairs of eyes, I picked up the money, one bill at a time, each one carrying the warmth and scorn of another man. I carefully smoothed the wrinkles from the oil-stained bills, folded them neatly, and placed them in the inside pocket of my shirt, right over my heart. A young woman standing behind Rick, maybe in her early twenties and wearing a white sundress, frowned. It was his daughter, Lisa. I didn’t look at anyone. I turned and walked straight toward the dust-covered machine. My back was ramrod straight. “She’s mine now.” 2 I walked a slow circle around the DMG machine, like I was inspecting a long-lost friend. The others had dispersed, returning to their workstations, but I could feel their eyes on me, their ears tuned in, all waiting to see the “clown” in the corner make a fool of himself. Lisa hadn’t left. She stood a short distance away, arms crossed, her face a mask of undisguised skepticism and curiosity. “I need a toolset,” I said to her. She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of tools? The stockroom is full of them. Go get them yourself.” I shook my head and recited a string of German words. “Eine komplette Garnitur von der Hoffmann Group, Drehmomentschlüssel, Satz Feinmessschrauben…” Lisa’s expression froze. She only understood bits and pieces, but the authentic German pronunciation chipped away at the disdain on her face. “What did you say?” I switched back to English, patiently repeating myself. “A German-made Hoffmann Group toolset. Sixteen-piece socket set, a torque wrench, and a set of precision micrometers. They were bought with the machine when the factory was set up. Should be in a silver metal case.” The shop foreman, a jaded old-timer named Dave, let out a snort. “Hey, Carter, who do you think you are? You think you know where everything is? We don’t have anything like that here.” “You do,” I said calmly. “It’s in the stockroom, second row of shelves, third box from the top. It should have a label on it that says ‘Ersatzteile’.” Dave’s face changed. “Ersatzteile” was German for “spare parts.” The label was there, but almost no one in the factory knew what it meant. Lisa’s eyes lit up. She turned to the foreman. “Dave, go have a look.” Dave, muttering about how I was just guessing, took two workers and headed to the stockroom. A few minutes later, the three of them returned, carrying a dusty silver metal case, their faces etched with astonishment. They opened the case. Inside, nestled in red velvet lining, was a brand-new set of German tools, gleaming with a metallic sheen, the protective oil still slick on their surfaces. Dave’s face went from red to white and back again. A few hushed gasps rippled through the onlookers. The way Lisa looked at me had completely changed. I paid them no mind. I put on a pair of reading glasses I’d pulled from my pocket and took a long, thin metal rod from the case—a mechanic’s stethoscope. I didn’t open a single electrical cabinet or connect any diagnostic equipment. I gently placed one end of the rod against the machine’s main spindle housing. Then, I bent down and pressed the other end firmly to my ear. I closed my eyes. The gesture was like a seasoned old doctor listening to a chronically ill patient. “Heh, what a showoff. Who does he think he’s fooling?” a young worker whispered. “Yeah, thinks he’s some kind of machine whisperer? He’s going to diagnose it just by listening?” Lisa frowned, clearly baffled by what I was doing. I heard none of it. My world had shrunk to just me and this machine. I could hear the subtle sounds from within. The almost imperceptible, abnormal friction between the gears. The minuscule, jerky hesitation as the guide rails slid. The faint popping of air bubbles in a specific point of the lubrication line. To anyone else, it was just noise. To me, it was a detailed diagnostic report, clear as day. For a full ten minutes, I didn’t move. Then, I straightened up and took off my glasses. I reached out with my rough hands and, as if stroking a lover’s skin, ran my fingertips over the cold seams of the guide rails, again and again. My fingers could feel the microscopic misalignments and wear, measured in microns. “Well?” Lisa finally broke the silence. Her voice had lost its earlier contempt, replaced now by sheer bewilderment. I turned to face her, and to face Rick and the other workers who had gathered around again. I announced my diagnosis. “It’s not an electrical problem.” “It’s the machine’s XY-axis drive module. It took a hard impact during shipping or installation, causing an irreversible loss of mechanical precision.” “My initial estimate is a deviation of at least 50 microns.” The statement hit the workshop like a bomb. Lisa’s eyes went wide. She rushed over to a nearby desk, rummaged through a pile of papers, and pulled out a report, holding it up to me. “But… but the diagnostic report from those eight experts concluded it was a ‘main control chip overload and burnout, drive circuit board failure, recommend complete replacement of the motherboard and servo system’!” On the report, the words “Main Control Chip Failure” were in bold red, followed by a shocking repair quote—one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. My eyes scanned the report, and a cold smile touched my lips. “They were wrong.” “How can you be so sure?” Lisa pressed, her voice urgent. I pointed to an inconspicuous hex bolt on the machine’s base. “This bolt is one of the reference points for leveling the machine at the factory. Its torque specification is incredibly strict, with a tolerance of less than 0.1 Newton-meters.” I gave the bolt a gentle twist with my fingers. “But the torque on this bolt is wrong. It’s been re-tightened.” “And by an amateur. Not only did they fail to recalibrate it, but they also destroyed the stress balance of the entire base that was set at the factory.” “That’s the real source of the precision loss.” “As for the electrical alarms,” I paused, “that’s just the system’s self-preservation kicking in. The mechanical error is causing the servo motors to overload.” The workshop was utterly silent. Everyone was staring at me as if I were some kind of alien. A stockroom manager, using only his ears and hands, had just refuted the conclusions of eight professors armed with sophisticated instruments. It was unbelievable. Rick’s face was a storm of conflicting emotions—doubt and shock warring for dominance. Lisa was completely floored. The last traces of disdain in her eyes had vanished, replaced by a profound, undisguised astonishment and intense curiosity. “Talk is cheap,” Rick said, his face grim, breaking the silence. “You said you can fix it, so fix it. I don’t care if you heard it or felt it. I just want results.” “Alright.” I said nothing more. I took off my outer shirt, leaving me in a gray, worn-out tank top. From the new Hoffmann toolset, I selected a few oddly shaped instruments. With no blueprints, no repair manual, I began to disassemble the machine’s core drive system. My every movement had a strange, fluid rhythm. Which screw to loosen, with how much force. Which component to remove, in what order. It was all as if I had practiced it a thousand times, the motions ingrained in my muscle memory. My hands, those calloused and scarred hands, moved with the grace of a dancer. The crowd of workers, who had initially been watching for entertainment, fell silent. “Look at him, pretending he knows what he’s doing. It’ll be hilarious when he can’t put it back together.” “Yeah, this is German engineering. You can’t just mess with it without a manual. He’s asking for trouble.” But gradually, the snickering stopped. Everyone held their tongue, their expressions shifting from amusement to silence, then to surprise, and finally, to something bordering on awe. To these trained eyes, what I was doing was simply impossible. It was a level of skill that transcended technique and approached art. Lisa had found a thick, original German-language repair manual from somewhere. She flipped through the pages frantically, her eyes darting between the book and my hands. Her mouth fell open. “Oh my God… your procedure…” she stammered, her voice trembling. “It’s in the manual… the ‘Emergency Calibration for Extreme Conditions’… But… my professor in Germany said this was just a theoretical best-case scenario, that no one could actually do it in real life!” The procedure demanded an impossible level of feel, experience, and judgment. One tiny mistake would scrap the entire core module. I didn’t look up, my focus entirely on measuring the clearance of a ball screw with a specialized caliper. “Theory?” I said quietly. “Twenty years ago, in Hannover, the old masters at DMG taught me this, step by step.” I paused, wiping the sweat from my brow. I looked up at Lisa’s stunned face and revealed a piece of my past. “Twenty years ago, Hannover, Germany. DMG headquarters. I was in the first group of technicians they ever invited from my country.” My mind flashed back to a time when I was full of fire and ambition. FLASHBACK In my twenties, wearing a crisp blue uniform, I stood before the most advanced machine tools in the world, my eyes shining with a hunger for knowledge. I was surrounded by stern German engineers and top technicians from across the globe. Driven by a stubborn refusal to be second-best and a natural gift, I mastered every technique in record time. I was even debating design improvements with the German masters. We drank beer together, pulled all-nighters over blueprints. We gave names to every machine we calibrated. A blond, blue-eyed engineer named Klaus clapped me on the shoulder, saying in his broken English, “John! You are a genius! A true mechanical genius!” END FLASHBACK I looked at the dusty machine before me, my gaze softening. “Back then, this model was called the DMC-60H. We called her ‘Ingrid’.” “She was like a proud, precise German woman. You had to treat her with the utmost gentleness and understanding. Only then would she show you her perfect side.” “I’m just… catching up with an old friend I haven’t seen in years.” Lisa was speechless. She stared at me—this middle-aged man in a stained tank top, his back slightly stooped. She couldn’t reconcile the man before her with the image of a washed-up factory worker laid off and forced to take a menial job. The cognitive dissonance was overwhelming. “Who… who are you?” She used a respectful tone, her voice quivering. I just smiled and didn’t answer. I turned back to my work. Using a special technique, like a dragonfly skipping across water, I began to tap the locking pins of the calibration module. The force and location of each tap were terrifyingly precise. The only sound in the workshop was the crisp, rhythmic tink, tink, tink. That sound was like a hammer, striking at the heart of every person watching. It shattered their deep-seated arrogance, the belief that a person’s worth was measured by their degree or job title. Three hours later, the mechanical calibration was complete. I fitted the last casing panel and tightened the final screw. The entire process had been flawless. Of the hundreds of parts I had removed, not a single one was left over, not a single one was missing. “Done,” I said, straightening up and letting out a long breath. The workshop was deathly still. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the miracle. Rick’s fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white, his palms slick with sweat. His face was a cocktail of hope, anxiety, and disbelief. Lisa looked at me with open adoration. She walked to the control panel, took a deep breath, and with a slightly trembling hand, pressed the green start button. VMMMMMM— A smooth, pleasant electrical hum filled the air. The machine’s LCD screen lit up, and a series of indicator lights flashed on as it began its self-diagnostic sequence. “It’s on! The screen is on!” a worker shouted excitedly. A massive grin of pure joy spread across Rick’s face. It worked! It actually worked! This hunk of metal, condemned by eight experts, had just been brought back to life by this unassuming stockroom manager. But their joy lasted less than ten seconds. BEEP—BEEP—BEEP— A shrill, piercing alarm cut through the workshop’s quiet hum. The LCD screen flashed, displaying a wall of red error codes in German. At the very top, a bold warning message stabbed through everyone’s hopes. SYSTEM OVERLOAD! SHUTDOWN IMMEDIATELY! The alarm was so sharp it felt like it could puncture eardrums. The lights that had just turned on all went dark. The codes on the screen scrolled frantically before settling on a solid, bloody red. The celebratory mood that had just filled the workshop was instantly doused in ice water. Rick’s smile froze on his face, twisting into something uglier than a grimace. How could this happen? It was working. Why would it suddenly alarm out? Just then, hurried footsteps echoed from the workshop entrance. “Mr. Thorne! Mr. Thorne! I brought Professor Evans!” It was Mark, the assistant, escorting a man in his late fifties wearing a sharp suit. It was the head of the “eight experts” Rick had hired, Professor Evans himself. The moment the professor walked in and saw me, the “stockroom guy,” standing next to the machine, his face darkened. “Sheer madness!” he boomed, his voice dripping with academic arrogance and the fury of a man whose authority had been challenged. “Mr. Thorne, didn’t I tell you? This is an incredibly delicate piece of equipment! Any contact by an untrained person could have devastating consequences! How could you let a handyman touch my ‘patient’?!” He rushed to the control panel and glanced at the blood-red error codes, his face contorting into an expression of profound grief. He slapped his thigh dramatically and pointed at the screen. “It’s over! It’s completely ruined!” “Mr. Thorne, the motherboard is completely fried! Before, it was just a problem with the drive chip; there was a glimmer of hope. But after he’s been messing with it, a high-voltage surge has fried the main CPU! This machine is now, officially, a pile of scrap! There is zero hope of repair!” Every word from the professor was a sledgehammer blow to Rick’s heart. Rick’s face went from pale to ashen, and finally to a dark, thunderous black. He whipped his head around, his eyes locking onto me, a gaze so cold and raw it could have stripped flesh from bone. “John… Carter…” His voice was a guttural snarl, filled with the rage of a man who has been deceived and betrayed. The “life or death” agreement I had signed, the half-million-dollar debt, felt like an invisible mountain crashing down on top of me. The looks from the crowd—gleeful, pitying, scornful—weaved into a suffocating net, trapping me in the center. I met Rick’s murderous glare and Professor Evans’s smug, triumphant sneer. And I said, each word perfectly clear, “He’s wrong.” “This isn’t an overload.” “It’s a safety protocol. Someone intentionally altered the safety thresholds in the system.” The professor burst out laughing before I had even finished. “Preposterous! Absolutely preposterous!” He pointed a finger at my nose and addressed the room. “Listen to this! A stockroom manager who can’t even read a circuit diagram is lecturing me on safety parameters? This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!” “This is a classic cascade failure caused by hardware damage! Do you even know what a safety parameter is? Do you have any idea what level of security clearance is required to access this machine’s backend?” He turned to Rick, his voice dripping with feigned sympathy as he twisted the knife. “Mr. Thorne, you were too soft-hearted, and you let this con artist fool you! And now look! Five hundred thousand dollars, down the drain!” Rick’s fists were clenched so hard they were cracking. Veins bulged on the back of his hands. He pointed at me, his voice trembling with fury. “Carter, you better have a damn good explanation.” “Or that contract…” “You’re not walking out of this workshop today!”

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I adjusted a male customer’s tie, and his wife slapped me across the face. “Don’t you know tying a tie is an intimate act meant for a wife?” “Can’t wait to seduce my husband, can you?” “Too bad—he has no taste. Every piece of clothing he buys has to be approved by me.” “Your commission is actually in my hands!” Later, I finished my grassroots internship and returned to corporate headquarters. We ended up partnering with her husband’s company, and I was the client representative. At the gala, the couple’s faces changed. “You… weren’t you just a poor salesgirl? How…” I swirled my red wine, speaking calmly: “Now, your family’s future livelihood is in my hands.” 1 I finished tying Mr. Sterling’s tie and stepped back, satisfied with my work. The dark red striped tie made him look sharper. I smiled. “Mr. Sterling, this tie really suits you. It’s perfect with this dark gray suit.” Mr. Sterling turned in front of the mirror, nodding in approval. “It is nice, Sarah. You always have a good eye.” Just then, a shrill female voice cut through the air— “Well, well, here you are!” I turned to see a well-dressed middle-aged woman storming over, anger written all over her face. I recognized her immediately as Mrs. Sterling. I’d seen her in the store a few times, but her expression today was far from her usual elegance. Before I could react… Slap! A heavy hand struck my face. Pain mixed with ringing in my ears. I clutched my face in shock, momentarily frozen. “Who told you to tie his tie?” “Don’t you know tying a tie is an intimate act meant for a wife?!” Mrs. Sterling glared at me, her voice loud enough for the entire floor to hear. “Can’t wait to seduce my husband, can you?” I was too shocked to speak, stammering out a defense: “Mrs. Sterling, you’ve misunderstood, I was just doing my job…” “Job?” She sneered, scanning the crowd of customers who had stopped to watch. “Look, what a professional ‘job’! Tying a tie for a customer personally, fingers brushing against his neck?” Mr. Sterling seemed frightened by the sudden scene. He tried to calm his wife: “Honey, you misunderstood, Sarah was just helping me choose clothes…” “Shut up!” Mrs. Sterling cut him off sharply, then turned to me, eyes full of disdain. “Too bad—he has no taste. Every piece of clothing he buys has to be approved by me.” “This tie, I don’t like the look of it. Take it off!” My hands trembled slightly. I wanted to help Mr. Sterling remove the tie, but feared touching him would cause a bigger misunderstanding. Embarrassed, Mr. Sterling undid the tie himself and handed it to me. Mrs. Sterling pulled a visibly more expensive designer tie from her bag: “This is what suits him.” She spoke arrogantly, then gave me a meaningful look. “Do you know? Your commission is actually in my hands!” “The person you should be pleasing isn’t him, it’s me.” “Don’t you know how many clothes the Sterling family buys here a year?” I kept my head down, face burning not just from the slap, but from the public humiliation. The store manager ran over, piling on an obsequious smile. “Mrs. Sterling, if there’s anything you’re dissatisfied with, please tell me, we will correct it immediately.” “This girl has terrible taste. The matching is a disaster.” Mrs. Sterling glanced at me with contempt. “Her sales numbers probably come from seducing male customers, don’t they?” I clenched my fists, took a deep breath, and suppressed my anger. Months of sales experience taught me that offending a wealthy wife is scarier than offending ten regular customers. “Sarah is just an intern; she doesn’t know the rules,” the manager said, smiling apologetically. “I’ll arrange for a senior stylist to serve you immediately.” Mrs. Sterling raised an eyebrow triumphantly, as if she’d won a victory. Mr. Sterling finally stole a glance at me, seemingly apologetic, but quickly looked down again. “Don’t let it happen again.” Mrs. Sterling dropped these words and dragged Mr. Sterling toward the VIP area. The manager turned to me and whispered, “Bear with it. This couple is a major partner for headquarters.” I touched my burning cheek, watching their retreating figures, and murmured: “Does being a headquarters partner mean you can be this arrogant and abusive?” 2 The next day, as soon as the store opened, a group of fashionable women surrounded Mrs. Sterling as they walked in. All of them dripped with jewelry, radiating the aura of luxury. Mrs. Sterling spotted me immediately, a sneer flashing in her eyes, and deliberately raised her voice. “Ladies, that’s her! The salesgirl I told you about, the one who’s been eyeing my husband.” My hand froze in mid-air, and the shirt I was organizing fell back onto the rack. Other colleagues lowered their heads, pretending not to hear, while only the manager hurried over: “Welcome, ladies. How can I help you today?” Mrs. Sterling waved the manager away. “Not you. We’re here specifically to see her.” She walked straight toward me, followed by four or five women of similar age, their eyes sharp enough to poke holes in me. “This is the homewrecker counter girl I told you about.” Mrs. Sterling pointed at me. “You all need to be careful. Don’t let your husbands get snatched by this fox.” “Yesterday, my husband was buying clothes, and she was throwing herself at him while I wasn’t looking.” A woman wearing a huge gemstone ring looked me up and down, scoffing: “With those looks? You’re too sensitive, Cindy.” “You don’t know. The ones who look innocent are the best actors.” Mrs. Sterling pulled a stack of pink receipts from her bag. “Look, I checked my husband’s spending records. He’s been here every month recently, and every time, she served him.” “Oh, interesting.” Another woman with a ponytail leaned in. “Every month. No wonder you’re vigilant.” I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. Those receipts were indeed Mr. Sterling’s, but we never had any inappropriate relationship! He was just one of the few regular customers I had! “Mrs. Sterling, you’ve misunderstood.” I struggled to maintain a professional smile. “Mr. Sterling is our VIP client. The system automatically assigns returning customers to the sales associate who served them last.” “Listen to that—” Mrs. Sterling clapped sarcastically. “Such a smooth talker. VIP client? More like your VIP target, right?” Other customers in the store looked over, some even taking out phones to record. Colleagues hid far away, except for the manager standing nearby, looking grim. “You know, my husband often mentions a project with a public company recently. He might even get promoted.” Mrs. Sterling walked up to me, lowering her voice deliberately: “Do you think hooking up with him will get you to the top?” I knew Mr. Sterling was a partner of our brand, but besides normal sales reception, I never had any improper thoughts. I shook my head helplessly. “Too bad.” Mrs. Sterling raised her eyebrows. “Good things like that won’t fall to a small fry like you!” The ponytail woman put a hand on Mrs. Sterling’s shoulder. “Don’t be mad. We’re here to spend money today, right?” She turned to me. “Since you like serving people so much, serve us well.” Mrs. Sterling seemed to get the signal. She pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her bag and threw it on the floor in front of everyone. “Pick it up,” she said coldly. “That’s your tip for today.” The air seemed to freeze. The store was so quiet I could hear breathing. I looked down at the money, ears ringing. Since starting in sales, I had never been humiliated like this. I took a deep breath, looked up, and met her eyes: “Our store does not accept tips in this manner. Please respect every service staff member.” “What did you say? What is a poor intern being arrogant about?” Mrs. Sterling leaned in. “Mrs. Sterling, your company just won the bid for the ‘Underprivileged Schools Uniform’ project last month. If you want to maintain a philanthropist image, choosing to throw money in a luxury store with cameras might not be the best move.” Mrs. Sterling’s face turned red instantly. “You—” “Mrs. Sterling!” The manager suddenly stepped forward, bent down to pick up the money, and handed it back to her. “I’m sorry, we do have a rule against employees accepting tips.” “If you are here to shop today, we welcome you.” “If you are just here to cause trouble… please forgive us for not being able to serve you.” Mrs. Sterling’s eyes widened. “You dare kick me out?” “Not kicking you out.” The manager smiled, voice firm. “Just hoping you can respect our work environment. This sales associate is our top performer and has never crossed any lines with your husband.” I looked at the manager in surprise, not expecting him to stand up for me at such a moment. Mrs. Sterling’s friends looked at each other, seeming to find the situation awkward. The ponytail woman gently pulled Mrs. Sterling’s arm. “Forget it. This store doesn’t look like it has anything good anyway. Let’s go next door.” Mrs. Sterling glared at me viciously: “Just you wait. I can make this store close down immediately!” She shook off her friend’s arm and led the group of women away, leaving a room full of whispering customers and relieved staff. “Are you okay?” the manager asked me. I shook my head, hands still trembling slightly. 3 … When Mr. Sterling appeared at the store entrance, I was bending over to organize the pile of clothes Mrs. Sterling and her friends had messed up. Seeing him looking around nervously, I instinctively took a step back. “Miss Sarah.” He walked quickly to me, lowering his voice. “I’m really sorry, my wife is…” I waved my hand, trying to end this awkward topic. “No need to explain, Mr. Sterling.” But he insisted, “No, my wife is just… Sigh, I came to apologize. I’ll take all the clothes I tried on yesterday.” Mr. Sterling pulled a credit card from his inner jacket pocket, fingers trembling slightly as he handed it to me. The manager noticed the commotion and looked at me inquiringly. I nodded to signal everything was fine. “Is this okay?” I whispered. “Mrs. Sterling will be even angrier if she finds out.” Mr. Sterling smiled bitterly. “It’s fine. I really like these outfits.” I took the card and led him to the register. Mr. Sterling stood aside, looking like he wanted to say something. After paying, he suddenly took a gold-rimmed business card from his pocket. “Um… if you have any difficulties in the future…” His voice was so soft it was almost inaudible. “Feel free to contact me anytime.” Just as I was about to refuse the card, a blinding flash went off. I squinted to see Mrs. Sterling storming into the store with her phone raised, followed by the same group of arrogant women. “Caught you!” She strode in. “I knew you two were up to something!” Mr. Sterling’s face turned pale instantly. “Don’t talk nonsense, I was just…” “Just what?” Mrs. Sterling snatched the card from my hand and tore it to pieces. “Giving your contact info to a mistress?” “Ma’am, you misunderstood!” I tried to explain. “Mr. Sterling was just…” Before I could finish, a sharp pain hit me— Mrs. Sterling grabbed my hair, pulling so hard my vision went black. “Slut! Seducing my husband and acting righteous?” she screamed. Customers backed away in fear, some taking out phones to record. Mrs. Sterling’s friends also raised their phones, aiming at the scene. “Stop!” The manager rushed forward to pull Mrs. Sterling away but was shoved aside by the ponytail woman. “Stay out of this! This is a family matter!” Mr. Sterling stood by, lips trembling, unable to say a word. I struggled to break free from Mrs. Sterling’s grip, but she held onto my hair like a maniac. “Look at this vixen!” Mrs. Sterling shouted at her friend’s phone. “Daring to seduce my husband! I’ll make sure you can’t work on this street ever again!” Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably, not from pain, but from the unprecedented humiliation. Mall security arrived but was surrounded by Mrs. Sterling’s friends. Just then, two police officers rushed into the store. The manager had called them when things started going south. The lead officer grabbed Mrs. Sterling’s wrist. “Stop! Physical assault in a public place. You are suspected of intentional injury.” The officer’s voice allowed no argument. Mrs. Sterling panicked, struggling to look back. “Husband! Richard! Say something!” But Mr. Sterling had already hidden behind the fitting rooms, only showing half his head, eyes dodging. When the police took Mrs. Sterling away, he didn’t even dare to follow, just standing there rubbing his hands. When the store finally calmed down, I slumped behind the counter, shaking all over. The manager handed me a cup of warm water, whispering: “It’s okay now. I’ve asked security for the surveillance footage.” I looked toward where Mr. Sterling had stood— He had slipped away in the chaos, leaving only a crumpled business card lying lonely on the floor. I bent down to pick it up and found a line of small writing in pencil on the back: [Contact me if you have any trouble.] The handwriting was so shaky it was barely legible. The manager sighed, took the card, and threw it in the trash. “It’s better to stay away from people like that.” 4 Three days after the incident, I thought everything would settle down since Mrs. Sterling had been taken away by the police for investigation. However, things spiraled completely out of control. I first realized something was wrong on my way to work. On the bus, several young girls kept glancing at me and whispering. I subconsciously touched my face, thinking my makeup was smudged. It wasn’t until one girl pointed at her phone screen that I heard their conversation. “That’s her, the counter girl who seduces rich men.” “Looks decent, didn’t think she was so calculating.” My blood ran cold. I opened my phone, and the social media homepage was filled with the video Mrs. Sterling uploaded. The edited clip only showed Mr. Sterling handing me the card and me taking it. The caption was in glaring large font: [Luxury Mall Vixen Seduces My Husband Right in Front of Me!] When I arrived at the mall, the store hadn’t opened yet, but people were already looking in. I recognized one as a customer who had watched the drama yesterday, now filming me with her phone. “Look, that’s the woman,” she told her companion. “She had that husband bewitched.” I walked quickly into the store, hands shaking as I turned on the lights. Stuck on the glass door was a note: [Mistress Shop, Shameless!] The manager arrived earlier than usual, frowning at the note. “Don’t worry.” He tore it off and crumpled it. “It’ll blow over.” I nodded, holding back tears. But facts proved we underestimated the power of cyberbullying. At noon, several young people rushed into the store, pretending to try clothes, but wrote insults on the fitting room walls with lipstick. In the afternoon, a middle-aged woman brought her daughter to the counter, pointing at my nose and scolding: “Women like you ruin families! My daughter is getting married soon, terrified of meeting someone like you!” The manager explained time and again, to no avail. By evening, someone threw a bag of trash into the store, foul liquid splashing onto the new spring arrivals. “I’m sorry.” Cleaning up the mess, I said to the manager. “For bringing so much trouble to the store.” The manager shook his head, not stopping his work. “Don’t overthink it. The heat will die down in a few days.” But a week passed, and the heat didn’t drop; it intensified. Mrs. Sterling’s friends took turns posting on social media. They embellished stories of how I “seduced” Mr. Sterling. Someone even dug up photos of me at other malls, captioned: [Professional Mistress, Targets Rich Men.] Even worse, influencers smelled traffic and came to investigate, recording videos at the store entrance: “Exposing how luxury sales associates seduce customers’ husbands…” Mall security added guards, but couldn’t stop the endless stream of “visitors.” The store was now almost empty of real customers, business plummeted. Colleagues’ looks went from sympathy to resentment. After all, their commissions were affected too. Friday morning, I stood before the mirror and found a few gray hairs at my temples. In just a few days, I seemed to have aged ten years. The coffee cup slipped from my fingers, shattering on the floor. Staring at the scattered pieces, I vaguely remembered Mrs. Sterling’s words— “Just you wait. I can make this store close down immediately!” Thinking about this, the doorbell rang. It was a courier. I took a small package, opened it, and froze. Inside was a photo of me in a school uniform standing at the school gate. On the back was written: [Don’t forget who you are, Lin Yi.] In that moment, my fingers trembled slightly. Lin Yi, my real name, not Sarah, the bullied salesgirl. I walked to the window, looking at the towering LIN Fashion Group headquarters in the distance. A while ago, after graduating from a fashion institute in Paris, my father wanted me to return to headquarters as Chief Designer immediately. But to better understand local consumer needs and preferences, I voluntarily applied for this market research, working as a regular sales associate in a group-owned store for a year. No one knew Sarah was Lin Yi, except for a few executives at headquarters and—the person who sent the photo. I dialed a number I hadn’t called in a long time. “Hello, it’s me.” A familiar voice came from the other end. “Saw the photo?” “I saw it, thanks for the reminder.” I took a deep breath. “I want to come back.” “Finally thought it through?” He laughed. “You could have called me sooner.” “I thought I could handle it.” I looked at my tired self in the mirror. “But now the store’s sales are down, and colleagues are affected.” “That’s not your fault.” “But it is my responsibility.” I gripped the photo tightly. “I want to end this farce.” Hanging up, I took out a delicate small box, opened it, and took out a unique brooch. This was my work when I won my first design award. Pinning it to my chest, I tidied my appearance in the mirror. Time to reclaim my identity. Early the next morning, I went straight to the manager’s office and handed in my resignation. “Why?” The manager asked in surprise. “We’ll get through this.” I shook my head, fingers lightly touching the designer brooch. “Sorry, but I think I’ve gotten everything I needed.” The manager looked at me confused, gaze landing on the brooch, pupils contracting slightly: “This design… I’ve seen it in fashion magazines.” I smiled slightly, took out a business card, and handed it to him—proof of my true identity. The manager looked at the card, then at me, too shocked to speak. “Thank you for taking care of me this year.” I said sincerely: “Now, it’s time to resolve this storm.”

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On our wedding day, my fiancée Molly stood by the limousine, refusing to get in. “I’m not marrying you, Noah.” Stunned, I watched as her bridesmaids laughed: “Game over—I won! You really tamed this unattainable prize, Molly. Pay up—bets and gifts, transfer everything, no shortcuts.” Then my brother Jason Sterling stepped out of another car, in the same suit as me. He took Molly’s hand and led her into the limo. As it sped off, my family surrounded me. My A-list sister Claire blocked my way: “Molly loves Jason—today’s their wedding. Behave.” My Oscar-winning mother gripped my hand: “Noah, Jason has severe depression, even suicidal thoughts. Molly’s the only one who calms him. Let him have this.” My father, one of the nation’s richest men, snorted: “He’s already lived Jason’s first 18 years. Giving up one woman is nothing.” They had security lock me in the house to stop me from ruining the hotel wedding. I didn’t cry or scream. In fact, I could barely hold back a smile. 1 As the bodyguards shoved me into the villa, a system notification chimed in my mind. Host, do you confirm you wish to exit this world via death? Confirm. Please select a method of death. I’ll jump from a building. I want to die right in front of Molly and the Sterlings. To haunt them forever. Generating death method… Method confirmed. Upon successful completion, the Host will receive a system reward of one hundred million dollars. This selection cannot be changed. Confirm. This was my twenty-first year in this world, and the third year since Jason Sterling had been found. I was a transmigrator. My current identity was that of the fake young master of a billionaire family. My brother, Jason, was the true heir, switched at birth. Having been an orphan in my previous life, I felt incredibly lucky when I first arrived here. I had a mother, a father, and a sister who loved and protected me. But everything changed on my eighteenth birthday, the day my father brought Jason home. The doors and windows of the villa were locked from the outside. They had several people watching me. “Second Young Master, you’d best stay put, or you’ll regret it.” Mrs. Petrova, the head housekeeper, stood before me, brandishing a baseball bat. Her expression was that of a cruel prison warden. I took two steps toward the door, and the bat cracked against my shin. The pain was so sharp I collapsed to my knees. “The Young Master specifically told me,” she sneered, “if you dare to disobey, I’m to break your legs.” Suddenly, she shrieked, “The Second Young Master is trying to escape to ruin the wedding! Stop him!” Several bodyguards immediately grabbed their own batons and advanced on me. 2 I scrambled backward in terror. “What are you doing? I wasn’t running! You can’t just attack me!” “Oh, we know what you’re thinking, Second Young Master. Even if you’re not running now, who’s to say you won’t in a minute?” a guard said. “It’s safer to just break your legs now and be done with it. As long as I’m here, you won’t be ruining the Young Master’s wedding!” “Do you think I won’t tell my parents?” I gasped. “And what if you do?” Mrs. Petrova laughed. “I’ll just say you were so desperate to escape you jumped from the second-floor window and broke them yourself. They won’t do a thing!” “Do it!” They swarmed me, their clubs and batons rising and falling. I could hear the sickening crunch of my own bones. My white shirt was stained crimson, and even my black suit jacket was dark with a damp, sticky sheen. But they didn’t stop, as if determined to beat me to death. “If I die here today, the Sterlings will not spare you!” I choked out. “You still think you’re the precious young master? You’re just some bastard they found! If they didn’t pity you, they’d have thrown you out long ago!” one of them spat. “When the real young master came back, they wanted to send you away. If Miss Claire hadn’t begged them, saying they could just keep you ‘like a stray dog’, you think you’d still be in this house?” “And you dare to compete with the Young Master for his wife? In your dreams!” A horrifying realization dawned on me, and I started to laugh. “So, you’re not just trying to stop me from ruining the wedding… you’re trying to kill me!” “It’s not impossible for you to have ‘fallen to your death during an escape attempt’, is it, Second Young Master?” Panic seized me. I was ready to die, but not like this. This wasn’t the method I had chosen. What if I couldn’t go back? I don’t know where the strength came from, but I lunged forward, tackling the man in front of me. We crashed into a high table, knocking over a large memorial candle my mother had lit for Jason’s good fortune. The candle fell to the floor, its flame instantly igniting the heavy velvet curtains. The villa erupted in fire. “You damned little bastard! How dare you set a fire!” In their moment of panic, I dragged my broken leg and scrambled out of the house. The entire villa district was covered in security cameras; they wouldn’t dare chase me outside. Dressed in a blood-soaked suit, I limped onto the main road, trying to hail a taxi to the hotel. My appearance was so ghastly that car after car swerved around me. Finally, a kind young man pulled over and asked if I needed help. I begged him to take me to the hotel. The hotel was one of my father’s properties, and the staff all knew me. Even seeing my horrific state, the security guards and front desk staff didn’t dare stop me. When I reached the entrance to the grand ballroom, my sister and parents were there, warmly greeting the wedding guests, their faces beaming with happiness. The moment they saw me, their smiles froze. 3 This was the wedding of the year, and media outlets from across the country were present. When they saw me stumble in, a frenzy of flashing cameras swarmed me like vultures. Claire marched up to me, her face a mask of fury. “What are you doing here?” She muttered under her breath, “A bunch of useless fools, can’t even watch one person!” Then she hissed at me, “Look at the state of you! Did you do this to yourself on purpose, just to bring bad luck to this day?” “Are you that desperate for the headlines? Is this what you’ll do to be famous?” My mother rushed over, her eyes wide with what looked like concern. “Noah, what happened? Is that blood on your suit?” “Yes, it’s blood. My blood. The men Jason hired beat me half to death. I barely escaped.” My father’s hand cracked across my face. Blood trickled from the corner of my mouth. “You shameless liar! Can’t you stand to see your brother happy for one single day?” My mother grabbed my hand. “Noah, you said Jason’s men beat you?” Claire pulled her away. “Mom, don’t be ridiculous! It’s obviously paint. He loves pulling these stunts for the media!” She grabbed my wrist and tried to drag me away. I stumbled and fell to the floor. My broken leg was now exposed for everyone to see. A collective gasp went through the hall. The bone of my shin had pierced through the skin, stark white against the blood. I had dragged myself here on that leg. Any normal person would have passed out from the pain long ago. Thankfully, the system had taken pity on me and activated a pain-dampening feature. I couldn’t feel a thing. My mother covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face. “Noah, how did you get so hurt?” Even my father’s eyes flickered with a hint of pain. “How could you do this to yourself?” Even Claire, who had been so hostile just moments before, was speechless. Molly pushed through the crowd and saw me lying on the floor. “Noah?” I lifted my blood-streaked face to look at her. “Good, you’re here. I have a few questions for you.” Jason rushed to her side, his handsome face tear-stained, his posture a picture of saintly sorrow. “Noah, today is the most important day of my life. Must you destroy it?” he cried, his body trembling. “Why are you always targeting me? You’ve already stolen everything that was mine! All I wanted was Molly! Can’t you just let us be happy?” Claire reached for me. “I’ll take you to the hospital.” “Claire!” Jason’s voice cracked with a sob. “The ceremony is about to start. Are you leaving?” He looked at me with wounded eyes. “This is just one of his sick games, isn’t it? Do you really believe I would have my own brother beaten like this?” Claire snatched her hand back. “Noah Sterling, you are truly twisted. To frame your own brother, you would inflict this kind of harm on yourself.” Her voice was cold. “Go to the hospital on your own. And don’t worry, the Sterling family won’t tolerate a cripple. We’ll find the best doctors to fix your leg.” I knew nothing I said would matter. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to stand. “I just have a few things to say. Then I’ll leave.” I looked straight at Molly. “From the very beginning, our entire relationship was just a bet between you and your friends. You never had any real feelings for me, did you?” 4 “That’s right,” she said without hesitation. Tears streamed down my face. I once thought I was the luckiest person in the world, with a loving family and a partner who cherished me. It was all an illusion, a reflection on water, shattered with a single touch. I could have chosen to stay in this world forever, with this family. But now, my resolve to go back was absolute. “One last question,” I said, my voice hoarse. “You had already won the bet. Why did you wait until our wedding day to tell me the truth?” “Because Jason was afraid you wouldn’t be able to handle it,” she replied. “He asked me to keep it from you.” I laughed, a loud, ragged sound. “How kind of him! My dear brother, so worried about my feelings that he waited until my wedding day to reveal it was all a game. Making me stand here in a suit like a fool, watching you two get married… that wasn’t meant to humiliate me at all, was it?” “Nonsense!” Claire snapped. “Jason is not that manipulative!” “Not that manipulative?” I shot back with a bitter smile. “Since he came home, he’s faked suicide attempts no less than a hundred times. And how many of those times did he actually die? Someone who truly wants to die doesn’t need to be rescued!” “Shut your mouth! How dare you speak about your brother that way!” My father raised his hand to strike me again, but my mother stopped him. “That’s enough! Noah is badly hurt, don’t hit him!” “Dad,” I cried out, “I’m your son too! The son you raised and doted on for eighteen years. Just because I’m not your biological child, does that mean I don’t deserve your trust?” “You stand there and claim your brother had you beaten! Do you expect me to believe such a ridiculous lie?” At the accusation, Jason immediately had one of his “episodes.” He clutched his chest and stumbled backward. “Noah, how could you slander me like this? Are you trying to drive me to my death?”

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I’m a stay-at-home dad. I had no idea the teacher’s home visit was being livestreamed to the entire school community, a camera pinned discreetly to her collar. The lens panned across our living room, a space where every available inch of wall was a shrine to the nation’s sweetheart, Catherine Shaw—autographed photos, posters, and magazine covers. The teacher and the top student’s mother exchanged a look of cold disdain. “So, you’re a Catherine Shaw fan?” “Catherine Shaw,” I said, “is my wife.” The live chat immediately blew up. 【No wonder their kid is failing. The dad’s a delusional shut-in! And he dares to claim our goddess?】 Just then, the front door opened. Catherine Shaw, known to the world for her elegant and cool demeanor, stepped inside. Her voice, however, was a warm, gentle melody meant only for me. “Honey, do we have guests?” 1 A few months ago, our daughter’s school sent home a consent form for a livestreamed home visit series. The teacher assured us it was just a project comparing the home environments of a top-performing student and a struggling one. I signed it without a second thought and promptly forgot about it. A struggling student? What did that have to do with my daughter? She wasn’t a genius, but she was hardly at the bottom of her class. I was in the middle of preparing dinner when the doorbell rang. “Who is it?” My daughter, Sophie, usually just burst in on her own. I had just set a dish down when the front door swung open. Sophie skipped in and started changing into her slippers. Still in my apron, I swept her up into a big hug, lifting her high into the air. “Sophie-bear! Did you have a good day at school? Eat lots of yummy food? Did you get your money’s worth out of that school lunch?” Because this was a mandated school viewing, the live chat was still sparse, filled mostly with skeptical parents who weren’t expecting much from the “underachiever’s” family. 【Ah, so this is the struggling student’s home. Figures.】 【They call it ‘positive reinforcement parenting.’ I call it not giving a damn about grades.】 【Sophie is so cute, though. Who cares if she can’t read? She can just…】 【Whoa, someone should check that last comment. Doesn’t sound like they’re joking.】 I was so focused on my daughter that I didn’t even notice the teacher and another family standing awkwardly in the doorway. Sophie’s sweet, soft voice finally broke through my bubble. “Daddy, the teacher is here.” I hoisted her onto my hip and turned. A flustered-looking woman stood by the door, next to a stern-faced mother and her son. “Ms. Evans, please, come in,” I said calmly. “Don’t worry about your shoes.” Ms. Evans hesitated, her eyes darting around the spacious, open-plan apartment before landing on the mother and son beside her. “This is Sophie’s classmate, Julian, who placed first on the last exam, and his mother, Diana.” I gave them a slight nod, still holding Sophie. “Nice to meet you. You’re here for the…” 【Seriously? This guy doesn’t even know to offer his kid’s teacher a drink? What terrible manners.】 【No wonder the kid’s grades are in the toilet. The father has zero social skills.】 Ms. Evans finally stepped inside, looking uncomfortable. “Mr… uh, Sophie’s dad. Are you aware of Sophie’s score on the last exam?” As if just remembering, I put Sophie down and gestured to the sofa. “Please, make yourselves comfortable! I’ve got something on the stove. My wife will be home any minute, and she gets a little grumpy if dinner isn’t hot and ready when she walks in.” 2 I disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Sophie alone with our guests. Diana’s eyes, filled with undisguised contempt, scanned the apartment. Her voice was sharp, dripping with condescension. “So, a house husband. The woman is the breadwinner, and the man stays home. How… pathetic.” Ms. Evans said nothing. She, too, was taken aback by the situation. It explained why Sophie always talked about her dad at school, but never her mom. Still, this apartment was in one of the most expensive school districts in the city. A place like this had to be worth millions. The dad was handsome enough; maybe he was a kept man, a trophy husband. She wondered about the age gap between him and Sophie’s mother. A sudden, nasty thought seemed to occur to Diana. “Wait a minute. Is he some boy toy she keeps on the side? Is the little girl… illegitimate?” She made two loud, disgusted “tsk” sounds. Ms. Evans quickly tried to change the subject. She scooped Sophie into her lap. “Sophie, all these pictures of Catherine Shaw… is she your daddy’s favorite actress?” Sophie beamed, her smile pure sunshine. “She’s my mommy!” The live chat erupted in outrage. 【What? They’re even poisoning the kid’s mind?】 【What kind of values are they teaching her? Letting a child this young get obsessed with celebrity culture? Is that even legal?】 I emerged from the kitchen carrying a platter of food just in time to hear Sophie’s proud declaration. I smiled. “That’s right, sweetie. She’s your mommy.” To protect Catherine’s career, we’d always been careful about letting Sophie call her “mommy” in public. But here, in our own home, it should have been fine. Ms. Evans looked at me, her expression a mixture of disbelief and disapproval. “What are you talking about? She’s just a child. Saying things like that will have a terrible impact on her development. And it’s incredibly unfair to her real mother. The woman is out there working hard to support this family, and you’re not just erasing her contribution, you’re stealing her very title.” I let out a soft laugh, guessing exactly what they were thinking. With a touch of theatrical flair, I said, “No, you don’t understand. Catherine Shaw really is my wife.” The three of them stared at me. After a long pause, Ms. Evans asked hesitantly, “She… isn’t?” It was clear they still didn’t believe a word of it. I looked at my daughter. “Sophie, can you entertain Ms. Evans and our guests for a minute? I’ll be right back with our marriage certificate.” 3 I went into our bedroom. The marriage certificate was locked away in a safe, the combination being the date we officially tied the knot. I never imagined that even with the document in my hands, they would still refuse to believe me. I placed it on the coffee table. Ms. Evans’s eyes widened, and she quickly covered the certificate with her hand. “Mr… uh, Sophie’s dad. You know that forging official documents is a felony, right?” Diana picked it up, scrutinizing the paper. “Wow, this is a pretty convincing fake. Looks almost identical to ours.” Even with physical proof, the online audience remained convinced I was a liar. 【This guy is walking a thin line. He’s certifiably insane.】 【LOL, this freeloader probably has no idea this is being broadcast to thousands of people.】 【Already called the cops. Can’t wait to see him get arrested live on air.】 【You sure about that? What if you’re the one filing a false report?】 【Come on. You really think our goddess would marry some deadbeat stay-at-home dad? That’s the stuff of cheap romance novels!】 I couldn’t help but chuckle at Ms. Evans’s accusation. “It’s real.” I grabbed a tablet lying on the end table and pulled up the official government services portal. “Here, let’s take a look. The national database doesn’t lie…” Before I could finish, the soft click of the front door was followed by the beep of the keypad. A warm, familiar voice, tinged with exhaustion, floated into the room. “Honey, do we have guests?” I set the tablet down, a wave of relief washing over me. “Well, the woman herself is here. I guess we don’t need any more proof.” The moment she heard her mother’s voice, Sophie shot up and sprinted towards the door. The pitter-patter of her little feet was followed by a squeal of “Mommy!” that could melt the coldest of hearts. The voice was familiar to the viewers, but Catherine’s public persona was so cool and composed that no one recognized this soft, gentle tone. 【Aww, her dad might be a lost cause, but that little girl is an absolute angel.】 【My goddess? Are you kidding me? Everyone knows she’s the epitome of ice-cold elegance. That sweet, syrupy voice? No way!】 【Ugh, this loser. What gives him the right to even dream? He’s not worthy of breathing the same air as her.】 Ms. Evans’s chest-mounted camera was still angled down, so the viewers could only see the lower half of Catherine’s face. But the palpable shock on the faces of the teacher and Diana told the whole story. “You… you two are…” Ms. Evans shot up from the sofa. In that instant, the camera jerked upwards, and the full picture came into view: Catherine Shaw, the nation’s sweetheart, holding little Sophie in her arms. The live chat froze for a split second, then exploded. 【!!!!!!!!】 【WAIT. MY GODDESS IS MARRIED?!】 【NO, CATHERINE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! What do you see in him? Is it his poverty? His ugliness?】 A tidal wave of comments flooded the screen. The world had gone mad. This was supposed to be a simple school documentary. Most of the parents watching were married themselves, but this revelation hit them like a freight train. Simultaneously, on every social media platform, the hashtag #CatherineShawMarried shot to the top of the trending charts. Millions of fans refused to believe the devastating news. But they followed the links, flooding the educational channel’s livestream. And there she was. The stream’s viewership skyrocketed, growing exponentially until it hit the server’s maximum capacity. The moment she saw Catherine, Ms. Evans panicked. She spoke into her earpiece, her voice trembling. “We have a situation. Should I cut the feed?” Before anyone could answer, Catherine gently set Sophie down. She walked over to Ms. Evans and gave a slight shake of her head. Then, she extended her hand. “Hello. I’m Sophie’s mother, Catherine Shaw.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385650”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After graduation, the whole family went on a trip to the coast. My sister, having forgotten her favorite bikini, demanded I make the two-hour drive back home to get it. When I refused, my father slapped me so hard my lip split. My mother blamed me for not reminding my sister, insisting I had to be the one to go back. Humiliated and heartbroken, I broke down sobbing. My parents, calling me a disgrace, locked me in the vacation condo to “think about what I’d done.” When the three-hundred-foot tsunami came, I had no way to escape. I was swallowed alive by the wave. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in that moment, with my sister demanding I go home and get her bikini. I nodded meekly. “Of course. I’ll go get it. You guys have fun at the beach.” 1 “Sadie, are you listening? Get in the car and go get my bikini. The blue one. I need it if I’m going to get in the water!” The familiar, imperious voice snapped me back to reality. A tremor went through my entire body. I stared, breathless, at my sister, Brooke. She was tearing through her suitcase, frustration etched on her perfect face. She couldn’t find the designer bikini she’d bought specifically for this trip. My parents were fluttering around her, trying to help, their words a useless balm. They urged me to just go, to make the drive before Brooke started to cry. This was… My head whipped around to look at the window, at the calm, sapphire-blue ocean. A sharp, phantom pain prickled my skin. It became hard to breathe, as if a giant hand were squeezing my lungs shut. Down below, on the street, a little girl on her father’s shoulders was squealing with delight. “The ocean is so pretty, Daddy!” It was all too familiar. Frighteningly familiar. I was back. I had been reborn into the first day of our family vacation. Reborn four hours before a three-hundred-foot tsunami would obliterate everything. We had only been in the condo for ten minutes when Brooke started her tantrum about the bikini. I get carsick. I’d already thrown up twice on the way here. The thought of another four hours in a car, alone, was a special kind of hell. In my first life, I had refused. I told them I felt sick, that we could just buy her a new one at any of the countless shops lining the boardwalk. After all, the swimsuit they’d bought for me was a twenty-dollar afterthought from a roadside stand. My refusal was met with a barrage of parental fury. “Do you have any idea what the material in those cheap suits could do to your sister’s skin? What if she has an allergic reaction?” “You’re the older sister, Sadie. Is it so hard for you to help her out for once? I swear, you’re just selfish, always in a rush to have your own fun. You’re eighteen years old, act like it!” The usual lecture. The usual comparisons. Brooke was bubbly and adored; I was quiet and withdrawn. Brooke could talk her way into anything; I was silent and sullen. I could only stand there, my jaw tight, saying nothing. “Look at you with that dead-fish expression,” my father had sneered. “No wonder you only got into community college. “Your sister is going to Duke. She has a real future. And you? What’s the point of you? Running an errand is the most useful thing you can do, and you can’t even do that without complaining!” My silence always enraged my father. His words grew sharper, more venomous. He had conveniently forgotten why I was only going to community college. Or maybe he hadn’t forgotten. Maybe he just didn’t care that he’d ended up in the hospital from a drinking binge the week before my SATs. My mother and Brooke had both claimed they were too exhausted to deal with him, so I was the one who spent my nights in a hospital chair instead of studying. Running on no sleep, I bombed the exams. My family refused to even consider letting me retake them or apply again next year. They wanted me in a two-year program, out, and earning money as soon as possible. They all remembered. They just thought it was perfectly reasonable. As long as Brooke got into a good school, that’s all that mattered. As long as Brooke was happy. When Brooke wanted a beach vacation after graduation, my parents booked it instantly. I was just lucky enough to be brought along. The first real vacation they’d ever taken me on in my nineteen years of life. Of course, I was the one who had to carry almost all the luggage up three flights of stairs. And now, I was supposed to drive two hours back to get a bikini. 2 “Sadie, are you deaf? I told you to go get my bikini!” Brooke’s voice turned shrill, slicing through my daze. I pulled back from the window, a cold dread washing over me. The peaceful, sun-drenched ocean outside might as well have been a monster baring its teeth. Who could possibly imagine that in four hours, a terrifying wave would surge from the deep and destroy everything in its path? “Sadie, this is your fault for not reminding her. You know how she gets. Now go!” my mother snapped, glaring at me. I took a deep breath, trying to push away the paralyzing fear of the wave. I looked at my mother. Why would I remind her? I didn’t know she’d forget. And why is it my job to remember for her? The last time, I had dared to ask that question out loud. In response, my father had lunged, the back of his hand catching my mouth. The blow sent me sprawling to the floor. “When I tell you to do something, you do it! Can’t you see your sister is upset?” he had roared, ignoring the blood trickling from my lip. That slap had shattered me. For nineteen years, I had tried to understand what I had done wrong, why my own family treated me with such disdain. The injustice of it all finally broke me, and I started to wail, a raw, hysterical sound that I couldn’t control, sobbing until I nearly passed out. This only annoyed Brooke more. She stormed out of the condo, shouting that she was going to the beach and I had better have her bikini ready when she got back. They were staying for three days; if she couldn’t wear it today, she would wear it tomorrow. My parents, looking disgusted, kicked me a few times for good measure before locking me in the room. “Crying won’t solve anything,” they’d spat. “You stay in here and think about your attitude. You can come out when you’re ready to go get the damn swimsuit.” Then they left, the sound of the lock clicking shut echoing in the silent room. As if I were a piece of luggage to be left behind. I had huddled on the floor, my arms wrapped around my knees, my body shaking with silent, soul-crushing sobs. Hours later, as dusk began to fall, the calm ocean suddenly churned. The tide pulled back with an unnatural speed, and then, the water began to boil. By the time I realized what was happening, a colossal, three-hundred-foot wave was charging toward the shore like an avenging god. I screamed, throwing myself at the door, twisting the locked knob until my skin was raw. It wouldn’t budge. I ran to the window, shouting for help, just in time to see my parents dragging Brooke to the car. They glanced up. I know they did. We were only on the third floor. They saw me. But they didn’t hesitate. They jumped in the car and sped away without a backward glance, disappearing in seconds. I died in a tsunami that felt like the end of the world. 3 “Sadie, are you mute? I’m asking you one last time. Are you going to get my bikini or not?” This was Brooke’s third demand. She was officially furious, her face flushed and blotchy. Because I hadn’t said a word. My father was already moving toward me, his hand raised to strike. The scene was about to repeat itself. I would be beaten, locked up, and left to die. I quickly sidestepped, forcing a smile onto my face. “Brooke, don’t be mad. This trip is all about you. I’ll do whatever you want.” I turned to my father. “Dad, while I’m home, should I grab that bottle of Maker’s Mark you like? You could have some with dinner tonight.” My father’s hand froze mid-air. The anger on his face lessened. “That’s more like it. Go on, then. Four hours round trip. You’ll be back before dark, plenty of time to have some fun.” He lowered his arm and turned to Brooke. “Don’t you worry, sweetie. Dad will take you out on the jet skis.” “I want to go on the helicopter tour, too. For pictures,” Brooke demanded. I knew about the helicopter tour. Eight hundred dollars for ten minutes. If I had ever asked for something like that, my father would have kicked me out of the room. But for Brooke, he agreed instantly. My mother beamed, giving Brooke a thumbs-up. “Look at you, so brave! A helicopter ride!” Brooke shot me a triumphant, smug glance. She was showing off, flaunting the love that was reserved only for her. The only thing I had ever received was a slap or a shove. A familiar pang of pain twisted in my chest, but it was quickly replaced by an icy numbness. A person who has already died once has no time to mourn the love they never had. “Mom, Dad, Brooke, you guys have a great time at the beach. I’m leaving now to get the swimsuit.” I turned and walked away, the picture of obedience. They were satisfied. They would wait for me, expecting me to return in four hours. But they didn’t know that in four hours, the tide would recede with a horrifying silence, only to return with the force of a thousand storms. Maybe it was an undersea earthquake, or a volcanic eruption. Whatever the cause, an unprecedented tsunami was about to descend upon this entire resort town. I remembered it clearly. The wave was taller than our hotel building. At least three hundred feet. A wave that high was almost unheard of in human history. The 2004 Indonesian tsunami that shocked the world, devastating 14 countries and leaving over 270,000 dead or missing, had a maximum height of just over 150 feet. Of course, terrain and elevation play a huge role. But this wave… this wave was three hundred feet tall. Even if our town, Seabrook, was situated on higher ground, with hills and forests to break the impact… I couldn’t let myself think about it. The image of the apocalypse was already burned into my mind. I had to hurry. Four hours. How was I going to survive? 4 I had seen the tsunami with my own eyes. I knew what that monstrous wall of water was capable of. I had to assume the worst-case scenario: that the entire city of Seabrook and the neighboring coastal towns would be wiped out. Ideally, I would get on a plane and fly a thousand miles away. But there wasn’t time. It would be a miracle if I could even get out of Seabrook itself. It was the day after high school graduation; the roads were choked with tourists. We’d been stuck in traffic for half the drive here. Driving back to my house in two hours was a fantasy. So, escape wasn’t the answer. I had to think about immediate shelter. A high-rise building? I dismissed the thought instantly. In the face of that apocalyptic wave, any man-made structure was a joke. The tallest skyscraper would crumble like a sandcastle. No, the shelter had to be solid. It had to be high. A mountain. On the east side of Seabrook was Shepherd’s Peak State Park. Its highest point was over four thousand feet above sea level. It had well-maintained infrastructure, and at the summit, there was an old stone lodge that could serve as a shelter. I’d volunteered there once for a park cleanup day; I knew the layout. Better yet, it was only a forty-minute drive from here, and I could take the highway. It was 2:00 PM now. If I could get to the base of Shepherd’s Peak, I’d still have time to stock up on supplies and get to the top. There was enough time. That was the plan. As I walked out of the condo complex, I saw a maintenance worker passing by, carrying a large tool bag. A box of roofing nails was visible inside. I stopped him. Ten dollars later, I had a pocketful of nails. I walked to the ground-level parking lot and found our family’s SUV. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I scattered the nails on the ground behind all four tires, points facing up. The second the car moved, the tires would be shredded. I imagined my family frantically trying to escape, the hiss of the tires deflating. The image was almost beautiful. I dusted off my hands and hurried away. Time was wasting. I had to get to Shepherd’s Peak, get supplies, and get up that mountain. 5 The Uber I called sped along the highway. I had hoped it would be clearer than the local roads, but it was still bumper-to-bumper in places. A drive that should have taken forty minutes dragged on for an hour and a half. Panic clawed at my throat. I could only pray for the traffic to move faster, just a little faster. Finally, we got off the highway. From here, it was only five minutes to the park entrance. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. It was 3:35 PM. The tsunami would hit around 6:00 PM. I had two and a half hours. I didn’t need much. Just enough food and water for a week. A tsunami, for all its destructive power, is fast. Once the initial surge passed, I just had to wait for the national guard and rescue teams. It wasn’t ideal—if I had more time and help, I’d stockpile for a month—but I was alone. Carrying a week’s worth of supplies up a mountain was the absolute limit of my strength. As the car passed a small residential area, I had the driver pull over. I ran into the local grocery store. I filled a backpack with high-energy, low-volume foods: canned goods, beef jerky, protein bars. Then, I grabbed two reusable shopping bags and loaded them with self-heating meals, dried fruit, and nuts. The last stop was a pharmacy for a basic first-aid kit: ibuprofen, antibiotics, band-aids. By the time I was done, the backpack was a dead weight on my shoulders and the bags were cutting into my hands. My back ached. But this was enough to last me a while if I was careful. The most important thing was water, but it was too heavy. I only bought three bottles. I remembered there was a natural spring-fed waterfall near the summit of Shepherd’s Peak. I wouldn’t be without water. I checked my supplies one last time, called another Uber, and gave the driver the address for the park. It was now 4:36 PM. One hour and twenty-four minutes until the tsunami. My phone rang. It was Brooke. I answered. She didn’t even say hello. “Are you home yet? I need you to bring my white sun hat, too. If you’ve already left, turn around and go back. I have to have that hat.” 6 Listening to Brooke’s commanding tone, I couldn’t help but laugh. It was a bitter, exhausted laugh. For my entire life, she had treated me like a servant. I was so used to it, so conditioned to cater to her every whim, to placate her, to do anything to avoid her anger and the punishment that would follow. If I hadn’t already died once, her voice would still fill me with a familiar dread. But Brooke couldn’t scare me anymore. Still, I didn’t argue. Not yet. There was still over an hour until the wave. If I provoked her now, knowing her temper, she might throw a fit, decide she didn’t want to be at the beach anymore, and start heading home to confront me. That would give my family a much better chance of survival. “Okay, Brooke. I’ll turn around and get your hat. It might just take me a little longer to get back to the beach,” I said, my voice dripping with false compliance. I could hear her sneer through the phone. “I love how pathetic you sound. Keep it up.” In the background, my mother’s voice chimed in. “Sadie, since you’re making another trip anyway, you might as well bring my makeup bag. I was going to bring it but it was too much of a hassle.” A cold smile touched my lips. “Of course, Mom. I’ll get it. See you soon.” “That’s a good girl,” my father added. “See? When you’re not difficult, everyone’s happy.” It was the closest thing to praise I’d heard from him in years. I hung up the phone. The car pulled up to Shepherd’s Peak State Park. I didn’t have the driver drop me at the main entrance, but at a service gate on the west side. It led to an employee access trail. I remembered it from my volunteer days. I looked up at the towering peak, a profound sense of safety washing over me. There was no safer place in the world right now. I took a deep breath and started up the trail with my supplies. The ranger in the gatehouse was napping, oblivious. The heat was oppressive, easily over 90 degrees. Only a fool would be hiking in the middle of the afternoon. As a result, the trail was completely deserted. There were probably other tourists in the park, but they’d be on the main trails, near the visitor center. I was panting, my lungs burning. I had to stop every twenty feet. My vision started to swim. Finally, dizzy and exhausted, I reached the halfway point. There was a large plaza here and a station for the cable car that ran to the summit. The plaza was empty, but the cable car was running. I got in, wiping sweat from my forehead, and checked the time on my phone. 5:26 PM. Thirty-four minutes until the tsunami. The sun was still beating down. There was no wind. No sign at all of the impending doom. But my heart was starting to pound, the memory of that apocalyptic day wrapping around me like a shroud. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, feeling the small breeze created by the moving cable car. I could almost smell it—a strange, metallic tang in the air. The wave was already forming, out in the deep ocean, still miles away. At 5:47 PM, the cable car reached the summit. Before me stood the old stone lodge, its slate roof shimmering in the heat. It was just as deserted as the trail had been. I didn’t waste time looking for anyone else. I found a small, unused chapel off the main hall and slipped inside. It was dedicated to some forgotten local saint. I remembered dusting the pews during my volunteer work. I offered a silent nod to the statue, then sat down heavily on a bench. My head was spinning, my limbs felt like lead. The climb, the heat, the stress—it had all taken its toll. But I was here. I was safe. I was in a stone building, four thousand feet above sea level. It was 5:52 PM. Eight minutes to go. I twisted the cap off a bottle of water and began to chug it. My phone rang again. It was Brooke. 7 The moment I answered, she started screaming. “Did you lose a leg? What is taking so long? I want to wear my bikini and my hat and take pictures in the ocean! I’m dying of boredom here!” My parents were in the background, their voices adding to the chorus. “The sun is about to set! We want to get pictures of Brooke in the golden hour! Get back here now!” A cold, sharp smile spread across my face. The sunset? Pictures? In a few minutes, you’re all going to be dead. All my caution vanished, replaced by a liberating rush of adrenaline. “I’m not coming back to the beach,” I said, my voice calm. “I’m at home, enjoying the air conditioning.” “What?” Brooke was stunned into silence for a second, before erupting. “Sadie, are you messing with me? If you’re not coming back, who’s going to bring me my bikini and my hat?” “Are you disabled? Do you need me to do everything for you? You’re eighteen years old, but you have the brain of a spoiled toddler.” “What?” Brooke sounded genuinely confused. The line went quiet. I could practically hear the gears grinding in her head. Then, a roar of pure fury. “Sadie, what did you just say? Did you call me disabled? Did you say I have the brain of a toddler?” Her shriek brought my parents into the conversation. My father snatched the phone, his voice a low growl. “Sadie. You dare talk to your sister like that? Have you lost your mind?” My mother’s voice, shrill and panicked, joined in. “Sadie, what did you say about your sister? Say it again! I dare you!” “Your sister is a spoiled, helpless child. A spoiled, helpless child. A spoiled, helpless child…” I repeated it, over and over. “You… you… Sadie!” My mother was hysterical. The precious angel she had coddled for eighteen years had never been criticized, let alone by the family slave. My father bellowed, “Sadie, you just wait. I’m going to come home and I’m going to chop you into pieces and feed you to the dogs!” Click. I hung up. I wasn’t going to listen to any more of that. I waited for the final three minutes to pass. 5:57 PM.

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The TMZ headline blew up my phone: [MEGASTAR FINN WILDER’S STOLEN ID USED IN SHAM MARRIAGE]. That’s how I found out Finn Wilder had forgotten we got married three years ago. The entire internet started digging. They found me, a single mom, and our son, Leo. Finn Wilder himself tagged me in a public statement: [@AnnaHayes I get that fans are passionate, but this is next level. Can we get this annulled, like, yesterday?] I replied: [Okay.] But we scheduled the divorce three times, and Finn never showed. The first time, his assistant called. “Mr. Wilder was held up on set. Pyrotechnics issue. We’ll have to reschedule.” The second time, his publicist texted me. “Mr. Wilder was rushed to the hospital with a high fever. We’re rescheduling.” The third time, my son Leo brought me his iPad, pointing at a news alert. “Mommy, Daddy got a booboo. He hit his head in a car.” 1 Before Finn Wilder was Finn Wilder, we dated. We were young, stupid, and in love. He dragged me to a 24-hour chapel in Las Vegas. His eyes were brighter than the neon strip. “This way, you’re stuck with me,” he’d said, his hands framing my face. “Not even God can tear us apart now.” He’d kissed me, smug, like he’d just conquered the world. “You’re mine. Next life, too.” That same day, he got in a car accident. And he forgot me. His family, who always hated me, saw their chance. They erased every trace of me from his life. So when the [SHAM MARRIAGE] headline dropped, I wasn’t surprised. It had his family’s fingerprints all over it. Since he’d forgotten, his family could write whatever history they wanted. I was recast as a delusional, psycho fan who’d “found” his lost wallet and somehow, magically, married him. It was a clean, believable narrative. I stared at the blurry screenshot of the marriage certificate on the gossip blogs. The ID number was magnified. The internet did its work. Within hours, my crappy apartment building, my name, and grainy photos of me struggling with a stroller were plastered all over Twitter. I’d found out I was pregnant right after he lost his memory. Leo is two and a half. He looks just like me. No one, not even Finn, suspected he was the father. The whole world was waiting for me to break down, to start screaming, to fight for him. My DMs were a dumpster fire of 99+ messages. They called me a psycho. They called me a gold-digging whore. They said I was trash trying to cling to a god. I’ve watched his movies. I watched the reckless, beautiful boy I knew turn into “The Finn Wilder,” an untouchable megastar. I know how this business works. A secret wife and a toddler don’t help that brand. I’d waited three years for him to remember. I gave up hope a long time ago. I stared at his public post for five minutes, then typed: [Okay.] My heart had died three years ago. It was time to bury it. 2 I actually met his older brother, Julian, first. I was the “swapped at birth” cliché. The true heiress to the Landry fortune, raised in a trailer park, and “rescued” at seventeen. I was a country bumpkin who only knew how to get good grades. I didn’t fit in with the prep school kids. To make it worse, I was part of an old “family arrangement” to marry Julian Wilder. Everyone laughed at me. But Julian pulled me aside at one of those awful garden parties. “This arrangement,” he said, “I intend to honor it. Get your grades up. You’ll come to New York with me.” I didn’t have a single friend. His words were a lifeline. My new “parents” were so embarrassed by me they wouldn’t even publicly acknowledge me. The fake heiress, Sierra, told everyone at school I was the new maid’s daughter. My parents didn’t deny it. The whole school treated me like a charity case. They isolated me, they whispered about me. I finally snapped. “I’m not the maid’s daughter. I’m Anna Landry. Sierra is the fake one!” A group of girls cornered me in the bathroom. They slapped me, hard. “You trash. Just because Sierra’s too nice to put you in your place doesn’t mean we are.” The leader pulled my hair, forcing me to my knees. “Look at yourself. You’ll never be one of us.” I went to the principal. He just sighed. “Why do they only bully you, Anna? Maybe you should look at your own behavior. Stop spreading these fantasies. The Landrys are paying your tuition. You should be grateful.” I cried myself to sleep every night. And I studied. I was going to get out. I was going to go to New York with Julian. My SAT scores were high enough. Julian himself flew back and convinced my parents. He was the one who brought me to NewY ork. He was how I met Finn. 3 Julian set me up in a quiet apartment near my new school. He was always the perfect gentleman. “Is the money enough?” “Are you keeping up with your classes?” “Is anyone giving you trouble?” He was five years older. He was at Columbia; I was finishing high school. He was a guardian, a big brother. One evening, he was on my tiny balcony, watching the sunset. “I brought you here to show you a bigger world, Anna,” he said. “Not to trap you with some outdated promise. They laugh at you? Then you become so successful they can’t ignore you. As for the arrangement… it’s a responsibility I take seriously, not a romance. You understand?” I understood. He didn’t love me. He would never marry me. But he was my savior. He’d pulled me out of the mud. I was just grateful. I never expected his brother. Finn Wilder was a hurricane. He blew into my quiet, lonely life and tore it apart. We lived together for four years. 4 It started because I could cook. It was a Saturday, pouring rain. A knock. He was in a baseball cap, trying to hide that ridiculously beautiful face. His arm was in a cast. He looked like a stray wolf, soaked and starving. “My brother says you can cook. I need food. Pot roast. And something spicy. Like, really spicy.” “Who’s your brother?” I asked. “Julian. My actual brother.” He pushed past me, dripping, and started opening cabinets. He was like a raccoon. “I’m calling Julian,” I said. Julian just sighed on the phone. “He escaped from the hospital. I’m on my way.” By the time Julian arrived, Finn was inhaling a plate of my spicy Kung Pao Chicken, practically vibrating. He ate the whole thing, then obediently followed Julian out. Before he left, he grabbed my phone and added his number. That night, he texted: [Tomorrow. I want ribs.] He moved in. His school (NYU) was an hour downtown, but he made the commute every day, just for my cooking. He was loud. He was obnoxious. But he also sat on the couch playing video games while I studied, just so I wouldn’t be alone. “I’m here, what are you scared of?” He was the one who went, mortified, to the drugstore to buy me tampons. “This is so embarrassing, Anna.” And then, one night, everything changed. Julian showed up. He wanted to talk about the “family arrangement” again. “It’s time,” he said. “We’re going home to announce our engagement.”

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“$28,000 a month. Sign it, or get out.” My landlady was certain I was trapped. I’d sunk over a million into renovating this place; moving was out of the question. I looked at her triumphant face as my phone buzzed quietly in my pocket. It was a text from my husband: Honey, I nailed it. The new place is $3,500 a month. Signed for eight years. A slow smile spread across my face. “Patrice,” I said, my voice full of carefully crafted hesitation, “this is a big decision. I need to talk it over with my husband.” 1 “Let me be perfectly clear, Clara,” my landlady, Patrice, announced, her voice dripping with finality. “Four storefronts, $28,000 a month. Not a penny less.” She daintily flicked a piece of non-existent lint from her mink coat, her gaze refusing to meet mine. “Either you sign the new lease, or I want you and all your junk cleared out by the end of the month.” Behind her stood the embodiment of my life’s work for the past three years: four connected storefronts, now a single, sprawling space. It was a beacon of light and activity, the undeniable jewel of this otherwise forgotten stretch of downtown. Her audacity was so extreme it was almost funny. “Patrice, our contract explicitly states that after three years, the rent will be adjusted to the market rate,” I said, keeping my voice even. “The rates on this entire street are dropping. Mr. Henderson next door, who has an even better location, just lowered his rent from $5,000 to $4,000.” I pushed a proposal across the table. “I’m offering to renew at the original $15,000, plus a ten percent increase. That’s $16,500. I think that’s more than fair.” “Market rate?” Patrice let out a theatrical laugh, as if I’d just told the world’s most hilarious joke. “Clara, darling, get a clue. Who do you think set the market rate on this street?” She pointed a perfectly manicured, blood-red nail towards the bustling street outside. “What did this place look like three years ago? A mud path with barely a working streetlight!” A hot, sour wave of anger rose in my chest. “I remember exactly what it looked like! It was me, Clara, who took over these four leaking, dilapidated shacks and sank a million dollars into turning them into what they are today!” I retorted, my voice rising. “And now that the street is thriving, you want to kick me to the curb?” “Oh, listen to you, Saint Clara the Developer,” she sneered, her eyes filled with undisguised contempt. “You think you brought this street back to life? Fine. Try leaving. Let’s see where you stack all this inventory without my property. Let’s see how many of your precious customers can even find you then.” Her words were a poison-tipped dagger, and they found their mark. Just six months ago, I’d poured another huge sum into a complete renovation, confident in the future of this location. Now, with the holiday season approaching—the busiest time of year for my business—the timing couldn’t be worse. Move? Find a new location? Renovate all over again? I couldn’t afford to lose the time, the money, or the energy. She knew it. She knew my million-dollar investment had me nailed to this spot. That’s why she felt bold enough to jack up the rent from a reasonable $3,800 per unit to a predatory $7,000. For the past two weeks, she’d ignored my calls, replying to my texts with cold, dismissive phrases: If you can afford it, rent it. If not, plenty of others can. I could practically see her smug face through the screen. “Clara, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Patrice said, rising to her feet and looking down at me. “You’ve put so much money into this place. It would all be for nothing if you had to move. It’s tough for a woman to run a business. Don’t let your pride get in the way of a few thousand dollars. Sign for twenty-eight, and I guarantee your business will be better than ever.” Looking at her face, a canvas of greed and arrogance, the last flicker of hope I had for a reasonable compromise died. I said nothing, just met her gaze with a calm, steady look. She mistook my silence for the final struggle before surrender. A victorious, cat-and-mouse smile played on her lips. Just then, my phone vibrated gently in my pocket. That faint buzz was like an electric shock straight to my heart. I pulled out my phone. A text from my husband, Thomas. Honey, I nailed it. The property exchange unit in the South End. 19-foot ceilings, same square footage as your current place. I’ve already got a designer on it. We can build a four-story mezzanine. Double the usable space, and a bigger outdoor area. And guess what the rent is? My heart skipped a beat. I held my breath. $3,500 a month. The landlord, Mr. Harrison, is a great guy. Signed for eight years, no rent increase for the first five. He said he’s moving abroad to be with his daughter and told us to do whatever we want with the place. He even said to ignore any local busybodies. My fingers trembled slightly as I typed a single word back: Perfect. Then, I slowly lifted my head and met Patrice’s triumphant gaze. I smiled, a warm, harmless smile. “Patrice, this is a really big decision. I have to go home and discuss it with my husband.” I furrowed my brow, injecting the perfect amount of hesitation into my voice. “Could you give me… three days?” “Fine,” she said with a magnanimous wave of her hand, as if bestowing upon me a great favor. “But you’d better think carefully. An opportunity like this doesn’t come around twice.” She swayed out of the store, her back radiating smug satisfaction. She had no idea. It wasn’t an opportunity I was about to miss. It was her. She was about to become a part of my past. In this high-stakes game she thought she’d already won, she had just revealed her hand. And in doing so, she had already lost everything. 2 The moment Patrice was gone, I called Thomas. “How is it? Is this Mr. Harrison for real?” I whispered, hurrying into the stockroom and closing the door behind me. “Relax, honey,” Thomas’s voice crackled with suppressed excitement. “I had someone check him out. He’s an old-timer who got a massive payout from a city development deal. He owns several commercial properties; he’s not hurting for cash. His daughter is settled overseas, and he’s moving to be with her permanently. Probably won’t be back for years.” He continued, “I had my friend in the legal department look over the contract. It’s iron-clad. He even added me on social media before he left and told me if anyone gives us trouble, just block them and focus on the business.” The knot of anxiety in my stomach finally loosened. “You’re amazing, Thomas!” “Of course, I am. I’m your husband, aren’t I?” he said, his voice beaming with pride. “This Patrice… she really thinks we’re just a couple of pushovers she can squeeze for every last drop. I’ve been sick of her for years! When we first came here, those storefronts were like pigsties, leaking and moldy. She practically begged us to take them.” “And now that we’ve made a success of it, she thinks she can bleed us dry. Not a chance.” He was right. Three years ago, we were just starting out, counting every penny. This street was a forgotten corner of the city, plagued by poor planning. Patrice’s four storefronts had been vacant for almost two years, the walls peeling, the windows broken. But I saw its potential, its unique position connecting the old city with the new developments. I was the one who convinced a hesitant Thomas to take the plunge. We did the work ourselves, clearing mountains of trash, painting walls in old clothes, learning how to lay electrical wiring from online videos. We transformed that ruin into our dream. For the first three years, business was slow. We barely broke even. But we persevered, building a reputation for quality and service, slowly but surely drawing people back to the street. The number of shops grew from just ours to ten, then twenty. You could say that this street was our baby, a child Thomas and I had raised from nothing. And Patrice was the bully trying to snatch it away now that it was all grown up. “So, what’s the plan, honey? Do we tell her to shove it?” Thomas asked. “No,” I said, my eyes catching the bustling scene outside the window, a cold glint in them. “That’s too easy.” “She thinks I can’t survive without her? I’m going to show her that not only can I survive, I can thrive beyond her wildest imagination. I just told her I need three days. Those three days are her last moments of delusion. Her last shred of dignity.” “And for us,” I continued, “it’s time to launch the Lightning Plan.” “The Lightning Plan?” “Exactly.” I took a deep breath, my mind racing, every neuron firing with adrenaline. “Get the most reliable construction crew you can find for the new place. I want them working in two shifts, 24/7. You already have the designs. Electrical, mezzanine, interior finishing—I want the best materials and the fastest possible speed. Money is no object; I have two million in our business account ready to go. I have only one requirement: in twenty days, it has to be ready to open.” Thomas gasped on the other end of the line. “Twenty days? Clara, that’s… that’s insane. It’s a military operation.” “It’s because it’s insane that she’ll never see it coming,” I said, my voice firm and unwavering. “Right now, she’s at home, feet up, waiting for us to come crawling back in three days, begging to sign her ridiculous lease. The more certain she is of that, the bigger the ‘surprise’ will be.” “For the next twenty days, it’s business as usual here. In fact, we’ll do even better, so her spies see that we’re too busy making money to think about anything else. You oversee the new construction. I’ll handle the daily operations here and keep Patrice on the hook. We’re going to pull off the ultimate deception.” Thomas was silent for a few seconds. Then, his voice came back, filled with the same fierce excitement that I felt. “Alright. Let’s do it. Let’s blow her mind.” After hanging up, I stepped out of the stockroom, my face a mask of calm, friendly professionalism once more. Mia, one of my employees, saw me and asked with concern, “Clara, that… that landlady. She didn’t give you too hard of a time, did she? She looked furious.” I smiled and patted her shoulder. “It’s fine. Just business negotiations. Don’t worry about her. Everyone, let’s focus. We hit our targets this month, and I’m giving out double bonuses!” “Yes! Thank you, Clara!” A cheer went through the store, shattering the tense atmosphere Patrice had left behind. Seeing the renewed energy in my team, my own resolve hardened into steel. Just you wait, Patrice, I thought. You’re about to learn the true meaning of regret.

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