Category: English

My fiancé, Julian, returned from his three-month vanishing act with his “true love” in tow. That’s fine. I also came back with a man who claims he can’t live without me. When he saw my fiancé, his eyes welled up. He leaned into me, his voice a bitter, fearful whisper. “Sloane, am I… am I making things awkward? The way he’s looking at me is terrifying.” Later, at the gala, the two of them had words. They both ended up in the ornamental pool. When Silas was pulled out, he collapsed into my arms, shivering. “Sloane,” he wept, “I don’t understand why he pushed me. What did I do wrong? He knows I can’t swim.” He buried his face in my shoulder. “If he hates me that much, I… I’ll just go. I’ll leave.” 1 I hadn’t even made it back to my penthouse before I heard the news: Julian Thorne was back, and he’d brought a stray. The story was all over Page Six in less than twelve hours. The entire East Coast was waiting for the Hayes family to become a laughingstock. My engagement to Julian was a legacy arrangement, set in stone since we were kids. We were supposed to get married after I returned from my first major overseas assignment. That was five years ago. But our “war”—the ruthless expansion of our family’s holdings—kept pulling me away. I spent those five years in the corporate trenches of Asia and Europe, barely ever returning to NewYork. The wedding, naturally, never happened. This year, with the markets finally stable, was supposed to be the perfect time. And now he pulls this. Honestly, it’s better he showed his hand before the contracts were signed. A scandal after the merger would have been infinitely messier. I was driving the convertible, top-down. From the passenger seat, a voice. “Sloane? Is this really New York?” A pale hand, adorned with intricate silver rings, reached out into the wind. A moment later, I heard the delicate clinking of metal on metal. Silas leaned out, staring up at the skyline. He was dressed in what looked like layered silks and handcrafted leather, dripping with so much silver and turquoise jewelry he chimed when he moved. His amber-colored eyes were wide. Silas was… an acquisition. While hunting down a con artist who’d fled to the desert, I took a shortcut, my SUV went off a ridge, and I woke up in a cot with a concussion. He’d found me. The head injury gave me temporary amnesia. For a month, I lived in his bizarre, isolated artist commune, thinking we were… well, I wasn’t sure. But he took care of me. When my security team finally found me and my memory returned, I was ready to leave. He wasn’t. He clung to me, weeping. He said he’d “nursed me back to health,” that he’d “given me his innocence” (I seriously doubt that), and that everyone in the commune now saw us as a pair. If I left, he claimed, their bizarre customs (which I’d never seen) dictated he’d be “shunned” and exiled to the mountains to fend for himself. My head of security, trying to shut him up, snapped that I was engaged. This only made Silas cry harder. “I don’t care! I’ll just be near her. I’ll be her assistant. Her… her servant. Sloane, please. I’ll be so quiet.” I knew he was lying. Their “customs” were weird, but those people didn’t just respect Silas; they revered him. They treated him like some kind of prophet-artist. They weren’t shunning him anywhere. And given the sheer weight of gold and silver he wore daily, he could sell one bracelet and live comfortably for a decade. He just… really wanted to come. But I brought him with me. Why? Because he was a fantastic actor. And because when I said no, he just started following my convoy on foot, crying. It was pathetic, and frankly, hilarious. 2 I had my security team blast our arrival on social media, complete with geotags at the family estate. The message was clear: I brought a man back, too. I parked the car and tapped the passenger door. “We’re here, Silas.” He clinked and clattered, getting tangled in his elaborate outfit and the seatbelt. “Sloane, I’m stuck,” he whined. “There’s just… so much stuff.” “I told you to put the necklaces in your carry-on.” I sighed and leaned over to help untangle him. “Sloane Hayes! What the hell are you doing?” I looked up. Julian Thorne, just arriving, was stalking toward us, his face thunderous. I pulled Silas free. “I’m unbuckling my passenger.” From an outside perspective, I suppose it looked intimate. My body halfway in the car, his face inches from mine. “He doesn’t have hands?” Julian snapped. Silas visibly flinched, shrinking back. “Sloane, please don’t fight with… with him… because of me. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have worn all the jewelry you gave me. I just… I loved it so much, I couldn’t bear to pack it away.” He looked at Julian, his eyes brimming with tears. “Sir, please don’t misunderstand. I’m… I’m nobody to her.” I watched Julian’s jaw clench. “Silas isn’t nobody,” I said, my voice sharp. “He saved my life. I owe him.” Silas tugged my sleeve, whispering just loud enough for Julian to hear. “Sloane, don’t. What if he gets the wrong idea? He’ll be angry.” “No, he won’t,” I said coolly. “He’ll understand.” The one-two punch left Julian speechless. 3 Later, in the study, Julian made his case. “I brought someone back,” he said, “Lila. She… she also saved my life. Her family is gone, so I’m taking responsibility for her.” “The rumors are just that. Rumors. There’s nothing unprofessional between us.” I just sipped my whiskey. “Go on.” “I know you have a lot of… clothes. And jewelry. Things you never wear, things your mother buys you that just sit in a vault.” He was hedging. “Lila comes from nothing. She doesn’t own anything nice. With gala season starting, I was hoping you could… lend her some things. And maybe, you know, take her under your wing. Show her the ropes.” I had to set my glass down. Was he insane? Or had that “disappearance” cost him his brain? “No,” I said flatly. “I don’t think so.” Just then, the door burst open. Silas ran in, the sound of his jewelry like wind chimes. “Sloane! Look! Do you like my hair like this?” He’d taken down his elaborate braids and was trying to figure out how to use one of my diamond hairpins. He was like a beautiful, exotic bird playing with a mirror. I propped my chin on my hand, watching him. He really was stunning. That androgynous, otherworldly beauty that designers went crazy for. I turned back to Julian, who looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. “You’re too late,” I said. “I gave all my extra pieces to Silas.” “He’s so beautiful, and he appreciates pretty things. They look better on him anyway.” Julian’s eyes bugged out. “You what? Those are your mother’s! That’s a billion-dollar collection! I’ve asked to borrow a set for my own sisters and you’ve refused! You’re giving it to… to him?” I loved my jewelry. I loved just looking at it. And Julian knew it. Which made his request for this “Lila” all the more insulting. He was clearly here to provoke me. Silas, sensing the tension, immediately started his act. “Oh, Sloane,” he said, his voice trembling. “I shouldn’t have taken them. I’ll… I’ll give them back to… to this gentleman.” He fumbled, pretending to pull the pins from his hair. I grabbed his hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. You need to look good for the parties, too.” Julian was vibrating. “You can’t forget our engagement, Sloane. I am your fiancé. And you’re acting like this, with him, right in front of me?” I raised an eyebrow. “Like what, Julian? I’m just being nice to my… friend.” “He’s my savior. I’m indebted to him. I’m taking him in, giving him a place to stay. You, of all people, should understand that.” “Are you… jealous? You don’t have siblings, do you?” Silas chimed in, “Sloane, am I in the way? He looks so… angry. It’s scary.” “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “He’s just got a bad temper. Not sweet and kind, like you.” Julian looked like he was going to faint. 4 The invitations and charity gala requests flooded in. I only accepted the ones I couldn’t avoid. I brought Silas to the Met Gala. He, of course, was in his element, whispering about the art. I was catching up with some old-money friends I actually liked when Julian arrived. He had a woman on his arm—Lila. Dressed in a simple pink dress, she looked… terrified. She clung to his arm, her head down. The act… it was almost identical to Silas’s. I glanced at Silas. He caught my look and gave me a wicked, private smirk. “God, Julian is shameless,” one of my friends muttered. “He hasn’t even finalized the merger with you, and he’s parading his mistress around.” Silas nodded gravely. “He really is.” “And that girl. No self-respect. She knows he’s engaged.” Silas: “She really doesn’t.” “Pathetic, both of them.” Silas: “So pathetic.” I shot him a “zip it” look. He just smiled, all innocence. Julian spotted us and steered Lila our way. “Sloane. I’d like you to meet Lila. The woman who saved my life.” He emphasized the “saved my life” part, as if it were a trump card. “Lila, this is Sloane Hayes, my fiancée. You can call her…” “You’re gorgeous,” Lila interrupted, staring at me. Julian paused. I gave her a polite nod. Her face flushed bright red. Julian gritted his teeth. “You can call her ‘Sloane,’ like a friend.” My friends bristled. He was using this nobody to claim a familiarity he hadn’t earned. “Ms. Hayes is fine,” I said. “We just met.” Lila nodded enthusiastically. “Whatever you say!” Julian looked frustrated. “This… person… you brought gets to call you Sloane.” Silas immediately drooped. “I’m sorry, am I… am I bothering everyone? Sir, I don’t know why you’re so angry with me. I… I don’t have any family. Sloane is all I have.” “If you hate me,” he whispered, “I can just… go back to the desert…” Julian was stuck. He looked around. Everyone was glaring at him. Even Lila. “Julian,” I said, “can you please not be so petty?” “Me? Petty?” he sputtered. Just as he spoke, Silas stepped forward. “Sir, Julian, please don’t be upset. I only think of Sloane as a…” He paused, then hit the killing blow. “…as a big sister.” The word “sister” made Julian see red. He spun around, yanking his arm away in disgust. “Don’t call me that! I’m not your brother, you goddamn…” His movement was sharp. Too sharp. Silas, who was just slightly too close, went flying backward, crashing into a champagne tower. Glass shattered everywhere. Silas cried out in pain. Julian froze, staring at his own hand. He hadn’t pushed him. He’d just… gesticulated. I held back my smile and rushed to Silas’s side. He shot me a look—it took you long enough—and grabbed my arm. “Julian… why?” he choked out, “Why do you hate me this much?” “I always envied you,” he wept. “You have everything. A family, wealth… and Sloane. I have nothing. I just wanted to be near her.” Julian was dumbfounded. “I didn’t touch him! I just pulled my arm away! He… he threw himself!” “You’re saying Silas threw himself into a glass tower?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. “Why would he do that?” “Sloane, he’s lying! I’m telling you…” “He saved my life, Julian. And all you’ve done is bully him. You owe him an apology.” Julian looked at Lila. “Lila! You were standing right there. Tell them. I didn’t push him.” Lila looked like a deer in headlights. This wasn’t in her script. “Don’t threaten her,” I snapped. “Lila, just tell the truth. No one will blame you.” Lila looked at me, her eyes shining. “I… I didn’t really see. I just… I looked, and he was flying.” Julian was officially cooked. He stormed out, leaving a trail of whispers and broken glass.

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The second year after my biological parents took me “home,” our entire family was dragged into a horror game. A Glamour Ghoul, her robes slipping off a decaying shoulder, was painting a fresh layer of skin onto her face. She cooed at my brother, asking if she was beautiful. A disassembled Doll giggled and rolled across the floor, looking for a new playmate to “fix.” I stared at the familiar circus tent, the familiar faces, and screamed, covering my eyes. “Melody! Julian! What are you two doing?!” The Ghoul froze, yanked her dress back up, and hastily reapplied her “normal” face. The Doll’s limbs snapped back onto her torso, and she stood up, dusting off her pristine vaudeville dress. “Our Little Terror,” Melody gasped, “what are you doing back here?” 1 [All players, please note: You have entered the Nightmare Stream.] [Current Instance: Carver’s Carnival of Curiosities] [Difficulty: SSS-Class, Fusion Instance] [Objective: Survive for ten (10) days] [Players: 10] [Good luck, players.] When the mechanical voice faded, I was numb. A second ago, I was at home, getting screamed at. It was a contest of who could cry harder: me or my “sister,” Claire. Claire was crying because her SAT scores were lower than mine, and she needed to look sympathetic to our parents. I was crying because I was terrified. I’ve always been able to see things. Right then, Claire had a decaying baby doll sitting on her shoulder and a drowned woman clinging to her back. I blinked the tears away, and the scenery changed. I looked around. My new “family” of five was here. So were five strangers. Claire was screaming, burrowed into our mother’s arms. “Where are we? What is this place?” Our father shielded our brother, Josh, scanning the environment like a paranoid guard dog. I stood off to the side, alone. The five strangers—three men, two women—looked like veterans. The one with a scar down his face looked at us in disgust. “Great. An SSS-class fusion, and we get five rookies.” “This batch is low-quality. All they do is scream.” “Shut them up.” I cautiously approached them, picking the woman who looked the most competent. “Excuse me, ma’am? Do you know what’s happening?” The woman raised an eyebrow. Her features were sharp, assessing. “Well, a rookie that speaks. That’s a first.” She shot a look of contempt at Claire. “Better than that shrieking mess.” “This is a horror game. You get pulled in if you have a desperate wish. You clear instances, you get points. Points buy you anything—money, power, health. Anything.” “And if you fail?” Her eyes darkened. “You die. You become fuel for the game.” She paused, then looked me over again. “I’m Alex. Stick with me, kid. Don’t touch anything.” I beamed. Tough, but not heartless. I’d chosen well. “Thank you, Alex. I’m Vera.” 2 Suddenly, a live chat stream flickered into existence in the air. [SSS-Class? This team is toast.] [Carver’s Carnival? That instance has three bosses! Ten days? They won’t last three.] [That rookie Vera got lucky, latching onto Alex.] [Man, Alex and Marcus (the scar guy) have the worst luck. Five dead-weight rookies. F.] I pointed. “Alex, I can see… comments?” “Normal. Every instance is live-streamed. Helps survival, sometimes. You can get intel from the chat.” I nodded. The rusted iron gates of the carnival screeched open. We were standing in the middle of a bizarre, old-timey midway. It looked… familiar. It looked just like the carnival I grew up in before this family “found” me. Even the carousel horse with the missing eye was the same. [Task 1: Enter the Midway and survive the Doll’s playtime.] [It’s opening night! The Ringmaster presents his favorite act: Dolly the Living Doll! But Dolly is broken and needs new parts. She is looking for a replacement.] [Dolly will appear in 30 seconds. Hide. If Dolly catches you, you will be ‘re-made.’] [The show begins in ten minutes. Good luck.] 3 Chaos. Everyone scattered. Alex grabbed my arm and dragged me toward a midway game booth, shoving us into a deep storage cabinet. Claire and my mother, seeing us, scrambled in right behind us. The cabinet was tiny. Four people was a nightmare. Alex scowled, about to leave, but it was too late. A sound began: a thud… scrape… thud… scrape… A high-pitched, giggling voice sang, “Here I come… ready or not…” A dismembered porcelain torso, dragging itself by one arm, rounded the corner. “Are you in here?” giggle “Or in here?” The thudding stopped. Dolly let out a piercing shriek of laughter. “Found you!” A terrible, wet tearing sound, followed by a man’s scream. It sounded just like my father. My mother burst into tears, her hands clamped over her mouth. [Player Mark Harding (Dad) has failed. Assimilated by Dolly. Remaining players: 9] The chat went wild. [That’s SSS-class for you. Two minutes, one dead.] [His own son, Josh, shoved him out! Damn!] [The ‘re-making’ is brutal. They’re literally pulling his limbs off and snapping them into a doll body.] Seeing the chat describe my father’s end, Claire and my mother shook violently. I just felt… nothing. In the year I’d been “home,” I’d been blamed, framed, and hit. I couldn’t find a tear for him. 4 The thud-scraping started again. This time, it stopped right outside our cabinet. “Someone’s in the closet…” she sang. We all held our breath. “Hee hee hee… I see you! I see you!” “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Claire went rigid. Alex held up a finger: Don’t move. The chat was frantic: [It’s a bait! Don’t open the door!] [This boss is smart. She’s phishing.] [She won’t leave. You have to sacrifice one. A monster won’t hunt in the same room twice after a kill.] Claire and my mother looked at each other. In one swift, brutal motion, they grabbed me and shoved. Alex lunged—”Vera!”—but she was too late. I stumbled out of the cabinet and fell, landing face-to-face with the doll. She was beautiful, porcelain skin, rose-painted lips. And completely familiar. I burst into tears. “Melody?” I sobbed. “What did they do to you?”

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In my past life, after my roommate broke my comb, she gave me a new one, a wooden one with an intricate floral pattern. The first night, our dorm room caught fire. The source was traced to my bed. I was officially reprimanded by the student advisor, a permanent mark on my record. On the fifth day, my mother called to tell me our family was bankrupt. A sudden financial crisis had wiped us out. I sold everything of value, but it was a drop in the ocean. On the tenth day, a strange illness took hold of me. I lay in bed, wasting away. As I was dying, my roommate looked down at me with pure hatred. “Why were you born with so much?” She pulled out a black credit card. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all mine now.” I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the day my roommate broke my comb. 1 Mia approached me cautiously, holding the two halves of my broken comb. She looked at me with wide, pitiful eyes. “I’m so sorry, Belle. It was an accident.” “I’ll buy you a new one.” My stomach lurched. I snatched the broken pieces from her hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a comb.” My sudden movement startled her. She took a step back. “Really, Belle, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.” “I’ll get you a new one tonight.” I looked up, meeting her gaze directly. “I said don’t worry about it. I’ll buy one myself.” I had never spoken to her so sharply before. Mia grew visibly nervous, biting her lip. “Are you angry with me?” she whispered. “I promise I’ll replace it.” Her insistence was starting to grate on me. My voice rose. “I said no. Don’t you understand?” I nudged her aside. “Excuse me. I need to get out.” The other two roommates, hearing the commotion, sat up in their beds. “Belle, it was an accident. Do you have to be so dramatic?” Across the room, Zara shot us a sidelong glance, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “She’s a princess, isn’t she? Rich girls are always a little high-strung.” As she spoke, I watched Mia out of the corner of my eye. Sure enough, her expression was a mask of pure envy. I forced a smile. “You’re right. I am high-strung. So what?” I slammed the door behind me. In that final second before it latched, I heard Mia begin to sob, followed by Zara’s cutting voice. “Just because her family has a little money. Who does she think she is?” I walked out of the dorm, the broken comb still clutched in my hand. My other hand rested on my chest as I took deep, gulping breaths of fresh air. The sun beat down on my head, a warm, solid presence. It was real. I was alive. I was back. In my last life, it had started just like this. Not wanting Mia to feel guilty, I had accepted her offer of a replacement comb. She had handed it to me with a fawning smile, a wooden comb with a delicate floral carving. “I hope you like it, Belle.” I had accepted it gratefully, completely unaware that in doing so, I was accepting a ticket to my own personal hell. I had a habit of brushing my hair before bed. Everyone in the dorm knew. That night, after using the new comb, I fell into a deep, heavy sleep. I woke up choking on thick, black smoke. The room was in chaos. By the time we escaped, half my hair was gone. The fire investigator’s words still echoed in my ears. “The fire started in your bed.” A younger firefighter had looked confused. “The strange thing is, we can’t find the cause.” It made no sense. There was nothing flammable in our room, no open flames. But the fire had undeniably started in my bed. The student advisor was furious. I was given a formal warning and a major demerit on my permanent record. From that day on, it was as if I was cursed. I’d trip on flat ground. My instant noodles would be missing the flavor packet. Five days later, the phone call from my mother came like a bolt of lightning. “We’re bankrupt! Your father’s company… someone set him up!” It felt like falling from the sky and landing in a pit of mud. I sold my designer clothes, my bags, my jewelry. It wasn’t enough. My mother cried until she was coughing up blood. My father’s hair turned white overnight. He collapsed and couldn’t get out of bed. Five days after that, my body began to fail me. I was paralyzed, too weak to even speak. Soon, even breathing became a struggle. Mia was the only one in the room with me. I used every last ounce of my strength to beg her to call an ambulance. She had stood over me, her posture arrogant. “An ambulance? In your dreams.” She was a different person. The Mia I knew was timid and poor, always speaking in a near-whisper, dressed in worn-out clothes. But the woman standing before me wore a gold necklace so bright it hurt my eyes. She sneered. “Life isn’t fair, is it? Why were you born with everything, while I had to survive on bread and water?” She paused, then reached down and pinched my cheek, hard. “But maybe life is fair after all. Because everything you had… is mine now.” The memory sent a chill through me, and I broke out in a cold sweat. 2 I had wandered all the way to the campus gate. I called my dad. Hearing the calm, confident tone of his voice, I finally let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. All my misfortune in my past life had started with that comb. This time, I had to be careful. I was lost in thought when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Mia, looking anxious. I felt a surge of irritation. “What is it?” Her eyes darted around, a calculating look on her face. “Belle, I think you’re still mad at me.” She linked her arm through mine, her voice turning wheedling. “We’re best friends, aren’t we? Please don’t be mad. I really didn’t mean to break it.” In my past life, her words would have touched me. I would have taken her out for a lavish meal to show there were no hard feelings. But now, knowing her true nature, I felt nothing but disgust. I pulled my arm away and stared at her, a playful smile on my face. “Are we really best friends?” A flicker of guilt crossed her face, and she stammered, “Yes, of course we are.” “If you’re still angry, I’ll… I’ll just go back to the dorm. I’ll wait until you’ve calmed down.” With that, she turned and hurried away. As she disappeared from sight, I felt a wave of relief. But a second later, a cold dread washed over me. There was something in my pocket. I pulled it out. A small, wooden comb. Rage and a profound sense of violation overwhelmed me. It was the same floral pattern as the one from my last life. Without thinking, I took a picture of it, then threw it on the ground. She was really determined to destroy me. I crossed the street. A car sped past, and the comb was crushed under its wheels. She was clever, I’ll give her that. A small comb, slipped into my pocket, so I wouldn’t notice. I hadn’t been particularly aware of my belongings before. I wore a new outfit every day, tossing the old one into a laundry basket for Mia to wash. It sounded like I was taking advantage of her, but I paid her a hundred yuan every time. She was proud and poor, so I couldn’t just give her money. I had to find ways to help her without hurting her pride. And in return, she had repaid my kindness with a viper’s bite. I took a taxi to my usual café and opened the picture of the comb on my phone. The pattern was interesting: a few intertwined lines forming a flower. I didn’t know much about flowers, so I did a quick search online. I scrolled through images, comparing them to the one on my phone. Finally, I found it. “Fetal chrysanthemum.” An unopened flower bud. The longer I looked at it, the more unsettled I felt. Just then, my phone rang. It was Zara. We weren’t friends. She was always convinced I was a rich bully who took advantage of Mia. She had no idea I was paying Mia nearly four thousand yuan a month. I never explained, and Mia never corrected her. But it didn’t matter anymore. I was going to distance myself from all of them. I answered the call. “What’s up?” Her voice was sharp and breathless. “Where are you? Mia’s been in an accident! She was hit by a car!” 3 I was silent for a few seconds. When I didn’t respond, her voice grew louder, more frantic. “We’re on our way to the hospital now. You need to get here.” “She was calling your name before she passed out.” “If you have any conscience at all, you’ll come.” She hung up. Over the line, I could just make out Mia’s weak voice, calling my name. Interesting. But even if Zara hadn’t said all that, I would have gone. I wanted to see just how badly she was hurt. By the time I got to the hospital, Zara was helping Mia out of the emergency room. Mia’s head was wrapped in a thick bandage, and her leg was in a cast. When Zara saw me, her face lit up with relief. “You’re finally here! Go pay the bill.” I pointed at myself, incredulous. “What did you say? Me pay the bill?” Zara didn’t seem to notice my shock. She nodded matter-of-factly. “Who else? You and Mia are so close. Shouldn’t you help her out?” A bitter smile twisted my lips. “We’re close, yes, but I’m not a charity.” I gestured to Mia with my chin. “Mia, you’re hurt pretty badly. You should call your parents. This bill needs to be paid.” Mia’s face flushed with shame. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I have some money. I don’t need to call them.” Zara looked annoyed. “Then why did you tell me to wait for Belle to get here? You made me waste all this time.” Mia hung her head, mumbling an apology. Zara sighed, then looked at me. “Come on, we’ll go pay together.” On the way, her attitude toward me softened. “How did Mia get into a car accident, anyway?” I asked. Zara scratched her head, looking confused. “We were going to the cafeteria, and this car was coming. And Mia just… threw herself in front of it.” I was stunned. “You mean… she did it on purpose?” Zara looked troubled. “What else could it be? If she hadn’t acted like she was possessed, she wouldn’t be the one paying for it now.” A thought struck me. I grabbed her arm. “What color was the car she jumped in front of?” Zara frowned, thinking. “White,” she said, her voice growing more certain. “Yes, it was a white car! I remember clearly, because there was blood all over it.” Her words sent a shiver down my spine. The car that had run over the comb I threw away… it was white. A wave of relief washed over me. Thank God I threw that comb away. After paying the bill, Mia insisted on being discharged, against the doctor’s advice. She said she couldn’t afford to stay. “If you can’t afford it, then you should go home,” I said coldly. As I spoke, I was watching her. For a split second, I saw a flash of pure hatred in her eyes before she could hide it. When we got back to campus, I told Zara to help Mia back to the room. “I’ll be there in a minute. I have something to do.” 4 I raced back to the dorm and went straight to my bed. It was neatly made, the blanket folded into a perfect square. Mia had clearly been here. She often tidied up for me, and I’d pay her fifty yuan each time. But this time, I ripped the covers off the bed. The fourth roommate, Jenna, looked at me, confused. “Belle, what are you doing? Didn’t you ask Mia to make your bed?” I couldn’t explain. “I’m just tired,” I said, forcing a smile. I began to run my hands over the mattress, searching. After a thorough search, I found it. Tucked into a seam in the mattress was a small, folded piece of paper. A talisman. Just as I was about to examine it, I heard Zara’s voice outside the door. Without thinking, I dove under the covers. The first thing Mia did when she entered the room was look in my direction. “Belle, are you tired already?” she asked, her voice soft. The talisman was still in my hand, my palm slick with sweat. “Yeah,” I said, my voice muffled. “I was out all afternoon. I’m exhausted.” She nodded, then asked, a little too casually, “So, do you like how I made your bed today?” Before I could answer, Zara chimed in. “What’s not to like? She should be grateful you do it for her at all.” She shot me a disgusted look. “Honestly, the way you treat Mia like a servant.” I glanced over at Mia. As expected, she was playing the victim, her head bowed, her shoulders trembling. Zara had said things like this to me before, and I had always taken the blame to protect Mia’s pride. Not anymore. I sat up, my voice loud and clear, and pulled out my phone. “Do you really think Mia does all this for free? I pay her for her work.” The room went silent. Mia looked like she’d been struck by lightning. Zara’s face turned a blotchy red. “You… you do?” I smiled. “If you don’t believe me, ask her. Mia, why don’t you tell Zara and Jenna how much I paid you last month?” All eyes were on Mia. She turned a deep shade of crimson. “Five thousand, five hundred,” she mumbled. “See?” I said, my voice triumphant. “So, she’s not my servant. She’s my employee. I pay her, she does the work. It’s a fair exchange.” I ignored their shocked faces and drew the curtain around my bed. Once I was sure I was alone, I unfolded the talisman. In the center was a strange symbol, drawn in ballpoint pen. It had been folded into a triangle and hidden in my mattress. I took a picture of it, then carefully folded it back up. Sometime later, Mia pulled back my curtain. “Belle, I’m going to get food. What do you want?” I sat up. “Noodle soup. The usual.” Zara looked disgusted. “Her leg is broken, and you’re still making her get your food?” She turned to Mia. “You stay here. Jenna and I will get your food.” I saw Mia hesitate, tempted. “If your leg is too much of a problem, we can just end our arrangement,” I said quickly. Mia paled. “No, no, it’s fine! I’ll go!” Zara shot me a look of pure loathing. “You’re disgusting.” “A true capitalist,” Jenna added. After they all left, I looked at Mia’s bed, then took out the talisman. If you want to play with curses, I thought, let’s see how you like it when it backfires.

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Chapter 1 At the altar, my husband-to-be fell in love with the maid of honor. Right there, in front of God and the entire Manhattan elite, Asher Sterling slid the Tiffany diamond onto Chloe’s finger instead of mine. I stood there in my Vera Wang gown, instantly transformed from the envy of the city into its biggest punchline. I was frozen, my brain short-circuiting, when suddenly, a row of glowing, holographic text floated across my vision like a glitched live-stream chat: 【 OMG don’t panic, girl! The male lead is just doing this to make you jealous! He wants to see you fight for him! 】 【 Exactly! He’s just a tsundere. Being mean is his love language. Just cry a little, and he’ll give you the world! 】 【 Snatch that ring back, Queen! Once you show possessiveness, he’ll put it on you willingly! 】 I blinked. I looked up at Asher. His eyes were shining with a twisted kind of expectation. I forced the corners of my mouth up. Ignoring the shocked gasps of the congregation, I grabbed the microphone from the stunned officiant. “Let’s give a round of applause for Mr. Asher Sterling and Ms. Chloe Evans! Wishing you a lifetime of happiness and eternal wedded bliss!” … Asher’s arrogant, triumphant smirk vanished instantly. It was like someone had cut his strings. Both sets of parents looked like they’d swallowed lemons. The Sterlings, in particular, turned a lovely shade of purple. In the high-stakes world of New York old money, there are three major dynasties. If you want to rule the city, you merge. But among the Big Three, only my family, the Shaws, had a daughter. The Sterlings and the Pierces both vied for the alliance. I had chosen the Sterlings. I had chosen Asher. Today was supposed to be a formality. A coronation. No one expected Asher to pull a stunt like this to humiliate me at the finish line. The crowd erupted into whispers. The floating text—the “Feed,” as I called it—exploded: 【 Wait, what? Is the heroine seriously letting the Prince marry the NPC? 】 【 Don’t be impulsive! Are you trying to kill the plot? He loves you to death, he just needs to see you cry! 】 【 This is why he acts out! You’re always so cold. You triggered this! 】 Asher’s face was dark enough to herald a thunderstorm. “Summer Shaw,” he hissed, his voice dripping with menace. “What did you just say? Say it again.” The Feed scrolled frantically: 【 He’s giving you a second chance! 】 【 Apologize! Look at his hands shaking, he’s practically crying from anxiety! 】 I looked away from the hallucinated comments and locked eyes with Asher. I enunciated every syllable. “I said, congratulations to you and Chloe. Happy honeymoon.” Chapter 2 I didn’t wait for his explosion. I turned my attention to Chloe, who was looking at me with a mix of smugness and confusion. “Chloe, honey, aren’t you going to thank Mr. Sterling and his parents for making your dreams come true?” Chloe had always been obsessed with Asher. She was a scholarship student my family had sponsored—a classic charity case who used every opportunity to “accidentally” run into my fiancé. Normally, a girl with zero background cracking the Sterling family trust was impossible. But this? This was a once-in-a-lifetime lottery win. Chloe might see me as a rival, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew Asher was having a manic episode, and she needed to lock this down before he snapped out of it. She clutched the ring tight, tears welling up in her eyes—fake ones, obviously. “Thank you, Asher,” she gushed, voice trembling. “And thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Sterling. I promise to be the best wife the Sterling family has ever seen!” This was not the script Asher had written in his head. With every word Chloe spoke, Asher’s face grew darker. He didn’t even look at her. He was trembling, staring daggers at me. “Summer, stop screwing around!” I laughed. “Wait, I’m the one screwing around?” Asher choked. “I just wanted to…” “Asher!” His mother cut him off sharply. “Today is your wedding to Summer. Stop this nonsense!” Mrs. Sterling was scolding him, but her cold, judgmental eyes were fixed on me. “Summer, you are the future matriarch of this family. Even if Asher acts out, you should handle this privately. Making a scene? Adding fuel to the fire? Is this how the Shaws raise their daughters?” Classic gaslighting. She knew her son was a narcissist, but she expected me to eat the humiliation to save their stock price. She was threatening me. Fix this, or we both go down. Too bad Mrs. Sterling miscalculated. I’ve been sitting in boardrooms since I was twelve. I don’t get played. Chapter 3 “Mrs. Sterling, you’re joking, right?” I put on my best innocent, wide-eyed look. “Asher and I grew up together; we don’t have ‘issues.’ And I’m certainly not fueling anything. I am genuinely happy for Asher and Chloe.” I kept my voice loud enough for the front row to hear. “Since Asher put the ring on Chloe’s finger, she is the bride. She is Mrs. Sterling. If I pretended to be the lady of the house after that, the whole city would laugh at us. They’d say the Sterling family treats marriage like a game of musical chairs!” From her expression, I knew Mrs. Sterling had anticipated Asher’s little test. She had allowed it, probably to “humble” me. The Sterling family had been rising in the market lately. They thought they didn’t need the Shaw capital as much as before. They wanted to knock me down a peg before I even signed the marriage license. If I swallowed this insult today, my life would be hell. I wasn’t going to be their doormat. Mrs. Sterling looked like she wanted to slap me. The Feed started scrolling again: 【 OMG, the male lead is literally turning black with rage. 】 【 Asher: Can’t you just pout? Why do you have to destroy me? 】 【 Summer, stop being stubborn! He loves you! If you push him, he’s going to go full Psycho Mode! 】 “Fine. You think you’re smart, Summer,” Asher ground out through clenched teeth. “If that’s how you want to play it, don’t expect me to save face for you.” “You forced my hand!” Chapter 4 He dropped the ultimatum. “Don’t come crying to me when you realize what you’ve lost!” Crying? I was fighting the urge to pop a bottle of champagne. How confident was this man? Did he think he was God’s gift to women? He turned to his parents, jaw set. “Mom, Dad, I’m not joking! I love Chloe. I truly love her. Please give us your blessing!” He shouted it, but his eyes were glued to me, scanning my face for a crack, a tear, a hint of jealousy. I just stood there, smooth as marble. Internally, I was cackling. Before he opened his mouth, this mess was salvageable. Even if I walked, there were plenty of other heiresses in the room who would marry a Sterling for the merger. But now? He’d publicly declared love for a nobody. He had to marry Chloe, or the Sterling family word would be worth nothing. The Feed was having a meltdown: 【 He’s about to explode! Why doesn’t she get it? 】 【 Summer, don’t get it twisted! He hates Chloe! He regrets it already! He just wants to make you jealous! 】 【 Just beg him! If you beg him, he’ll kick the girl out and marry you right now! 】 I ignored the floating text. I didn’t care. Asher Sterling had crossed the Rubicon. We were done. But apparently, he wasn’t done humiliating me.

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The day I told my boyfriend I was pregnant, his grandmother slammed her head into a wall and died in front of me, taking a secret to her grave. Everyone who learned that secret is now dead. First, it was Harry’s father. Then his mother. Finally, Harry himself swallowed a bottle of pills right before my eyes. The media descended like vultures, digging for any scrap of information. The police hauled me in for questioning again and again. An army of online strangers savaged me day and night. They all wanted to know the secret. They said I’d cursed Harry’s family, that I’d killed them all just to keep it for myself. I never defended myself. I remained silent. Until the day of Harry’s funeral, when I saw a certain man in the crowd. In that moment, I rested a hand on my swollen belly, my heart as still and cold as a winter lake. It was time for my child and me to die, too. … 1 Harry took me home to meet his family after we found out I was pregnant. The moment his grandmother saw my rounded stomach, she let out a piercing wail and launched herself, headfirst, into the living room wall. A spiderweb of crimson bloomed across the pristine white paint. She didn’t die instantly. But the terrifying part was her eyes. They were wide open, bulging, as two streams of bloody tears seeped from the corners. Her gentle, kindly face was twisted into a mask of pure terror, as if she was staring at some unspeakable horror. The sight was grotesque, nightmarish. Harry’s mother fainted twice. His father cradled the grandmother’s broken body, his cries raw and ragged. A neighbor, drawn by the commotion, gently pointed out that the old woman was trying to speak, to leave some final words. We all fell silent, straining to hear her last whisper. In the end, only Harry’s father was close enough to understand. She told him a secret. And then her breath rattled out for the last time. The color drained from his face, his hands trembling as he clutched her body. He let out a guttural roar of despair. “She’s given us a death sentence!” His reaction sent a jolt of panic through us. His wife rushed to his side, her voice a hushed whisper. “Honey, what did she say? What was it?” He gave us all one last, deep, haunted look. Then he shoved his wife away. Before anyone could react, he followed his mother’s lead, smashing his own head against the same bloodstained wall. More blood spattered across the floorboards as he collapsed onto his mother’s corpse. His final expression was identical to hers: a rictus of absolute terror. As he lay dying, his wife begged him to hold on, screaming that the ambulance was on its way. But as he gasped out his own final words to her, her face went sheet-white. She ended the emergency call. After that, no matter who asked—not even when the police pressed her with the harshest questions—she refused to speak of the secret. After the joint funeral for the grandmother and father, Harry seemed to have aged a decade overnight. He looked at his mother, his face etched with exhaustion. “What was the secret Grandma told you? Why did Dad kill himself right after he heard it?” His mother stroked an old family photo, silent tears tracing paths down her cheeks. “Stop asking. There was no secret.” “It was just a tragic accident. Don’t overthink it.” Harry’s voice was raw, cracking with grief. “That was my father! That was the grandmother who raised me! I watched them kill themselves! How can I do nothing?” “At the very least, you have to tell me why!” My heart fractured for him. I tried to reason with his mother. “Ma’am, they died right in front of us. How can you expect us to just move on?” “Besides,” I pressed, “they died just from knowing the secret. You heard it too. We’re worried about you…” I knew my words were blunt, but fear was overriding my manners. Before I could finish, she cut me off, her voice like ice. She hurled the family photo to the floor, the glass shattering. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the look she gave me was filled with a chilling hatred. “I told you, there is no secret!” “You two couldn’t wait, could you? Getting pregnant before you were married! You shamed them to death! Is that the answer you want?!” The mention of their deaths brought fresh tears, and it was obvious her own grief was a raw, open wound. But just as quickly, she reined it in, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice flat. “I’m not myself. I shouldn’t have said that.” “His grandmother and father both had underlying health issues. The economy has been hard these last few years… maybe they just didn’t want to be a burden.” “That’s enough,” she finished, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Suicide is a shameful thing. We will not speak of this again.” Her resolve was like a steel door slamming shut. No matter how much we pleaded, she refused to say another word on the subject. But a cold dread settled in my gut. My hand, resting on my belly, wouldn’t stop trembling. I needed to know why his grandmother, who had always been so fond of me, had chosen to die the instant she learned I was carrying her great-grandchild. I needed to know her secret. 2 Harry was even more desperate for the secret than I was. A week after his father’s death, his mother drank herself into a stupor, stumbling around the house in a haze of grief and alcohol. Harry saw his chance. He cornered her, pressing her for the secret. Her words were slurred, barely audible. Harry had to lean in close to hear. But as he listened, his face contorted into the same mask of terror I’d seen on his father and grandmother. Watching him, a fresh wave of fear washed over me. I rushed to his side. “What is it? What’s the secret? Why do you and your mom look so terrified?” He didn’t answer. He just stood there, shell-shocked, holding his mother up. Frantic, I moved to lean in myself, to hear it from her own lips. But Harry’s reaction stunned me. Tears streamed from his eyes, a look of pure, helpless horror on his face. And then, he shoved me. He physically pushed me away from his mother. “What are you doing?” I cried out, stumbling back. “I’m pregnant! Why would you push me?” “What did she say? Why are you hiding it from me?” But no matter how I pleaded, he wouldn’t tell me. He just looked at me, his eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it felt bottomless. “Clara,” he whispered, “I pray you never have to know this secret.” I stood there, frozen, unable to comprehend what kind of secret could drive an entire family to this level of despair. Why did it fill them with such terror? Why did it make his father choose death on the spot? Just then, his mother seemed to sober up. Her eyes, empty and hollow, drifted toward us. A bitter, broken smile touched her lips. Slowly, it grew, until she was laughing—a wild, unhinged sound that filled the room. She grabbed Harry’s hand, tears of mirth and madness streaming down her face. “You wanted to know, son. You insisted. Well, now you get to live with the pain. Just like me.” I felt like I was breaking apart. How had things gone so wrong? I had arrived at their home full of joy, gifts in hand, ready to meet the family of the man I loved. I thought this was the start of an even happier chapter. Harry was a wonderful man—calm, kind, and stable. In three years, we had never had a single fight. His family was just like him: gentle people. A sweet grandmother, loving parents who spoke to each other in soft tones. He’d told me so much about me, said they were all excited to finally meet the woman he loved. His grandmother, especially, had adored me from afar, sending Harry money to buy me gifts, mailing me local delicacies, and always telling him to cherish me. But it all shattered the moment I said, “I’m pregnant.” His grandmother died. His father followed. His mother was a ghost of her former self, and Harry… Harry was now a stranger, silent and haunted by a darkness I couldn’t see. It felt like the entire world had turned against us. In the weary days that followed, one question echoed in my mind: What was the grandmother’s secret? I wasn’t the only one wondering. After the neighbors posted the story online, it went viral. The next day, bowing to public pressure, the police were back at our door. 3 Harry’s mother had gone to stay with her family. Harry was at work. That left only me to answer the questions. The lead detective was tactful. “Sometimes, with the elderly, there can be… cognitive issues, things you might not notice. Perhaps she was more confused than you realized.” I thought back over every interaction, every phone call with his grandmother over the past three years. I shook my head firmly. “Impossible. She had a full check-up twice a year. The last one was two weeks ago. She was perfectly healthy. No signs of dementia, nothing.” He looked disappointed. “And Mr. Croft’s father?” he tried again. “We heard he was having some trouble at work, that there were rumors of layoffs. Is it possible he felt ashamed? Perhaps the grandmother’s last words were that she was killing herself so as not to be a burden, and in his shame, he followed?” I had watched them die. I had seen the resolve in their eyes as they turned from living, breathing people into corpses. “No,” I said, my voice shaking. “They wouldn’t kill themselves for such a ridiculous reason. Absolutely not.” The police offered other theories, but I shot them all down. Realizing they weren’t going to get anything from me, they prepared to leave. After all, these were confirmed suicides, not homicides. They were only here because of the media frenzy. But just as they were leaving, the junior detective, a man named Miles, rushed back in. He looked at me, scratching the back of his head nervously. “Can you get ahold of your boyfriend?” “Your mother-in-law… I mean, Harry’s mother. She jumped from a building.” I didn’t believe him. The world tilted, my legs gave out, and I crumpled to the floor. The air in my lungs turned to stone. They couldn’t reach Harry, so they took me with them. The area below the high-rise was already cordoned off, surrounded by a crowd of morbidly curious onlookers. When they saw me being helped out of the police car, phones immediately came up, cameras flashing. “That’s the daughter-in-law, right? The one whose father-in-law and grandmother-in-law both died the day she showed up!” “What a jinx. It’s like she drove them all to their deaths!” “And now the mother, too. What about her son and the pregnant girl? How are they supposed to live with this?” The words washed over me, but my heart was too numb to feel them. I knew his mother was devastated, but I never imagined she would take her own life. An officer gently pulled me aside. “The fall… it was from the thirtieth floor. The body is… it’s a mess. You shouldn’t look. Where is your boyfriend?” He leaned in closer. “A witness said that right before she jumped, she was muttering the word ‘secret’ over and over. We think it’s the same secret that drove his father and grandmother to suicide!” Despite his warnings, I pushed past the white sheets covering the scene. I saw the shattered remains of Harry’s mother. Thirty stories. There was no surviving that. She knew that. And she still jumped. I couldn’t hold it together anymore. I fell to my knees on the cold pavement and wept. I had only come to meet my boyfriend’s family, like any normal person would. Instead, I had become a witness to their horrific, sequential deaths. I didn’t understand. What secret could be so powerful that it made death seem like the only escape? Detective Miles looked at me with a flicker of pity. “Clara, I know this is overwhelming, but you need to pull yourself together. The pattern is clear now. Everyone who knows the secret dies.” He locked his eyes on mine. “What is that secret? Do you know? Does your boyfriend know?” 4 My mind was a fog of grief, incapable of forming a coherent thought. I could only shake my head, tears streaming down my face. I didn’t know. I knew nothing. I wanted to know the secret more than they did. I needed to know what could have made Harry’s kind grandmother kill herself the second she heard I was pregnant. Just then, Harry arrived, rushing through the crowd. He was like a still, dark lake. He looked at the wreckage of his only remaining family member and absorbed the horror with a terrifying calm. He looked at the mangled body on the ground, then turned to the police. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “I know the secret.” “My grandmother, my father, and my mother all killed themselves because of it.” “Now, I’m the only one who knows.” “But the time isn’t right. I won’t be revealing it. Not yet.” Harry handled his mother’s funeral arrangements with that same eerie composure, and then he took me home. I still didn’t know the secret, but a horrifying suspicion was beginning to form: it had something to do with my pregnancy. I was terrified. Terrified that Harry, the last keeper of the secret, would follow his family’s path. I lived in a state of constant dread, my hands always on my growing belly, praying that I wouldn’t wake up one day to find him gone. But he was surprisingly calm. He went to work, he took meticulous care of me, he made plans for the baby. Slowly, my anxiety began to recede. I thought maybe he had found a way to live with the grief. The only strange thing was that he started spending hours locked in his study, the sound of his keyboard clicking away late into the night. I had a feeling he was documenting the secret, but whenever I asked, he would deny it. I had no choice but to pretend I didn’t notice. I thought we could continue like that, in our fragile peace. But then one day, without any warning, Harry started a live stream. He stared into the camera, his expression grim, and announced that the time had come. He was going to reveal the secret to the world. As the viewer count skyrocketed past one hundred thousand, he turned to me, his hand gripping mine tightly. “Clara,” he said, his voice gentle. “I know you’ve been desperate to know Grandma’s secret.” “The time is now. I’m going to tell you everything.” He pulled me into a hug, his hand caressing my belly one last time. Then he leaned in and whispered the secret into my ear… By the time I understood what he was saying, it was too late. Tears streamed down my face before my brain could even process the words. My eyes widened in horror, a violent, full-body tremor seizing me. I opened my mouth to scream, to question him, but he was already pushing me away, tears glistening in his own eyes. He stumbled backward toward the door, and then a torrent of crimson erupted from his lips. A primal fear shot through me. I scrambled toward him, half crawling, half falling. “Harry! Don’t die! Please, don’t die! You can’t leave me and the baby alone!” But it was too late. Blood poured from his mouth in an unending stream. Within seconds, the light left his eyes. Just like his grandmother, his father, and his mother, he chose to end his life in front of me, leaving me alone with the despair. I held my belly and watched the last breath leave his body. I begged him to stay, but he was already gone. I cried until I had no tears left, kneeling on the floor like a broken doll. The grief was a physical weight, crushing me, but beneath it was something else, something colder: terror. Because the secret Harry had told me was more horrifying than I could ever have imagined. No wonder… no wonder they all chose to die. Now I knew the secret. And my child and I had to die too.

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1 The afternoon they told me I was dying, Danny Blackwood popped a bottle of champagne in his lab. His new social media post showed his and Vivian’s silhouettes bathed in the sunset’s glow, their white lab coats stained gold. The caption was a single, triumphant line: “Ten years. A breakthrough at last.” Everyone said it was the height of devotion. Professor Blackwood, working tirelessly for a decade, all to save me. The nurse handed me her phone, her eyes welling with tears, as I stared at the wavering line on my heart monitor. What none of them knew was that the drug had been ready a year ago. And I was the only candidate who wasn’t allowed to use it. … Danny finally showed up at the hospital late that night. He reeked of champagne and a woman’s perfume that clung to his lab coat. “Sasha, how are you feeling?” I looked at him, my voice a dry whisper. “Danny, when can I have the drug?” He frowned. “Vivian says the survival rate for you right now is only thirty percent. It’s too risky.” “What was the survival rate for Mr. Harrison’s daughter last month?” Danny paused. “She was only stage three. You’re terminal. It’s different.” “She also donated three million dollars to your research fund,” I countered, my eyes locked on his. “Is that the difference you’re talking about?” His face darkened. “Sasha, how can you think of me like that?” he said, his voice laced with hurt. “The only reason I developed this drug was for you.” I looked at his self-righteous expression and a bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Danny, do you remember how I got sick in the first place?” Ten years ago, an explosion rocked his lab. It was me who ran into that fire, who dragged him out through the smoke and chemical fumes. The diagnosis was written in stark, unforgiving letters: Acute chemical lung injury. Irreversible pulmonary fibrosis. He’d knelt by my bed, his voice thick with unshed tears, and swore, “Sasha, I promise you. I will cure you.” He opened his mouth to speak, but his phone buzzed. It was Vivian. “Professor, the lights in the lab went out. I’m a little scared… can you come over?” Her voice was a saccharine whine, laced with a tremor of fake fear. Danny shot to his feet. “Don’t be scared, I’m on my way.” I grabbed the corner of his coat. “Danny, we’re not finished talking…” “We’ll talk later. Vivian’s all alone, I can’t leave her like that.” He pulled his coat from my grasp and walked out without a second glance. After he left, I had my caregiver look into the story of the rich businessman’s daughter. Just as I suspected. She was being treated with Danny’s new drug. Three months in, her condition had stabilized. She was already living a normal life. Meanwhile, I had just received my third terminal diagnosis notice. The next day, I dragged my broken body out of bed and secretly made my way to Danny’s lab. Standing outside the door, I heard Vivian’s voice. “Professor, let’s give the new batch of the drug to Chairman Davies’s daughter. He’s willing to add another five million to our funding.” There was a moment of silence, then Danny’s voice, gentle in a way I hadn’t heard in years. “Vivian, I know you’re just trying to help the lab, but…” “But what?” Vivian cut him off, her tone dripping with feigned concern. “Professor, I know I shouldn’t say this, but… is Sasha’s condition really that serious?” “Every time she has a crisis, it’s right when you’re at your busiest. Last time, you were about to give a presentation at an international conference, and she ended up in the ICU. This time, we’re celebrating our success, and she gets another terminal notice… Doesn’t it seem a little too convenient?” She sighed delicately. “Professor, you’ve already sacrificed so much for her. Chairman Davies’s investment is critical for the future of this whole project. You can’t let her… drag you down forever.” Danny was silent for a long, long time. I held my breath, waiting. “You’re right,” he finally said, his voice turning cold. “Maybe… I’ve been too soft on her. Fine. We’ll do as you say. The new batch goes to Miss Davies.” His voice hardened into something unrecognizable. “Besides, Sasha’s condition is probably not as urgent as she makes it out to be.” So that’s what it was. My countless battles on the edge of death were nothing more than a performance in his eyes. I pushed the door open, shattering the cozy scene inside. Vivian gasped and shrank behind Danny, who instinctively moved to shield her with his body. His expression was a mixture of shock and annoyance. “Sasha? What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be out of bed in your condition!” “If I stayed in bed,” I said, my voice raw as I stared him down, “I’d die without ever knowing why, wouldn’t I?” Vivian peeked out from behind him, her eyes darting nervously, though her voice was full of concern. “Sasha, you shouldn’t be walking around! The doctor said you need complete rest.” “Rest?” I sneered. “So I can wait quietly while you give my life-saving medicine away to someone else?” Danny’s face turned to stone. “Sasha! Watch your tone! Vivian is worried about you!” “Worried about me?” I pointed a trembling finger at Vivian. “Worried enough to convince you to give my medicine away? Worried enough to imply I’m faking my illness?” “I didn’t…” Vivian’s eyes immediately filled with tears. She looked at Danny, her voice breaking. “Professor, I was just worried you were pushing yourself too hard…” Seeing her tears, Danny’s voice became glacial. “Sasha, look at yourself. Paranoid. Hysterical. Vivian has been nothing but considerate, and you repay her with these vicious accusations!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I’m hysterical? Danny, I’m the one lying in a hospital bed waiting to die! I’m the one who can’t get the medicine!” “That’s enough!” he roared, cutting me off. “Do you really think that if you collapse right here, right now, I’ll drop everything to be by your side like I used to?” He took a step closer, glaring down at me. “Sasha, how long are you going to keep up this act?” I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. “You think… you think my terminal diagnosis is an act?” Vivian gently touched his arm, her voice soft. “Professor, don’t be like this. Sasha is probably just scared…” “She’s not scared, she’s selfish!” Danny snapped, as if a dam had finally broken. “If it weren’t for me, you would have died years ago!” “You should be grateful to be alive, not acting like this!” “Now that we’ve finally had a breakthrough, and Vivian has secured us more funding, all you can think about is yourself!” He wrapped an arm around Vivian’s shoulders, a gesture of both protection and possession. “If Vivian hadn’t been by my side, supporting me, I would have given up long ago! And you? What have you ever given me, besides using your illness to hold me hostage?” I stared at them, two strangers standing where the man I loved and his student used to be. Where was the boy who held my hand ten years ago and promised he would save me? How did he become this monster, accusing me of emotional blackmail? Using the last of my strength, I whispered, “Danny… do you just wish I was dead?” His brow furrowed in irritation. “There you go again! Always the same old drama! Go back to the hospital and rest. Don’t stand here interrupting our work.” Without another look at me, he turned his full attention to Vivian, his voice softening. “What happened to your hand? Did you bump it just now? Let me see.” That gentle tone… I hadn’t heard it directed at me in a decade. I turned and walked away, the tears finally falling. The emotional turmoil sent my body into another crisis that night. My breathing grew ragged, my oxygen levels plummeted, and they nearly had to put me on a ventilator. Martha, the head nurse who had looked after me for years, administered the emergency medication, her own eyes red as she patted my back. “Sasha, honey, just hang on a little longer. You have to pull through! Professor Blackwood succeeded, didn’t he? I saw it on the news yesterday, they called his new drug a miracle…” Her voice choked with emotion. “I still remember when you first got sick. The professor doted on you so much, staying by your bedside all night, holding your hand and telling you not to be afraid, that he would save you… He’s finally done it. Your suffering is almost over.” I listened to her words, a bitter smile twisting my lips. Once I was stable, Martha left to get me some water, leaving me alone in the sterile quiet of the room. That’s when Vivian appeared in the doorway. She held a sleek, expensive-looking medicine box, her smile as bright and blinding as a scalpel. “Sasha, look what I brought you! It’s the professor’s new drug!” She dangled the box in front of my face for a moment before snatching it back. “But… this stuff is incredibly expensive. Half a million dollars a dose. And you, Sasha… you’re already behind on your hospital bills. I’m afraid you can’t afford it.” I took a sharp breath. “My parents’ medical trust fund…” “The ten million dollars?” Vivian laughed. “Oh, Sasha. You really don’t know, do you?” She walked to my bedside, looking down at me. “That money? Danny spent it all years ago.” “You’re lying!” I struggled to sit up. “Am I?” Vivian pulled out her phone and tossed a picture onto my blanket. It was a financial statement, detailing every source of income and every expense. “He used your parents’ money to build his lab, to buy a penthouse overlooking the river, to lease a luxury car.” “And…” She smiled, pointing to one column. “The living expenses he transferred to me. It adds up to over a million these past few years.” A chill spread through my body. My fingers trembled as I stared at the report. The section for my own medical expenses was pitifully small. “Do you know why your illness never got better over the past ten years? Why it only got worse?” Vivian leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper. “Because what the professor was giving you… it wasn’t medicine.” “It was the control group’s placebo.” “Just… ordinary vitamin pills.” My mind went blank. A roaring filled my ears. “Oh, Sasha. You thought you were his fiancée?” Vivian’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “You were just his experiment. His living, breathing control group.” “To prove his new drug worked, he needed a baseline like you—someone receiving no real treatment, whose illness could progress naturally. Only then could he show how effective his miracle cure truly was.” “These ten years… you thought he was trying to save you?” “He was watching you die, Sasha. Slowly. And taking notes.” “And the money your parents left to save your life? He used it all to build his own glorious career.” My mouth was open, but no sound came out. The numbers on the monitor beside me began to flash erratically.

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

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

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

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

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