In my bravest and most foolish year,I spent 99 days making the man I was obsessed with—the“Ice God”and captain of the New York hockey team,Damian Knight—finally fall for me.
Back then,I was the team’s intern physical therapist,in charge of his conditioning.
At night,I was his lover.
Until the day I stood outside his mansion’s wine cellar and overheard him laughing with his teammates.
“Damian,I heard you broke your season’s celibacy for that little intern?Weren’t you waiting for Chloe to come back?Giving up just like that?”
Damian sipped his whiskey,the ice clinking in the glass.His voice was just as cold.
“She’s just an intern.Is she even worthy?The moment Chloe’s back in New York,I’m proposing to her.”
The cellar erupted in laughter.
“Great!Hey,Captain,when you’re done with her,let the rest of us have a taste.I hear she’s good at taking care of people.”
A contemptuous smirk played on Damian’s lips.“Whatever.Do what you want.”
I instinctively touched my still-flat stomach and vanished from his world that very night.
Five years later,at a grand New York charity gala,Damian Knight was about to bid on a legendary blue sapphire necklace called“The Queen’s Heart”for his recently returned love,Chloe.
But a clear child’s voice cut through the room:
“Sorry,my mommy likes that necklace.My bid is…no limit!”
…
The entire hall fell silent.
Damian,fiddling with an expensive watch on his wrist,shot a cold glare at the little boy standing on a chair.His tone was sharp.“Kid,do you even know what’no limit’means?Where are your parents?”
The little boy,Leo,put his hands on his hips and tilted his head up proudly.“Don’t you dare mention that idiot who took too many pucks to the head!It’s bad luck!”
The auctioneer on stage looked troubled.“Young man,the starting bid is five million dollars.Are you sure you want to participate?”
Guests started whispering.
“Whose kid is this?Talks big.If his dad knew he was bluffing here,he’d probably have a heart attack!”
For some reason,Damian’s nose itched,and he let out a loud sneeze.
Chloe Vanderbilt frowned,walked over,and shoved Leo off the chair.“Where did this brat come from?No manners at all!This is a charity gala,not your playground!”
Caught off guard,Leo screamed as he fell backward.“Mommy,save me!”
The instant before he hit the floor,I pushed through the crowd and rushed toward him.
The heel of my stiletto snapped,and I fell hard,shielding the child with my arms.
Thankfully,I held Leo tightly,and he was unharmed.
When I stood up with him in my arms,a flash of shock crossed Damian’s eternally calm blue eyes.His signature icy voice wavered for the first time.“Ava?What are you doing here?”
Before I could speak,his teammates started jeering.
“Captain,isn’t that the intern from back then?”
“Five years,and now she’s shacked up with some old geezer from Wall Street,playing mistress!”
Chloe immediately wrapped her arm around Damian’s,possessively.“So you’re the therapist who harassed Damian and got kicked off the team?Like mother,like son.This kid is already a little liar,trying to bid on a five-million-dollar necklace!”
Leo curled up in my arms,hurt.“Mommy,I wasn’t lying.Grandpa gave me a card and said today is your birthday,and I could buy you a present.”
As he spoke,he fumbled in his pocket.“Grandpa said this black card can buy anything.He can afford it!”
All eyes were on his pocket.
The next second,he pulled out…a shiny,limited-edition Superman trading card.
The crowd erupted in sharp,mocking laughter.
“Ha,a Superman card?Does he think this is Gotham City?He wants to buy The Queen’s Heart with that!”
“She must be desperate for money!”
As the sole grandson of the Wall Street legend Marcus Thorne and future heir to the Thorne Group,Leo had never been so humiliated.
He burst into tears in my arms.“Mommy,I’m not lying!The black card must have fallen out in the car.”
I stroked his hair,comforting him softly.“It’s okay,sweetie.Tell Mommy,which one did you like?”
Leo pointed to the dazzling blue sapphire necklace on the stage.
The next second,I calmly raised my bidding paddle and said to the auctioneer,“I bid ten million dollars.”
The jeers around me were almost deafening.
“A disgraced intern trying to show off.How shameless!”
Chloe sneered.“Can you even afford it?This is a Sotheby’s auction,not the sporting goods store you work at!”
Damian’s brow furrowed,and he stopped fiddling with his watch.“Ava,how long are you going to keep making a scene with this kid you picked up from God knows where?I don’t care whose child he is,but you’ve clearly taught him badly!”
I looked at him,my eyes filled with nothing but cold indifference.
What right did he have to judge my child?
Seeing my silence,Chloe fanned the flames.“If your sugar daddy finds out his trashy mistress and her bastard son are embarrassing him here,do you think you’ll still get your allowance next month?”
His teammates joined in.
“Exactly!Can your bald old man handle the consequences of pissing off our captain?”
“Don’t come crawling back to us,begging the Captain and Chloe for forgiveness when you two get kicked to the curb!”
Through all of this,Damian’s gaze locked onto me,filled with a mix of probing and disgust.
“Ava,you left without a word back then.Was it because you couldn’t wait to find your next meal ticket?”He glanced at Leo in my arms and demanded,“And this child,who did you have him with?”
I held Leo even tighter.
Bastard son?
Right.In the eyes of the high-and-mighty“Ice God,”I would always be the lowly intern,easily discarded.
Five years ago,I only got close to him to win a bet with my father—that I could handle the coldest hockey player in New York and prove I was capable of handling any difficult problem.Why else would I have become his intern?
After leaving him,I never regretted having Leo.
If my father knew that his precious daughter and grandson were being humiliated like this,it would only take a single phone call for every one of these people’s companies to go bankrupt tomorrow.
The auctioneer confirmed again,“Ma’am,are you certain about your ten-million-dollar bid?”
“I’m certain.”
The moment I spoke,one of Damian’s teammates snatched my paddle and threw it on the floor.“Can she afford it?A physical therapist couldn’t make ten million even if she gave a Middle Eastern prince private service for a decade!”
I was furious.To keep a low profile,I had left my security team and my phone outside,thinking I was just attending a simple dinner.
A huge mistake.
Instantly,Leo clung to me,crying out at the group.“You bully my mommy,and my grandpa will never forgive you!My grandpa is Marcus Thorne!”
His words were met with a brief silence,followed by an even louder roar of laughter.
“Marcus Thorne?The’Ghost of Wall Street’who never appears on any magazine cover?You little liar,you might as well say your grandpa is Superman!”
“This kid is full of lies.His mother must be a terrible influence!”
Leo was overwhelmed by the vicious voices.He kept crying,“I’m not lying!I’m not a liar!”
He had grown up surrounded by the love and protection my father and I had built for him.He had never seen how ugly people could be.
He buried his head in my chest,his body trembling with sobs.“Mommy,I’m not a liar…Why are they saying that…?”
Seeing the situation spiral out of control,I had to back down for Leo’s sake.“I’m sorry,everyone.My son doesn’t know any better.We’ll pass on the necklace.”
But as I tried to leave,Damian’s teammates surrounded me.
“Trying to leave now?Too late!”
“Weren’t you acting all high and mighty?Scared now?”
One of them,a blond player,looked me up and down crudely.“Or,you could spend a night with each of us,and maybe we can chip in and buy you a replica of the necklace,hahaha.”
Just as his filthy hand was about to touch me,there was a sharp snap.The lucky bracelet Damian had worn for years suddenly broke,its beads scattering across the floor.
He stared at me,furious.“Ava,five years and you’ve fallen this low?You’ll sell anything for money?And have a child with another man?”
He knew those words were meant to humiliate me.
But he believed them.
Our eyes met,and the disgust in his was like a blade of ice.
The man who had been my lover every night five years ago was now speaking the most venomous words.
I let out a cold laugh.“Yes,I had him with someone else.Is there a problem?”
My words stung Damian.He grabbed my wrist,his grip so tight it felt like he would crush the bone.His eyes held a suppressed madness.“Answer me!Why did you even bother with me back then?You’re so filthy,just how many men’s beds have you been in?!”
My heart sank.
At that moment,Leo broke free from my arms and slammed his small body into Damian.“Don’t you bully my mommy!You big bully!”
Damian stumbled back.Chloe quickly steadied him,then yelled at Leo,“You little brat!If your mother can’t teach you manners,I’ll do it for her!”
As she spoke,she raised her hand to strike Leo!
“Leo,run!”I screamed in terror.
But a player had already grabbed Leo from behind,lifting him into the air by his collar.
Leo’s feet dangled as he struggled.“Let me go!You’re all bullies!My grandpa will get you for this!”
The men only laughed harder,tossing him around like a toy.
Suddenly,Leo’s face turned deathly pale.He began to cough violently,and his eyes started to flutter shut.
I lunged forward like a madwoman,all dignity forgotten,and screamed at Damian,“Leo isn’t a bastard!He’s your son!”
The air froze.
A few seconds later,the crowd erupted in even harsher laughter.
“She’s lost it.The woman is completely insane!Trying to trap the Ice God himself!”
“Doesn’t she know the Knight family has a history of genetic problems?It’s a known secret they have trouble having children.And she dares claim that mutt is the Captain’s?”
The blond player’s hand went slack,and he dropped Leo onto the floor.
Leo’s head hit the cold marble,and his forehead was instantly a bloody mess.
“Leo!”I scrambled over,pulling him into my arms,my heart breaking.“Sweetie,does it hurt?”
The child curled up,whispering weakly,“Mommy…I don’t feel good…I want to go home…”
Tears I could no longer hold back streamed down my face.
Damian watched this whole farce with ice in his eyes,his voice devoid of emotion.“Ava,I never thought you could be this shameless.If it weren’t for my family’s difficulty in having children,I might have actually believed your bullshit.”
Just then,the child’s health monitoring watch on Leo’s wrist let out a shrill alarm.The heart rate on the display was plummeting.
I struggled to pick him up and rush out.“Get out of my way!All of you,move!”
But Chloe blocked my path.“Stop the act.He just took a little fall.Is it necessary to be so dramatic?”
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On the day my fiance called off our wedding.
I accepted a transfer order from Aegis Technology Research Institute and left New York without telling anyone.
“Chloe is in very poor health.She needs my last name and that top-tier medical insurance more than you do.”
“Evelyn,you’ve always been the most rational.This is just a temporary measure.Once she’s stable,everything will go back to the way it was.”
In New York’s social circle,everyone thought I—who had given up a full scholarship to MIT to follow my boyfriend,Karen Thorne,a superstar in the North American Hockey League,to New York—would cry,throw a fit,and beg him not to leave me.
After all,in their eyes,without Karen,I was just a useless unemployed girlfriend,a pretty ornament under his halo.
But I just nodded calmly.
Then I got into a black Cadillac One personally sent by the founder of Aegis Institute.
Three years later,as the chief designer of Hermes,a revolutionary sports prosthesis,I attended its launch at the World Sports Technology Conference.
Karen,as the league’s ambassador,saw me among the well-dressed crowd.
But there was no longer any sign of him in my eyes.
……
Three years ago,at the MVP celebration party held by Karen’s team for him.
In front of all the media and teammates,he unilaterally announced the end of our engagement and introduced Chloe,the younger sister of his late best friend,as his fiancée.
He didn’t even glance at me.He spoke directly to the reporters surrounding him:“Due to special circumstances,Chloe and I will hold our engagement ceremony as soon as possible.”
The team manager looked at me,then at Karen,his face full of embarrassment.
“Karen,you and Evelyn’s wedding news has already been released.The cover of next month’s Sports Illustrated is already shot.”
“This is so unfair to Evelyn.”
Chloe,standing behind Karen,coughed twice at the right moment,her face as pale as paper.
She whispered,“Brother Karen,let’s just forget it…Don’t embarrass the manager,and don’t put Sister Evelyn in an awkward position.”
“I…I can go back to my hometown to recover too.”
As soon as she finished speaking,she broke into a violent cough,her body swaying unsteadily.
Karen immediately held her up,his brows furrowed tightly.
“Nonsense!Your heart can’t stand the climate there at all.Have you forgotten what the doctor said?”
He turned to the team manager,his voice turning cold:“Manager,Chloe is the only family member of my best brother.He ruined his career protecting me on the ice and died of depression.Now Chloe is all alone and seriously ill.If I don’t take care of her,who will?”
“I’ll take this responsibility.If the board has any issues,tell them to come to me directly!”
With the labels of“morality”and“responsibility”pressed on him,no one at the party dared to say another word.
The manager sighed and signaled the PR team to prepare a new press release.
My gaze shifted from the flashing camera lights to Karen’s face.
He never looked at me.
“Karen,”I said calmly.
He finally spared me a glance,obvious impatience in his eyes.
“What now?Evelyn,I thought you were the most sensible.”
“Sensible?”I repeated the word.
For three years,I had given up my major and my bright academic future just for these two words.
I had gone from a promising biomechanical genius to the“sensible”woman he spoke of,one who could be sacrificed at any moment.
“You’re with me so I can focus on my games.Chloe needs me to survive.”
He looked at me,saying word by word:
“Can’t you tell which is more important?”
I stared at the man I had loved for three years and followed for more than 5,000 kilometers.
I asked him:“If it were me dying today,would you give up Chloe’s future for me?”
He froze.
Chloe beside him reddened her eyes and tears fell.
“Sister Evelyn,how could you say that…My brother died for Brother Karen…How could you curse me like this…”
Karen snapped back to his senses,his irritation turning to faint anger.
“Evelyn,apologize!”
I didn’t move.
“I told you to apologize to Chloe!”he raised his voice eight degrees.
Everyone at the party stared at me,their eyes full of blame and confusion.
As if I were some vicious woman.
I laughed.
“Fine,I’ll apologize.”
I walked up to Chloe.
“I’m sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have compared a healthy person to the sister of a hero.”
“After all,healthy people are meant to make way for the sick.”
Chloe’s face turned pale instantly.
Karen’s face turned livid.He grabbed my wrist tightly:“Evelyn,have you had enough?”
“No,”I shook off his hand.“Karen Thorne,you don’t have to worry about the engagement.I’ll handle it myself.”
I took out my phone from my purse and,in front of everyone,deleted all photos and announcements related to him on my social media.
“From today on,Evelyn Reed and Karen Thorne have nothing to do with each other.”
I turned and left.
He didn’t chase after me.
Behind me came Chloe’s tearful voice:“Brother Karen,it’s all my fault.Go explain to Sister Evelyn…She must have misunderstood…”
Then came Karen’s voice,still gentle despite his suppressed anger.
“Ignore her.She’ll calm down in a few days.I’ll take you home to rest first.”
My heart turned completely cold at that moment.
I went back to the penthouse apartment Karen and I shared.
The artwork we picked out together still hung on the walls.
Everything felt like yesterday.
I started packing my things.
I had very few belongings—they fit into a small suitcase.
Most were professional books.
Karen had never liked me reading them.
He said that as the girlfriend of a hockey star,I should just learn art,fashion,and socializing.Why read such“boring”stuff?
I pulled the suitcase and prepared to leave.
Just then,the door opened.
Karen came back,followed by Susan,the team’s PR director.
Susan was a decisive woman who had always been kind to me.
“Evelyn,honey,what are you doing?”
Susan saw my suitcase and hurriedly persuaded me:“Don’t run away from home just because you’re angry.Karen is an idiot,but he cares about you.Calm down.”
I ignored her and pulled the suitcase toward the door.
Karen stood in my way,frowning:“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Isn’t this your home?”
“This is your home,not mine,”I said calmly.
He suddenly scoffed:“Not here?Then where?Your ordinary family in that small Midwest town?Did your parents send you to the East Coast just to cause me trouble?”
The most hurtful words always come from the people you love the most.
Susan quickly stepped in to smooth things over.
“Come on,Karen,watch your mouth.Evelyn,Karen is doing this out of responsibility.Chloe’s situation is really special.Those of us by his side need to be more understanding.”
She said to me:“Look at you,you’re so well-educated.Why can’t you understand this?Just do a good deed and give up this title.Karen will definitely compensate you later.”
Compensate?With what?
With the identity of an ex-girlfriend mocked across the country,or the rest of my life he charity-gives me?
“Susan,this is my business.It has nothing to do with you.”I walked around her.
Karen grabbed my arm again.
“Did I say you could leave?”
He pushed me hard into the room.I hit the wall,my back aching.
“Evelyn,I gave you time to calm down,not to go crazy!”
“Go back to your room and reflect on whether what you said at the party was appropriate for a well-bred woman!”
“Come out only when you’ve come to your senses.”
He kicked my suitcase aside and turned to lock the bedroom door.
Just then,my phone rang.
It was an encrypted number.
I answered and said nothing.
A calm male voice came from the other end:“Hermes,this is Arthur Zhou,founder of Aegis.”
My pupils shrank sharply.
“Headquarters order:Project Prometheus is activated early.You must report back within six hours.The special car is already downstairs.”
I glanced at Karen subconsciously.
He was staring at me impatiently,thinking it was just a friend calling.
“Are you done?Hang up and get inside!”
I clenched my phone and whispered to the caller:“Received.”
After hanging up,I looked up at Karen.
It was the last time I looked at him with the eyes of a lover:“Karen,are you sure you want to do this?”
“I won’t say it again.”He had run out of patience.
“Fine.”
I nodded,never looking at him again,and turned into the small guest bedroom with only a single bed.
The door clicked shut behind me,locked from the outside.
The guest bedroom balcony faced the apartment’s back garden,a private wooded area.
I opened the floor-to-ceiling window,and cold wind rushed in.
The third floor wasn’t high.I tore the expensive Egyptian cotton bed sheets into strips,twisted them into a rope,tied one end to the balcony railing,and threw the other end down.
I grabbed the rope and climbed over the balcony.
The moment my feet touched the ground,I didn’t even look back at the place I had lived for three years.
In the snow,I walked step by step toward the apartment gate.
My phone vibrated again.A text message arrived:
“Car at the gate.License plate:AEGIS-01.”
I quickened my pace.
At the apartment gate,the security guard stopped me.
“Ma’am,where are you going so late?”
I had been locked up by Karen and had nothing with me except my phone.
Just as I didn’t know how to explain,a middle-aged man in a high-end tailored suit stepped out of the black Cadillac.
He walked straight to the security guard and showed an electronic ID on his phone.
The security guard’s face changed drastically.He immediately stood straight and bowed respectfully.
“Good evening,sir!”
The middle-aged man nodded,walked to me,and opened the car door.
“Dr.Reed,please get in.”
I got in,and warm air surrounded me.
The car slowly started.I watched the luxurious apartment building fade away in the snow through the rearview mirror.
My phone rang.It was Karen.
I hung up.
He called again.I hung up again.
The third time,he sent a text:
“Evelyn,my patience is limited.Don’t force me to bring you back by force!Apologize to Chloe on your own within a day,and this will be over.”
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An indie-darling actress and her soft-boy younger brother were building their entire brand around being “humble and unbothered.”
But during a hit reality show, they “accidentally” let slip some massive secrets: their grandfather is a legendary Hollywood titan, they grew up in the ultra-exclusive gates of Beverly Park, and the sister’s boyfriend is none other than the city’s most mysterious, old-money heir.
The internet immediately lost its mind:
[My lord and lady! Where do I sign up to be your live-in maid? I will work for free!]
[How is it possible to be this gorgeous and this successful?!]
[Drop the tutorial on how to be reborn into this family, please!]
Standing off to the side, my sister and I were completely dumbfounded.
Excuse me? Since when did my family have a secret set of siblings we’d never heard of?
…
My sister, Flora, and I started out as child actors. We’ve worked ourselves to the bone since we could walk. I was the type to take any role—from the leading lady in a prestige drama to a minor character who gets killed off sixty seconds into the pilot. Flora, on the other hand, was a method actress to her core; she once shaved her head without a second thought just to play a troubled teenager.
In the industry, they called us the “hustle sisters.”
To promote our respective new projects, we agreed to guest-star together on the country’s most popular variety talk show, “The Round Table”.
Of course, the producers wanted drama. The viewers quickly noticed that the show had invited another set of siblings to serve as our direct foils.
The sister, Kylie Holloway, was famous for her effortless “clean-girl” aesthetic, while her brother, Lewis, had starred in a few obscure indie art films. They branded themselves on being low-key, detached, and above the petty drama of Hollywood.
Basically, the exact opposite of our relentless hustle.
The kicker?
Not long ago, the Holloway siblings had hinted in an interview that their grandfather was the creative mastermind behind the legendary 1996 Centennial Olympic ceremonies.
The clip went viral on TikTok, racking up millions of views. Internet sleuths even dug up photos of their alleged daily hangout spots, which just so happened to be inside the gated estates of Beverly Park—where land is practically paved with gold.
Fans swooned, calling them real-life trust-fund royalty who were just “deigning to experience normal life.”
With the producers framing us as opposites, a toxic fan war erupted overnight.
[Oh my god, no wonder the Holloways have such an elegant vibe! They’re literally Hollywood royalty.]
[Finally, some actual class on our screens instead of the usual desperate try-hards.]
[I watch reality TV for this kind of effortless, old-money energy, not to see Valerie and Flora Lancaster acting like desperate attention-seekers.]
[Well, when you come from nothing, you have to claw and scrape for every second of screen time. Sad, really.]
[If our precious Kylie cared about clout, she’d have destroyed those two Lancasters years ago.]
Even our publicists started panicking.
“Maybe you girls should tone it down?” they warned us. “Don’t steal the spotlight. If you look too aggressive, the internet will tear you apart. Besides, they have serious backing. Let’s play it safe.”
“Yeah… in this economy, people want to romanticize the easy life of the rich. They don’t want to watch the grim reality of working-class grinders.”
I was genuinely baffled.
“Grinders?” I comforted them. “What’s wrong with working hard? We earn every cent we make with our own sweat. There’s absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.”
And honestly, I couldn’t understand why everyone was losing their minds. Just because their grandfather supposedly planned the Olympics?
My grandfather “actually” did that.
Flora thought about it for a long time too.
“It’s weird,” she whispered. “The people who actually own those Beverly Park estates are currently living in Europe. And as far as I can recall, we don’t have any neighbors named Holloway.”
We brushed it off. Work was our priority, and we had a show to shoot.
Soon enough, the day of filming arrived.
“The Round Table” was a massive hit, and the entire episode was being broadcast live.
We were set up in a cozy, rustic courtyard, gathered around an outdoor fire pit to drink tea and chat. Flora and I naturally took our seats in the quiet corner, wanting to stay out of the way.
Meanwhile, the Holloway siblings walked in and sat right in the center seats without a moment’s hesitation. The sheer entitlement was palpable.
The host immediately handed them the microphone.
“It’s incredible,” the host said, beaming. “You two have kept such a low profile in the industry, but it turns out your grandfather is none other than the legendary director Charles Holloway.”
Charles Holloway. My grandfather.
Flora and I both froze. The familiar name pulled our attention straight to them.
By a bizarre stroke of luck, they shared my grandfather’s last name. But my grandfather had actually taken my grandmother’s surname—Lancaster—when they married, building his empire with her family’s immense wealth. He only kept “Holloway” as his professional director pseudonym. That was why Flora and I went by Lancaster.
Kylie tilted her head, letting the camera catch her soft, unbothered expression. “That’s all in the past, really. We just want to focus on doing our jobs.”
Lewis gave a boyish, dimpled smile that was practically engineered to make fans swoon. “Yeah, Grandfather is eighty now. If he finds out we made him go viral again, he’ll never let us hear the end of it. He hates the fuss.”
The live chat stream instantly erupted.
[Oh my god, this is literally a movie come to life.]
[Can we talk about their dynamic? Kylie is the poised, cool older sister and Lewis is the sweet, playful younger brother. That dimple is killing me!]
[They clearly have such a warm relationship with their grandpas. So wholesome!]
Beside me, Flora snorted.
She quietly tapped her phone screen and slid it over to show me a photo she’d just received. It was a picture of our grandfather, currently kneeling on a pile of LEGO bricks in his living room.
“I just texted Grandfather,” Flora whispered, suppressing a laugh. “I asked him if he had a secret family he forgot to tell us about.”
“And?”
“He panicked and started kneeling on LEGOs to prove his absolute innocence to Grandma.”
I shook my head, tapping her forehead to quiet her down. “Don’t say anything yet. We’ll let PR handle this later. Knowing Grandfather’s temper, he’ll probably log onto his verified account and start a digital war anyway.”
Unfortunately, our hushed whispering and suppressed giggles didn’t escape the cameras.
The live chat noticed.
[Wait, what is up with the Lancaster sisters? Are they seriously jealous of someone else’s pedigree?]
[Look at those smirk faces. That is so mean-spirited…]
[Don’t be so harsh, maybe they’re just curious. I mean, given their B-list status, it’s not like they’d ever get to run in the same circles as the Holloways.]
[Gross. I actually liked them before this, but seeing them act like bitter mean girls in front of actual class is disappointing.]
[Are we seriously still tearing other women down in this day and age? Get a grip.]
If I could see the live comments, I would have had a thousand questions. But the host, sensing the rising engagement, immediately pointed the microphone at Flora and me, eager to play up the contrast.
The host smiled warmly. “With genes like that, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before you two surpass your grandfather’s legacy. But why don’t you ask Valerie and Flora for some advice? After all, they’re the reigning hustle queens of the industry.”
Kylie gave us a brief, dismissive glance before looking away. Her posture practically radiated aristocratic disdain. “Of course. But Lewis and I prefer to take our time. We want to polish our craft and select meaningful scripts, rather than just taking any mindless gig that comes our way.”
Lewis nodded, his tone dripping with faux-innocence. “I really admire how the sisters can spend three hundred and sixty-five days a year on dusty soundstages. I could never do that. I can only perform when a character truly speaks to my soul.”
My eyebrows twitched.
That wasn’t just a subtle dig; it was an open insult.
The passive aggression was staggering, yet the live audience ate it up.
[Oof, look at Valerie’s face. She’s fuming!]
[I mean, they’re not wrong. Calling them ‘hustlers’ is just a nice way of saying they can’t book prestige roles, so they have to accept trashy network television.]
[Exactly. Valerie has won some minor awards, but look at her sour expression. She can’t even fake a smile.]
[Makes you wonder how they actually got those awards in the first place.]
[Can all actors please take notes from the Holloways? It’s so refreshing to hear someone speak the truth!]
I clenched my jaw.
Years of media training kept me from starting a screaming match on live television. If my family saw me getting into a petty argument with some D-list influencers on a variety show, I’d never hear the end of it.
But Flora didn’t have my restraint.
She had always been the fiery one. She snatched the microphone, her striking, sharp features hardening.
“I’m sorry,” Flora said, her voice icy and deadpan. “I didn’t realize my grandfather had adopted two new grandkids.”
“You have some nerve claiming you’re going to surpass his legacy on a couple of indie shorts.”
The chat went chaotic.
[Did she just claim Charles Holloway is her grandfather? Are the Lancasters serious right now?]
[I was literally just thinking, how does Kylie have the audacity to compare herself to Charles Holloway?]
[Wait, but their last name is Lancaster. How are they related to Holloway? Did she lose her mind and just start lying?]
[Exactly! And why can’t a granddaughter make a joke about her own grandpa? Flora is just bitter because she has zero class.]
Kylie’s expression faltered, her polished facade slipping for a fraction of a second.
Another guest on the show, eager to defuse the tension, spoke up. “Wait, you’re saying Charles Holloway is your grandfather? But that’s impossible. I remember seeing a viral article a few weeks ago showing him out with his grandchildren, and it was a brother-sister duo.”
Hearing this, Kylie quickly regained her composure.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to pull,” Kylie said smoothly. “But Grandfather has always told me that if I work hard, I’ll make him proud one day.”
She paused, reaching into her clear phone case to pull out a slipped-in piece of paper.
“He actually wrote me a personal note of encouragement. I keep it with me everywhere I go.”
She subtly angled the paper toward the main camera lens.
Lewis lifted his chin proudly. “Oh, Kylie, don’t fall into their trap. If Grandfather is watching this right now, he’s probably laughing his head off at how desperate some people are.”
Flora stared at the handwriting on the note and froze.
“That… is actually Grandfather’s handwriting.”
Being the hothead she was, she looked ready to lunge forward and tear the paper from Kylie’s hands. “How dare you use his personal autograph to pull off a scam like this!”
I placed a firm, calming hand over Flora’s wrist. “Easy,” I murmured.
A few weeks ago, Grandfather had been invited to present at a major film festival, and Flora and I had gone to pick him up from the venue.
At the time, Flora had just chopped her waist-length hair into a severe pixie cut for her upcoming military drama.
The paparazzi photos from that night had been incredibly blurry—just a grainy shot of Grandfather walking with a woman and what looked like a young man with short hair.
To the public, it looked like a brother and sister.
And right after those photos leaked, Kylie had started dropping hints in interviews about her “legendary grandfather.”
It had been a calculated play from the very beginning.
I leaned in and whispered the realization to Flora. I wanted to see exactly how far these two were willing to push this lie.
Flora gave me a subtle thumbs-up beneath the table. “Brilliant, sister.”
But to the outside world, our quiet whispering looked like defeat. The chat, already biased toward the “chic, old-money” Holloways, turned on us completely.
[I don’t even know what Flora was trying to pull. The real heiress is literally sitting right there with receipts!]
[The instant karma is sending me! Who just tries to claim a legendary director as their grandpa on live TV?]
[She carries his handwritten letter in her phone case. You can’t fake that. My face hurts from laughing at the Lancasters.]
The producers were ecstatic. They had expected a simple promo gig, and instead, they had landed the exclusive reveal of Charles Holloway’s grandchildren—complete with a massive family feud.
The director immediately sought to capitalize on the drama.
“We’ve all heard that Kylie and Lewis live in the exclusive gated community of The Summit,” the director spoke into the earpieces. “Since our studio lot is actually just ten minutes away from those estates, would you mind taking us on a quick tour to see how the other half lives?”
Flora and I exchanged a look of pure bewilderment.
The Summit was incredibly exclusive, with only a handful of multi-million-dollar estates. Since when could any random person just breeze past security and film a reality show there?
Kylie’s expression tightened slightly at the request.
“I… I didn’t expect the paparazzi to track our address,” she hesitated, looking appropriately delicate. “I’d really have to ask my family first. Security is quite strict.”
The other guests gasped.
“Are you going to call Charles Holloway himself?”
“Oh my god, I am his biggest fan! If we even get a glimpse of him, my life will be complete!”
“Seriously, the man is a total recluse these days.”
As the excitement built, Lewis chimed in with a sly grin. “Kylie, are you going to call your boyfriend? He’s the one who actually handles the estate logistics anyway.”
That sent a shockwave through the room.
For weeks, there had been rumors that Kylie was dating a mysterious, ultra-wealthy heir who also lived in The Summit.
Kylie’s cheeks flushed a delicate, practiced pink. “Yes, I just texted him. He said we can go ahead and do a quick walk-through.”
With their narrative perfectly aligned, they had successfully solidified their status as Hollywood royalty. The live comments went wild:
[Oh my god. Her grandfather is a cinematic genius, she lives in The Summit, and her boyfriend is a literal billionaire heir. How do I unlock this lifestyle?]
[Please let me be your housemaid! I’ll clean the marble floors for free!]
[They are literally the main characters of the universe.]
[Reincarnation goals.]
I don’t know what kind of lie Kylie spun to the gate guards at the community entrance, but within twenty minutes, the entire production crew and camera team were marching up the winding, manicured streets of The Summit.
But as we got closer, a strange sense of dread settled in my chest.
Wait. Why were we walking toward my street?
For a brief, terrifying second, I wondered if my parents had actually adopted a secret set of siblings without telling me.
But then Kylie turned right, stopping directly in front of the massive, modern estate right next to mine.
I froze.
Because that house belonged to my childhood best friend—and the man I’d been unofficially seeing—Will Harriet.
And Kylie had just claimed she needed to ask her boyfriend for permission to enter.
Had Will been seeing Kylie behind my back?
Beside me, Flora let out a quiet, wicked chuckle. She nudged my arm, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Well, well. Will has been out of the country for months, and he comes back to a live-in girlfriend? Now “this” is a show.”
She leaned in, whispering, “Valerie, remember: don’t lose your cool.”
I ground my teeth. “Oh, I’m perfectly cool.”
The estate was breathtaking.
I watched in silence as Kylie stepped up to the massive double doors, punched in a very familiar passcode, and pushed the door open.
She turned to the crew with a welcoming, slightly apologetic smile. “My grandfather and my boyfriend aren’t home right now, so I’m sorry you won’t get to meet them. But please, make yourselves at home and have some refreshments.”
Before she could even finish her sentence, a figure appeared at the top of the grand spiral staircase.
It was Will.
He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his tie perfectly knotted, looking every bit the cold, aristocratic heir he was. He looked down at the sudden influx of strangers in his foyer, his eyes instantly turning to ice.
Until his gaze landed on me.
Our eyes met across the cavernous room. He arched an elegant eyebrow.
“What is going on?” his eyes seemed to ask.
In the live chat, an eagle-eyed viewer recognized him immediately.
[Holy crap!!! That’s Will Harriet! The actual heir to the Harriet shipping and real estate empire! I saw him once at a charity gala in New York—he is ten times more gorgeous in person.]
[Kylie is literally winning at life. How did she bag him?]
[Wait, is it just me, or did Will look straight at Valerie the second he walked out?]
[Please, Valerie was probably just staring at someone else’s boyfriend like a thirsty fan girl. Classic social climber behavior.]
The other guests on the show gasped in awe.
“Oh my god, is that Kylie’s boyfriend?”
“They look like they belong on a magazine cover!”
“Hi, Mr. Harriet! Nice to meet you!”
Everyone was whispering and grinning, but I noticed that Kylie’s face had gone completely bloodless. Her hands were trembling as she stood frozen at the base of the stairs.
Will looked at the cameras, then at the fawning guests, and pieced together the situation with effortless ease. A cold, dangerous smirk touched his lips.
He began walking down the stairs, initially heading straight toward me. But when he saw the warning glare I shot him, he stopped in his tracks, looking like a kicked puppy, and reluctantly turned his attention back to the crowd.
I wanted to see exactly how he was going to explain this.
Will’s gaze swept over the room, landing squarely on Kylie. His voice, usually warm when he spoke to me, was now sharp enough to cut glass.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “But since when did my house get a new mistress?”
“Or are we calling home invaders ‘girlfriends’ now?”
🌟 Continue the story here
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I had just merged onto the interstate in my brand-new, sixty-thousand-dollar Tesla Model Y when the car suddenly choked, locking my speed at precisely twelve miles per hour.
Thinking it was some kind of catastrophic system failure, I hastily switched on my hazard lights and called my boyfriend, my hands shaking on the steering wheel.
He answered, his voice light with an easy, mocking chuckle.
“Myra suddenly decided she wants to go skiing up at Stevens Pass,” Wyatt said. “She was worried you’d drive the car too far away before she could get the keys, so I set the speed limit on the app.”
Behind me, horns blared in a deafening, angry chorus. In the rearview mirror, the massive grille of a semi-truck loomed, its brakes screeching as it swerved to avoid me. The sound of the horn seemed to vibrate straight through my skull. I missed a pileup by inches.
“Just pull over to the shoulder,” Wyatt added, entirely oblivious to the chaos he had unleashed. “Her cousin Trent is on his way to pick it up from you.”
Then came the familiar, heavy-handed sigh. “She rarely gets a chance to have some fun, Lydia. Don’t be so selfish.”
I stared at the glowing digital dashboard, the speed frozen at a mockery of twelve miles per hour. Suddenly, the urge to argue, to scream, to explain the terror of almost being crushed by a semi-truck, evaporated.
Half an hour later, I managed to limp the car back to the Tesla delivery center.
The sales associate who had handed me the keys just an hour prior came jogging out, her face a mix of confusion and worry. “Lydia? Is there something wrong with the registration?”
I pushed the purchase contract across the glossy desk.
“The paperwork is fine,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “The person is the problem.”
1
The sales associate, Fiona, froze with her hand halfway to the document.
“Lydia, the delivery is already finalized on our end,” she said gently, looking out at the heavy Seattle rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. “Reversing a vehicle purchase like this is… well, it’s incredibly complicated.”
My hands were still trembling.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the headlights of that semi-truck bearing down on my rear bumper. The phantom blast of its air horn was still ringing in my ears.
“I don’t care how complicated it is.”
Fiona took a closer look at my pale face and lowered her voice. “Did something happen on the road? If it was a software glitch or a sudden speed limitation, we can have our service team run a diagnostic immediately.”
Before she could finish, my phone buzzed on the desk.
It was an audio message from Wyatt. I tapped it, and his impatient, sharp voice cut through the quiet showroom:
“Lydia, where the hell did you take the car? Trent has been standing out on the shoulder in the freezing rain for thirty minutes. Can you grow up for once? It’s just a car. Do you really have to make everything so ugly?”
Fiona’s expression shifted. A couple of sales reps at the desks nearby stopped typing.
I closed the message and typed a three-word response: “I returned it.”
Within seconds, my phone rang.
When I answered, Wyatt’s voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel. “Have you lost your mind? I spent weeks helping you pick out that spec. You’re just going to return it?”
“Did you pay for it?” I asked.
The silence in the showroom was so absolute I could hear the hum of the lighting fixtures.
“I paid for it,” I said, my voice steady, though my chest felt hollow. “Every single cent.”
There was a brief pause on the line. Then, he let out a sharp, condescending laugh.
“Oh, so now we’re keeping score, Lydia? You bought this car so we could use it when we get married. What’s the big deal if Myra borrows it for a weekend? Besides, I only put a temporary speed cap on it to make sure she could actually get the keys. It’s not like you got hurt.”
A coldness seeped through my ribs, wrapping around my heart.
Wyatt was a smart-vehicle integration engineer. Before I bought the car, he had insisted on being involved in every step. He claimed his connections could get me a better corporate discount, and that binding the primary vehicle account to his developer profile would make the security features more robust.
On delivery day, he had taken my phone, setting up the car’s profiles and pairing the keys with an air of absolute authority. I had stood there in the delivery bay, watching him explain the features to me as if he were describing the foundation of our future home.
At the time, I actually felt a swell of warmth. I thought he was finally putting effort into our life together.
Fiona silently set a cup of warm water in front of me. When my fingers brushed the paper cup, I realized just how cold my hands were.
From the other end of the line, Myra’s soft, fragile voice drifted through the speaker.
“Wyatt, please, let’s just forget it. I’m sure Lydia is just attached to her new car. I don’t need to go skiing anyway. It’s fine. People like me… well, wanting to be happy for once is a luxury I shouldn’t expect.”
Wyatt’s tone shifted instantly, turning gentle and protective. “Don’t say that. When have I ever broken a promise to you?”
When he spoke to me again, the warmth vanished, replaced by a cold command. “Lydia, drive the car back right now. Myra’s cabin rental is non-refundable. If you ruin this trip for her, I’m not going to bail you out.”
I looked down at my signature on the contract.
Every stroke of the pen represented a piece of my life. That sixty-thousand-dollar down payment held the fifteen thousand my grandmother had left me, three years of brutal overtime savings, and the money I had set aside to renovate our future home.
Wyatt had told me the house could wait. He said we needed a reliable car first.
He said his mother’s hips were failing, and we needed something comfortable to take her to physical therapy on weekends. He said my commute was too long, and that a safer car would give him peace of mind.
Yet, on day one, that very car had almost cost me my life on the I-90.
“Wyatt,” I said, my voice flatter than I expected. “When you remotely locked my car to twelve miles per hour, did you even care that I was in the middle lane of the interstate?”
He let out an irritated click of his tongue. “The limit was temporary. Couldn’t you have just pulled over? If your driving skills are that terrible, don’t blame me.”
Just then, the glass doors of the showroom slid open. A man in a damp black rain jacket walked in.
He glanced around the pristine space before locking eyes with me and walking over.
“Lydia, right?” he said, shaking the water off his sleeves. “I’m Myra’s cousin, Trent. Just give me the keys.”
Fiona instinctively stepped between us.
Trent frowned, looking offended. “What is this place? Since when does dealership staff get involved in family business?”
Wyatt’s voice yelled from the phone: “Trent, you there? Lydia, stop acting like a child. Give him the keys.”
Trent reached across the table toward my key card. I pulled it back, gripping it tightly.
His face darkened. “You’re really something, aren’t you? Myra’s health has been terrible lately. She just wanted to get some fresh mountain air, and you’re here playing gatekeeper over a piece of metal.”
Before I could answer, two more people entered the showroom.
Myra was clad in a pristine white puffer jacket, the hood lined with soft faux fur dusted with rain. Behind her was Wyatt. He must have rushed over; his hair was damp, and his eyes were burning with a quiet, suppressed fury.
Seeing me, Myra’s eyes immediately welled with tears.
“Lydia, I am so sorry,” she sobbed, her voice trembling. “This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have asked to borrow the car. But I… I haven’t been out of the city in so long.”
Wyatt stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body.
It was a gesture I had seen a thousand times. Back in college, during club dinners, if she couldn’t handle her drinks, he drank for her. After graduation, when her apartment pipes burst in the middle of the night, he went over to fix them. When her cat went missing, he took a day off work to search the neighborhood with her.
Every time I questioned it, he had the same answer: “She grew up without a brother, Lydia. I’m just looking out for her. Don’t be so petty.”
And now, he stood between my car and my safety, still protecting her.
“Lydia, hand over the keys,” Wyatt demanded, holding out his palm.
A draft from the automatic doors blew inside, carrying the scent of wet asphalt. The metallic edge of the key fob dug into my palm.
Before I could speak, Myra took a step forward, her tears spilling over her pale cheeks.
“Lydia, is this because I sat in the passenger seat during the test drive? I promise I’ll never sit in the front again. I’ll ride in the back.”
Wyatt’s face went completely cold. “Look how terrified you’ve made her.”
He reached out, his fingers wrapping around mine, forcing my grip open.
Fiona quickly called out to the showroom security guard.
In the scuffle, Wyatt leaned down, his voice a low, threatening hiss in my ear: “Don’t make me humiliate you in front of these people.”
With a harsh tug, he wrenched the key card from my hand. The plastic edge scraped hard against the corner of the desk, and a bead of blood welled up on the back of my hand.
Myra let out a soft gasp.
Wyatt didn’t even look at my hand. He pocketed the key, turned, and handed it to Myra. “Go wait in the car.”
2.
The security guard intercepted Trent at the exit, keeping him from leaving immediately.
Wyatt turned back to glare at me, his chest heaving. “Are you really going to call the cops over this? Do you want to make it that dramatic?”
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s call them.”
The anger on his face stiffened for a fraction of a second.
Outside, Myra sat in the passenger seat of my Model Y, watching us through the windshield. The wipers weren’t on, and her face was blurred by the cascading rain.
Wyatt let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Lydia, do you honestly think the police care about a domestic dispute between a couple? Yes, you paid for the car, but I set up the software. I’m simply managing the access.”
Fiona couldn’t stay silent. “Sir, remote-controlling a vehicle without the primary operator’s consent on an active highway is a direct endangerment to public safety. This is not a domestic dispute.”
Wyatt shot her a freezing look. “What do you know? You’re just a sales rep. My company handles smart-integration platforms. I know exactly what the legal boundaries are.”
My phone screen lit up. It was my mother.
The moment I answered, her voice came crashing through the speaker. “Lydia! Wyatt’s mother just called me. She said you’re threatening to have Wyatt arrested over a car? Have you lost your mind?”
My throat felt like it was blocked with dry cotton.
Wyatt stood beside me, his arms crossed, a smug sense of victory radiating from him.
My mother kept going. “Wyatt is a good man, Lydia. You’re turning thirty next year; you can’t keep throwing these tantrums. It’s normal for a man to have female friends. I’ve met Myra—she’s a sweet, tragic girl. If you push things too far, who else is going to want to marry you?”
I stared at the drying blood on my hand, my voice barely audible. “Mom, he locked my car at twelve miles per hour on the interstate. I almost died.”
The line went quiet for a few seconds. Then, my father’s gruff voice cut in from the background.
“But you didn’t die, did you? Why do you always have to blow small things out of proportion?”
Wyatt’s shoulders relaxed.
Myra had stepped out of the car again, holding an umbrella. She walked back into the showroom, tilting the canopy so it covered Wyatt, leaving my shoulder exposed to the cold mist blowing in through the entrance.
“Mrs. Miller, Mr. Miller, please don’t be mad at Lydia,” Myra sobbed into my phone speaker. “It’s all my fault. I didn’t have a father growing up, so Wyatt has always been extra protective of me. I understand why Lydia would misinterpret things.”
My mother’s voice softened instantly. “Oh, Myra, sweetie, don’t cry. Lydia has a stubborn streak. I’ll make sure to talk to her.”
Everyone in the showroom was watching me now—the sales reps, the security guard, even a couple of customers who had stopped near the service desk.
I stood beside the car I had dreamed about for years, feeling like an intruder who had tried to steal someone else’s happiness.
Wyatt reached over and took the phone from my hand.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Miller, I’ll handle it,” he said smoothly. “Lydia has just been under a lot of pressure at work lately.”
He knew exactly how to play the dutiful partner, wrapping up my humiliation in a neat bow while driving the blade a little deeper. He hung up and tossed the phone back into my lap.
“Satisfied?” he muttered. “Take the exit ramp I’m giving you, Lydia. Myra is taking the car today. The discussion about returning it is over.”
Fiona looked at me, her eyes filled with quiet concern. “Lydia, do you want us to proceed with contacting the authorities?”
Wyatt immediately rounded on her. “If this dealership calls the police, I will file a formal complaint for a breach of customer privacy. This car’s system profile contains proprietary testing data from my engineering account. If that data is compromised, your store will be liable.”
Fiona’s face went pale.
The store manager, who had finally noticed the commotion, hurried over and pulled Fiona aside.
“Lydia, perhaps you and your partner should discuss this privately at home,” the manager said, polite but clearly eager to sweep the scene under the rug. “A vehicle return of this nature does require a formal inspection process anyway.”
Wyatt smiled. He stepped closer, leaning down until his breath brushed my ear.
“See? No one is standing in your corner, Lydia. Don’t make yourself look any more pathetic than you already do.”
Myra tugged gently at his sleeve. “Wyatt, let’s go. We’re going to hit mountain traffic if we don’t leave now.”
Wyatt nodded. But as he tried to step past me, I reached out and blocked him.
“You can’t take the car,” I said.
He creased his brow. “What now?”
I opened my hand. The key card was gone, but tucked between my fingers was a small, laminated paper slip.
It was the temporary registration and transit permit the delivery center had just printed for me.
“Without this, you’re driving an unregistered vehicle,” I said. “You won’t make it past the first state trooper on the highway.”
Wyatt’s expression hardened into stone. Myra’s weeping cut off instantly.
Trent lunged forward to grab it, but the security guard blocked him again.
In the sudden flurry of movement, Myra suddenly clutched her chest, her knees buckling as she sank to the floor.
“Wyatt… I can’t… I can’t breathe…”
Wyatt’s face went white. He dropped down and scooped her into his arms. He looked up at me, screaming, “Lydia, are you happy now? If anything happens to her, I swear to God I will make you pay!”
Myra clung to his neck, but as he lifted her, her hand darted out and caught the hem of my trench coat.
With a sharp, downward yank, she pulled me off balance. My knee slammed hard against the concrete step of the display platform, and I tumbled forward.
The temporary registration slip flew from my fingers, landing face-down in a muddy puddle of rainwater near the door.
Wyatt stepped forward, his heavy boot coming down directly on the paper, grinding it into the wet grit. He bent down, picked up the muddy, torn slip, and didn’t even cast a backward glance at me as I lay on the floor.
“Now we can leave,” he said.
The heavy thud of the Tesla doors slamming shut echoed through the glass bay. The red taillights flared like two angry eyes as the car sped out of the lot.
Fiona kneeled down to help me up. The rain outside had slowed, but wet mist was still clinging to my skin.
“Lydia,” she whispered, “do you need to go to the clinic?”
I pushed myself up from the cold floor. My knee was throbbing, a dull, aching heat spreading under my jeans.
My phone buzzed again.
Wyatt: “Go home. I expect you to have this childish attitude out of your system by tonight.”
Immediately after, a notification from my bank popped up.
“Authorized User Wyatt: $4,000 charged at Crystal Mountain Lodge.”
The payment had been processed using my secondary credit card.
3.
I had given Wyatt that secondary card for his mother’s medical expenses.
When he had transitioned to his new firm, there was a gap between his pay cycles. His mother had been diagnosed with severe spinal stenosis, and I had spent my weekends driving her to specialist appointments, putting her physical therapy and copays on my card.
At the time, Wyatt had held me tight, whispering, “Lydia, once my signing bonus clears, I’ll pay you back every dime.”
The bonus had cleared months ago.
Instead of paying me back, he had bought Myra a designer ski jacket because “she gets cold so easily in the winter.”
Fiona helped me clean the scrape on my knee, then handed me a printed document.
“This is our store’s incident report,” she said. “I’ve already saved the security footage from the showroom on a thumb drive. My manager told me not to hand it over privately, but you have every right to request it through formal legal channels.”
She leaned in, lowering her voice further. “Lydia, the dashcam in your car has a separate loop-recording function. The footage of what happened on the highway should still be on the local storage card.”
I nodded. But the car was gone, and the SD card was inside it.
Wyatt knew systems. He knew exactly how to erase a drive.
By the time I took an Uber back to the apartment, the rain had stopped, leaving only damp reflections on the pavement.
Before I could even finish punching in the keypad code to my door, the sound of laughter drifted through the wood.
Myra’s voice carried clearly. “Wyatt, this throw pillow is so cute! Can I take it to the lodge with us?”
And Wyatt’s reply: “Take whatever you want.”
That pillow was the very first item I had bought for our new home. A cream-colored, woven wool piece with the tags still attached.
When the door clicked open, the living room fell dead silent.
My car keys were lying carelessly on the coffee table. Myra was sitting in the center of the sofa, wrapped in my favorite cashmere throw.
On the balcony, Trent was smoking a cigarette, flicking the ashes directly into the pot of the English ivy my grandmother had given me before she passed.
Wyatt walked out of the kitchen holding a mug of steaming ginger tea. Seeing me, his brows knit together.
“You’re back,” he said, his tone flat. “Good. Myra got chilled in the rain and has a light fever. Go whip up some soup for her.”
“I don’t know how,” I said.
Beside the shoe rack sat a pair of muddy snow boots, leaving dirty tracks across the hardwood floor I had spent the previous evening scrubbing. I remained standing at the entryway.
Wyatt handed the tea to Myra, refusing to meet my eyes. “Don’t start with the attitude again. You put everyone through hell today. The least you can do is make dinner and apologize.”
Myra looked down, clutching the mug. “Wyatt, maybe I should just go. I know Lydia is still angry with me. I don’t want to make things difficult.”
She said she wanted to leave, but her fingers tightened around my cashmere throw.
Trent stepped in from the balcony, stubbing his cigarette out on the railing. “Why should you leave? The only person who needs to go is the one acting like an unstable child. My cousin is sick, and she hasn’t even gotten a single apology.”
Wyatt looked at me. “Lydia. Apologize.”
The warm, golden lighting of the apartment made the coldness in their eyes even sharper.
“Apologize to whom?” I asked.
“To Myra.”
“For what? Because she wanted to take my car, because you remotely locked it and nearly got me killed, or because you used my credit card to book her luxury lodging?”
Myra’s eyes instantly flooded. “I didn’t know the booking went on your card, Lydia. Wyatt told me it was his personal account.”
A brief flicker of embarrassment crossed Wyatt’s face, but he quickly covered it with anger. “The card is in my name as an authorized user. I’ll transfer you the money. Do you really have to bring up finances in front of company? Is that who you are now?”
“Company?” I looked at Myra.
She immediately lowered her head, looking small and fragile.
Wyatt’s voice rose. “Myra isn’t some stranger, Lydia.”
“Then what am I?”
The question hung in the air, cold and heavy.
Wyatt stared at me as if I were a bug he wanted to crush. “Lydia, don’t make me say things we both can’t take back. We’ve been together for seven years. If you don’t even have this basic level of trust in our relationship, then there’s no point in us getting married.”
In the past, that threat would have sent a spike of panic through my chest.
Now, it just left a dull, aching throb. It wasn’t the pain of a fresh wound, but the exhaustion of an old scar being torn open one too many times.
Myra suddenly stood up, her body swaying slightly. “Wyatt… my head is spinning…”
Wyatt caught her immediately. “You need to lie down. Go use the master bedroom.”
My fingers tightened against the edge of the entryway console. “The master bedroom is my room.”
Wyatt groaned in exasperation. “The bed is bigger, and she has a fever. She needs proper rest. You can crash in the study for one night.”
Myra whispered, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Wyatt. Lydia will mind.”
Trent let out a loud snort. “She minds everything. Does the world revolve around her?”
Without another word, Wyatt scooped Myra up and walked straight toward my bedroom. As the door swung open, I caught a glimpse of my nightstand, where my grandmother’s old silver heirloom bracelet lay.
It was the most precious thing I owned.
As Wyatt carried Myra past me, she leaned her head against his shoulder and murmured softly, “Lydia, Wyatt mentioned you’re a really light sleeper. Please don’t come in and wake me up tonight, okay?”
The master bedroom door clicked shut in my face.
Trent stepped forward, blocking my path to the hallway. “You heard her. Don’t go looking for trouble.”
I looked up at him, my expression blank.
A second later, Myra’s delighted gasp echoed from behind the closed door. “Oh, Wyatt, look at this silver bracelet! It’s so beautiful!”
4.
Wyatt didn’t come out right away.
Instead, the muffled sound of my nightstand drawer scraping open vibrated through the wall.
I pushed past Trent. He grabbed my arm, his grip tightening like a vise. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Let go of me,” I said.
He didn’t. His fingers dug into the fresh bruise on my forearm.
Inside the bedroom, Myra’s soft voice rose again. “Is this Lydia’s? It looks antique.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt replied casually. “Some old family heirloom from her grandmother. You like it?”
Myra giggled softly. “I just wanted to try it on. It feels so classic. I always wished I had a grandmother who left me things like this.”
I wrenched my arm free from Trent’s grip and flung the bedroom door open.
It wasn’t locked.
Inside, Myra was sliding the solid silver band over her wrist. It was a delicate, hand-carved piece, and as it settled against her arm, it made a soft, metallic clink.
The sound made my stomach turn.
“Take it off,” I said.
Wyatt stood by the bed, his face tightening. “She’s just trying it on, Lydia.”
“Take. It. Off.”
Myra flinched as if I had struck her, hurriedly trying to tug the silver band back over her hand. But her wrist joint was wider than the opening, and the metal caught on her bone.
Tears instantly welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry… it’s stuck. I can’t get it off.”
Wyatt grabbed her hand gently. “Don’t force it. You’ll bruise yourself.”
He spoke to her with such tender care—care he hadn’t shown for my scraped knee or my bleeding hand.
I walked over to the dresser. Wyatt stepped in front of me, his chest puffed out. “Lydia, stop acting like a lunatic.”
“That belonged to my grandmother.”
“I know,” he said, his tone dripping with dismissive boredom. “I’ll take her to a jeweler tomorrow to have it cut off safely if we have to. I’ll pay for the repair.”
Myra shook her head, sobbing. “No, we can’t do that tomorrow. We have to leave for the slopes early.”
Trent leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “It’s a cheap piece of silver. How much could it possibly be worth? Myra’s skin is turning red, and all you care about is some old metal.”
I walked past them to the master bathroom and grabbed a bottle of liquid soap.
Wyatt seemed to take this as a sign of submission, his shoulders dropping slightly. “That’s better. You’re not a bad person, Lydia. You’re just way too sensitive.”
As I poured the soap over Myra’s wrist, her cries grew louder. She shrank back, burying her face in Wyatt’s chest as if she were being tortured.
It took ten agonizing minutes of pulling and maneuvering before the bracelet finally slipped free.
The polished silver face now bore a deep, ugly scratch where it had scraped against her bone. I wiped the soap off with a tissue and clutched the cold metal in my palm.
Myra sniffled, her nose red. “Lydia, I’m so sorry. I can buy you a new one to make up for it.”
I looked at her. “You can’t replace this.”
Wyatt’s face fell into a deep scowl. “Enough. She apologized. What more do you want?”
Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a FaceTime call from Wyatt’s mother.
He swiped to answer, and the camera instantly captured the disarray of my bedroom. Seeing Myra’s tear-stained face, his mother’s voice shrilled through the speaker.
“Lydia, are you bullying Myra again?”
“Mrs. Miller, no, it’s not her fault,” Myra sobbed into the screen. “I accidentally put on Lydia’s bracelet, and it got stuck.”
Wyatt’s mother let out a sharp, disgusted snort. “I thought it was some priceless diamond the way you’re acting. Once you’re married, everything in that household is shared property anyway. What’s the big deal about someone touching a bracelet?”
My fingers tightened around the silver band until the edges bit into my skin.
His mother continued her lecture. “Wyatt works so hard, and Myra is a sweet girl who knows how to help him unwind. If you actually want to marry into our family, Lydia, you need to learn to be generous.”
Down the hall, in the study, sat a box of custom wedding invitations I had spent weeks designing.
I had paid the venue deposits. I had booked the photographer. I had paid half of the apartment’s rent and security deposit.
His family had told me that since Wyatt was transitioning careers, we should keep things simple and that I should handle the upfront costs. They said I should be patient.
And now, even my grandmother’s heirloom was considered “shared property.”
“Mrs. Miller,” I said, my voice quiet but perfectly clear.
“The wedding is off.”
The screen went dead silent.
Wyatt snapped his head up, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What did you just say?”
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Twenty years together.
For the first time in my life, I picked up Leo’s phone.
A contact saved under the name “Crybaby” had sent a selfie. Her cheeks were flushed and broke out in hives from weeping.
“Leo, do I look pretty when I cry?”
A cold dread washed over me, freezing me from the inside out.
The next second, the bedroom door opened and Leo walked out. Seeing the phone in my hand, he calmly reached out. “Give it back.”
My knuckles turned white. “Aren’t you going to explain this?”
His face remained entirely devoid of emotion.
“There’s nothing to explain. It’s exactly what you think. I’m having an affair.”
My voice shook. “Why?”
He lit a cigarette, looked at me through the rising smoke, and let out a soft, mocking laugh.
“Because she’s better at crying than you are. Does that count as a reason?”
…
The silence in the room became absolute.
I watched the gray-white plume of smoke rise from his fingertips, drawing a thin, hazy boundary between us.
His gaze drifted past the smoke, landing coldly on my face.
“See?” he said, his tone carrying a familiar, weary condescension. “You’re doing it again. Silent, saying nothing. You don’t even have the decency to get red-eyed.”
He turned and began walking toward the balcony, clearly done dealing with me.
“Leo,” I called out.
He stopped, but he didn’t turn around.
There were so many questions clawing at the back of my throat. I wanted to ask him when it started. I wanted to ask him how he could do this to me after everything. I wanted to ask him what he meant by “better at crying.”
We had dated for ten years and been married for ten. Twenty years in total.
I was thirty-six now. My entire adult life had been woven into his.
When was the last time I had actually cried in front of him? I couldn’t remember.
But I remembered the year he got hurt.
He was twenty-two, freshly out of college and trying to launch his first startup. He got into a brutal altercation with some local thugs and was badly beaten. I remember standing in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hospital hallway, sobbing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.
When he finally woke up, his face still covered in dried blood and bruises, he reached out with a trembling hand to wipe my tears. His voice was a barely audible rasp.
“Baby, don’t cry. Crying is the most useless thing in the world.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m really okay.”
From that day on, I stopped crying.
No matter what life threw at us, I held it in.
When his startup failed and we lived on instant noodles while working seventy-hour weeks, I didn’t cry.
When his mother passed away and I had to physically hold him up at the funeral, I didn’t cry.
When I suffered a miscarriage so violent it nearly took my life, I kept the physical and emotional agony entirely to myself. I didn’t cry.
And later, when he started staying out all night, claiming he was buried in corporate meetings, and I sat alone on the living room sofa watching the sky turn from black to gray, I didn’t cry.
The man who taught me that tears were a useless weakness was now telling me he had cheated because another woman was better at it.
I swallowed those unasked questions one by one. They felt like rusted nails sliding down my throat, leaving the taste of iron in my mouth.
Finally, I spoke. “Do you want to draft the divorce agreement, or should I?”
He didn’t move.
After a few seconds, he tilted his head to look at me.
“Donna,” he said, using my full name, a patronizing smile playing on his lips. “How old are you again?”
I didn’t answer.
He put the cigarette back between his lips and turned to face me fully, leaning against the balcony doorframe with a lazy, casual posture.
“You’re thirty-six, right?”
“A woman’s prime only lasts so many years, and yours passed a long time ago. Besides, you don’t have a job, you have no income, your body isn’t what it used to be, and let’s face it—you aren’t exactly a beauty anymore.”
“What do you actually have left? Oh, right,” he paused, as if a particularly amusing thought had just struck him. “We’ve been married for ten years without a single scrap of protection, and you’ve never managed to get pregnant once. You don’t even know how to have a baby.”
“If you leave me, who on earth do you think would want you?”
I froze, paralyzed by the sheer cruelty of his words.
I had known this man for two decades.
I remembered him at eighteen, running toward me across the high school soccer field after scoring a goal, boasting and grinning.
I remembered him at twenty-two, lying in a pool of blood, desperately whispering my name.
I remembered him at twenty-five, after his first major business success, getting drunk at a celebratory dinner and holding me tight, whispering, “Donna, I love you. I can finally give you the life you deserve.”
The cigarette burned down to the filter.
Leo stubbed it out on the balcony railing.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen but didn’t pick up.
But I saw it clearly.
The caller ID: “Crybaby.”
A sudden wave of nausea hit me, acid burning the back of my throat. I bit my lip hard to force it down.
Leo slipped the phone back into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a black credit card.
“Here’s your allowance for the month.” He held it out.
I made no move to take it.
He let out a short, dismissive scoff, stepped forward, and shoved the card directly into the pocket of my silk robe.
Then he took a step back, studying me. His eyes swept down and up, as if assessing a piece of property to make sure it was still secure.
“Donna, you’re not a girl anymore. Throwing a fit at your age doesn’t look like flirting, and it certainly isn’t cute. It just makes you look like a bitter, hysterical housewife.”
“So be a good girl and don’t make a scene. Just pretend you didn’t see anything. Pretend you don’t know.”
“It’s better for you, and it’s better for me.”
The front door clicked shut.
He was gone.
I stood there in the quiet house. The credit card in my pocket felt like a hot iron searing through the fabric into my skin.
The nausea returned, stronger this time. I didn’t fight it. I rushed into the bathroom, gripped the edges of the porcelain toilet, and dry-heaved until my ribs ached.
Nothing came out.
I slumped against the cold tile floor, resting my forehead against the side of the bowl. My chest throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, and my eyes stung with a dry heat.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to sob until my chest collapsed.
But not a single tear fell.
It was as if my body was mockingly reminding me: “See? He taught you too well. Tears are useless.”
And now, he had fallen for a woman who wept at the drop of a hat.
But it didn’t matter anymore.
It was over. All of it.
I stood up, washed my face, and began gathering every piece of jewelry, every designer handbag, and every expensive trinket he had bought me over the years under the guise of “household expenses” and anniversary gifts. I packed them all into a single box and left it in the center of the kitchen island where it couldn’t be missed.
Then, I opened my phone and sent a text to my best friend, Beryl.
“Come pick me up. I want to go home.”
After sending the message, I drove straight to a family lawyer’s office to have a divorce petition drawn up. Only when the paperwork was in my hands did I head to Leo’s office.
Just as I reached the lobby, the elevator doors slid open. Leo emerged, carrying a young woman in his arms. Her face was buried in his chest, obscured by her long hair.
Seeing me, Leo’s eyes flickered with a brief, cold indifference. He didn’t say a word, stepping past me as if I were a stranger, heading toward his parked car.
I stepped into his path, blocking him.
I held out the divorce papers.
“Sign it.”
Leo didn’t even glance at the document. “Get out of the way. I have an emergency. I don’t have time for your tantrums right now.”
I didn’t budge. My voice was entirely level. “Leo, I am not throwing a tantrum.”
He looked at me as if I had just told a particularly pathetic joke. Without saying another word, he shoved me aside with his free arm.
He placed the woman into the passenger seat and drove off.
I watched the sleek black Maybach disappear into the city traffic.
A sudden, quiet curiosity washed over me. I wanted to see what his “emergency” was.
I raised my hand and hailed a passing cab.
“Follow that Maybach.”
The cab rode through the city streets, eventually pulling up outside a luxury villa in the quiet, wooded suburbs on the edge of town.
I paid the driver, stepped out, and walked toward the Maybach parked in the driveway.
But as I drew closer, I stopped dead in my tracks.
The car was rocking in a slow, rhythmic motion.
I froze. A bitter, icy chill spread through my limbs.
An emergency.
This was the emergency he couldn’t delay.
The muffled sounds of a man’s low groans and a woman’s soft, breathless whimpering seemed to echo through the quiet afternoon air, amplifying until they filled my head.
But I didn’t run. I stood there, a silent, hollow statue, witnessing the physical betrayal of my husband with another woman.
After what felt like an eternity, the car door clicked open.
Leo stepped out, wrapping his designer suit jacket around a flushed, tear-stained young woman.
When he caught sight of me standing there, he paused for a brief second, then let out a low, mocking laugh.
“You actually followed me? You’re really going to make a scene over this?”
I said nothing. I simply lifted my numb arm and held out the papers once more.
“Sign.”
Leo stared at me for ten long seconds, the amusement fading from his eyes, replaced by a cold sneer.
“Fine. Wait here.”
He scooped the girl up and carried her into the villa.
I stood in the driveway.
I watched the sun dip below the horizon, letting the darkness swallow the yard. I watched the stars appear, and then watched them fade as the sky turned a pale, bruised purple.
I stood there from dusk until dawn.
When the morning sun finally broke through the trees, burning my sleep-deprived eyes, the front door of the villa opened.
Leo walked out, holding the young woman’s hand.
For the first time, I got a clear look at her.
She was young, her face full of youthful collagen, wearing a piece from the latest haute couture collection. Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail, and when she smiled, deep, playful dimples showed in her cheeks.
Leo was looking down at her, talking softly. It was a look of tender, protective adoration I hadn’t seen directed at me in over a decade.
My chest felt incredibly tight, my eyes burning with dryness. But still, no tears came.
As they approached, Leo saw me. A flicker of genuine shock crossed his features, as if he couldn’t believe I had actually stood there all night.
The girl gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. She immediately clutched Leo’s arm, and tears instantly welled in her eyes, spilling over her perfect cheeks.
“Leo, this is all my fault,” she whimpered. “If I hadn’t kept you in bed yesterday, your wife wouldn’t have had to stand out here in the cold all night.”
Leo’s face immediately softened with intense pity. He reached out, gently wiping her tears away with his thumb.
“Oh, sweetie, don’t say that. It has nothing to do with you,” he murmured, his voice thick with indulgence. “You just cry so beautifully, I couldn’t bring myself to leave.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
I pressed my lips together, fighting the urge to look away.
Leo finally turned his gaze to me, tossing his chin toward the car.
“You want the divorce? Fine. Get in. We’ll go to my office and discuss the terms.”
I didn’t argue. I walked over and reached for the front passenger door handle.
Before my fingers could touch it, my arm was violently grabbed and yanked backward.
“Mimi always sits in the front,” Leo said coldly, shielding the girl as he guided her into the seat. “You sit in the back.”
I had been standing on my feet for nearly fourteen hours. My legs were entirely numb, stiff from the morning chill.
When he pulled me, my knees gave way. I stumbled backward and collapsed onto the gravel driveway.
A sharp, jagged stone sliced through my jeans, tearing into my knee.
I gasped as a sharp, hot pain flared up my leg.
When I looked up, Leo was already in the driver’s seat, leaning over to carefully buckle Mimi’s seatbelt. He hadn’t even looked back to see if I was standing.
Holding back a grimace, I forced myself up and climbed into the back seat.
During the entire drive to the office, the two of them flirted and whispered in the front. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the suburban trees give way to high-rises, feeling completely detached from the reality inside the car.
In his spacious corner office, Leo threw a set of documents onto the mahogany desk in front of me.
“I’m leaving you the house. That’s it. You don’t get another dime of my assets.”
“For the past ten years, you’ve done nothing but sit at home while I built this empire. You contributed nothing to my success, so I owe you nothing.”
“So think carefully, Donna. Do you really want this divorce?”
“Without me, the comfortable life you’ve grown accustomed to is gone. You will never find another man who can provide for you the way I did.”
“But me? There’s a line of young, beautiful women waiting to take your place. And you? If you’re lucky, you’ll end up as some middle-aged guy’s stepmother, and even then—”
“Fine,” I said, cutting him off. I couldn’t bear to listen to his voice for another second.
Leo froze, his mouth half-open.
I picked up the pen, flipped straight to the final page of the agreement, and pressed the nib to the signature line.
“Donna!”
He slammed his hand down on the paper, his face darkening with sudden rage. “I am giving you one last chance to think this through. Are you seriously going through with this?”
“Yes.”
I smiled, gently brushing his hand off the document. “I am absolutely going through with this.”
I signed my name quickly and cleanly, then slid the paper back across the desk to him.
“Now, you sign.”
Leo’s expression grew increasingly hostile. “Donna, is all of this really necessary over a minor slip-up? Do you have to be so—”
“Leo!”
I suddenly raised my voice, the raw, suffocating pain I had kept buried deep inside finally fracturing my composure. “You cheated on me! You slept with another woman, and you have the audacity to ask if this is “necessary”? Do you have any idea how utterly repulsive you are?”
Leo stared at me, momentarily stunned by my outburst. Then, he grabbed my shoulders, his grip tight and defensive.
“We’ve been together for twenty years, Donna! Twenty years without a single break! People get sick of physical objects after that long, let alone another human being. It’s natural.”
“And besides, if you’re so lonely, go find another man. I won’t stop you.”
In that moment, looking into his eyes, I realized the boy I had loved at eighteen was entirely dead. The man standing in front of me was a hollow, rotting stranger.
I pushed his hands off my shoulders with all the strength I had left.
“Don’t touch me, Leo. Don’t make me despise you any more than I already do.”
“Just sign the papers.”
Leo stood in silence for a few moments. Then, with a harsh scowl, he snatched up the pen. “Fine. If you want to ruin your life, go ahead. Let’s see how long you survive—”
He had barely scrawled the first letter of his name when the office door burst open.
“Leo… I’m bleeding,” a faint, trembling voice cried out.
Mimi stood in the doorway, clutching her stomach. Blood was seeping through her white designer skirt, dripping onto the carpet. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes wide with terror.
“Leo, my stomach hurts so bad…”
I stared at her, my mind momentarily blanking out.
The sight of her clutched abdomen, the bright red blood—it was a mirror image of the afternoon I had lost my own child years ago.
So.
He had gotten her pregnant.
I turned to look at Leo, but before I could even register his expression, a blur of motion passed by me.
He had already scooped Mimi into his arms, rushing past me and out the door. His face was a mask of pure, frantic terror.
The divorce agreement sat on the desk, bearing only the first letter of his name.
I walked over, picked up the pen, and carefully finished his signature, mimicking his handwriting perfectly.
Back when he was first starting the company, he used to be so exhausted that he would fall asleep while reviewing contracts. Out of sheer love and pity for him, I had spent hours practicing his signature so I could sign the routine business agreements on his behalf.
After thousands of documents, our handwriting had become indistinguishable.
I took the signed agreement straight to the courthouse to file for an uncontested dissolution of marriage. On my way out, I contacted a real estate agent and put our house on the market at a below-value price for a quick cash sale.
Then, I texted Beryl and sat on a bench by the curb to wait for her.
Thirty minutes passed, but she didn’t show up. Just as I was about to call her, my phone rang. It was Leo.
“Donna, if you have a problem with me, come say it to my face. Don’t send your psychotic friend to harass Mimi in her hospital bed.”
Before I could even ask what he was talking about, the line went dead.
I took a cab to the hospital. As soon as I stepped onto the maternity ward, I heard Beryl’s furious voice echoing down the hallway.
She had just slapped Leo across the face, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed.
“You disgusting piece of trash! She gave you twenty years of her life! Twenty years! And now that you’re rich and powerful, this is how you treat her? You cheat on her and get some cheap little girl pregnant? How do you sleep at night?”
Leo’s face was dark, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Why should I feel guilty?”
“For ten years, she’s lived off my hard work like a parasite. She’s a cold, emotionless machine who doesn’t even know how to cry, let alone give me a child. Why should I waste the rest of my life bound to her?”
“Leo!” Beryl’s voice cracked, her entire body trembling with rage. “She stopped crying because of you! And do you have any idea why she couldn’t get pregnant? She did it to—”
“Beryl, that’s enough!”
I stepped into the corridor, cutting her off, and pulled her back by the arm.
Then, I looked at Leo.
“I’m sorry for the disruption,” I said quietly.
Leo stared at me, a brief shadow of confusion crossing his eyes. Before he could speak, a weak, pathetic cry of “Leo…” drifted out from the hospital room behind him.
His expression hardened back into disgust.
“Donna, you are genuinely pathetic. I don’t ever want to see your face again.”
“I’ll sign those papers when Mimi is out of the hospital. Not a second before.”
I wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to bother, that it was already done. But he had already turned his back on me and walked into the room.
Beryl tried to push past me to go after him, but I held her tight.
“Let it go, Beryl,” I whispered, my voice exhausted but steady. “It’s over. We have a flight to catch. Let’s go home.”
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I woke up trapped in a trashy romance novel as the disposable, tragic rival—and to make matters worse, I was bound to a chaotic “Persona System.” My only ticket home was to complete daily behavioral prompts, rack up points, and survive the plot.
The second my eyes flickered open, my billionaire fiancé, Gary Barlowe, was pointing a finger in my face, his voice echoing with disgust. “We’ve been engaged for less than twenty-four hours, and you already threw Isla down the stairs?”
“You are vicious, entitled, and utterly feral! Go out to the driveway and kneel in the rain until you’ve learned some goddamn humility!”
I looked past his shaking finger. There she was. Isla, his precious muse, his delicate little flower, looking up at him with wide, tear-rimmed eyes.
Without a word, I pulled out my phone and brought up my Venmo QR code, thrusting it right in front of his face.
Gary froze, his dark brows knitting together. “What the hell is this?”
“You’ve been throwing these childish tantrums your entire life,” he sneered, regaining his posture. “I’m warning you, Darcy. No amount of manipulation is going to make me love you.”
I stared back, completely unfazed. “Then pay the bill and get out of my face.”
“Why put on this big show of tragic devotion? If you actually cared about doing the right thing, you’d be wiring me a settlement for pain and suffering.”
[Ding! Prompt completed. ‘Gold Digger’ persona successfully maintained. System Note: That was wildly out of left field!]
Gary’s jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white. “You are so incredibly tacky. Cheap, classless, and utterly obsessed with money.”
I pointed at the trembling, saintly Isla. “And what about you? Creeping around with another woman while wearing my ring, and you still want to play the romantic hero?”
[Splendid! You absolutely roasted him. Look at him turn red! Five hundred points awarded!]
With the sweet chiming of those five hundred points echoing in my mind, I spun on my heel to walk out.
Gary roared from behind me. “Where do you think you’re going? If you walk out that door tonight, Darcy, the engagement is off!”
I glanced back over my shoulder, looking past him to the glowing translucent panel floating in the air. “To find a better ATM, obviously,” I muttered under my breath.
“Tomorrow,” I thought, “I think I’ll try the passive-aggressive victim card. Let’s see how much they like that.”
…
“Step foot outside this house, Darcy, and I will personally ensure you’re cut off from every cent.”
Gary’s threat cut through the cold air of the foyer.
My steps halted.
It wasn’t because I was afraid of him. It was because the glowing blue screen had just flashed a warning in front of my eyes.
[Friendly Warning: Your current character’s bank account balance is negative thirty-two thousand dollars.]
I stared at the tiny negative sign. My blood ran cold.
“Changed your mind?” Gary let out a humorless, biting laugh. “Go on then. Go find your next ATM. Let’s see how far you get. Without my family’s backing, Darcy, you won’t even have a place to sleep tonight.”
Isla reached out, her delicate fingers lightly catching the sleeve of his tailored suit.
“Gary, please don’t be so harsh. Darcy is just acting out because she’s upset.” She turned her gaze to me, her eyes welling with tears that threatened to spill over but never quite did—a masterclass in fragile innocence. “Darcy… please, just apologize to Gary. I don’t care about what happened on the stairs. I really don’t.”
I turned around slowly, lifting my phone again. “Sure, I’ll apologize. But I charge by the minute.”
Gary’s face darkened, veins showing at his temples. “You’re still talking about money?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I tapped the screen, the Venmo QR code glowing bright. “Fifty grand for the false accusation. A hundred grand for the threat of ending the engagement. And eighty-eight grand—with a loyalty discount—for having to listen to your side-chick’s passive-aggressive whiny garbage.”
The soft, wounded expression on Isla’s face stiffened. “Darcy, how can you say that about me? Gary and I… we aren’t what you think.”
I nodded slowly, deadpan. “Right. You’re not together. You’re just a freeloading emotional parasite who prefers to use other women’s men for sport.”
The dam broke. Real tears finally spilled down her pale cheeks. “Gary… maybe I shouldn’t have come back. I’m causing so much trouble.”
Gary immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her as if she were made of glass. “Darcy. Apologize to Isla. Now.”
“Wire me the money.”
“Apologize.”
“Payment first.”
“Darcy!”
“Gary.” I mirrored his stiff, demanding tone. “Yelling doesn’t make the transaction go through any faster. Keep shouting, and I’ll start charging interest.”
[Ding! ‘Gold Digger’ persona stable. Two hundred points awarded.]
Just as the sweet chime rang in my mind, Gary snapped. He lunged forward, snapping the phone right out of my hands. The sudden movement caught me off guard, the slick glass slipping from my fingertips.
He held it high, his thumb instantly opening my contacts. “You love money so much? Let’s see how much your father is willing to pay to keep his family’s reputation intact when I tell him exactly how his daughter is behaving.”
I reached for it, my irritation rising. “Give it back.”
Gary held it well out of my reach, looking down at me with cold satisfaction. “Frightened now?”
“Gary, please don’t call Mr. Ward,” Isla murmured, her voice dripping with mock concern. “It will only embarrass Darcy.”
Even as she played the peacemaker, I saw her toe slide my handbag across the polished marble floor. It skidded, spilling its contents. Out slid a glossy black hotel keycard.
Gary’s gaze locked onto it. The temperature in the room plummeted.
“A hotel key?” his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “When you said you were going to find another ATM… you meant you already had some guy lined up?”
I blinked. That card definitely wasn’t mine.
The System went completely silent, offering zero help.
Isla gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth. “Darcy… how could you? Right after the engagement ceremony?”
“Shut up.”
I knelt down to gather my things. Gary’s hand clamped onto my wrist like a steel vice, stopping me cold.
“Whose card is this, Darcy? Who is he?”
“If I said Isla planted it in my bag, would you believe me?”
“Isla would never do something so vile.” The words left his mouth instantly, without a fraction of a second of doubt.
It was so predictable, I couldn’t even summon the energy to mock him.
Isla shook her head, tears spilling fresh. “Darcy, I know you hate me, but you can’t just blame me for your own mistakes.”
Gary hurled the keycard at my feet. “You will go outside. You will kneel on the driveway for two hours in the rain. When you’re done, you will come to the Barlowe family dinner tomorrow and apologize to Isla in front of everyone.”
I looked up at him, studying the rigid lines of his face. “And if I refuse?”
“Then I send a picture of this keycard to your father.” His voice was smooth, quiet, and lethal. “Your father is desperate for Barlowe Enterprises to renew his line of credit, Darcy. You tell me—who do you think he’ll believe? His reckless daughter, or his savior?”
I wasn’t the original Darcy, but the biological response of this body was beyond my control. A cold tremor ran down my spine.
Outside, the storm was raging, thick drops of rain hammering against the glass. Isla opened her umbrella, tilting it to keep Gary dry as she stepped onto the porch.
“It’s just a couple of hours, Darcy,” she whispered softly. “Gary is only doing this to teach you a lesson. It’s for your own good.”
I looked at her pristine, dry dress. “If you’re so deeply concerned about my soul, why don’t you join me out there?”
Her face went instantly pale.
Gary lost what little patience he had left. He grabbed my arm and dragged me down the steps, out into the biting wind. “Keep your poison away from her.”
The downpour hit me instantly, freezing and heavy. It pelted my face, blurring my vision. He forced me down onto the wet concrete of the driveway.
The sharp, jarring pain of my knees hitting the stone sent a shiver through my core. At that exact moment, the System finally chimed.
[System Warning: Please maintain your persona. A true mercenary doesn’t care about humiliation; she only cares about the bottom line.]
I grit my teeth against the cold and extended a wet, open hand toward Gary. “Fine. I’ll kneel.”
He looked down at me, his eyes dark with triumph.
I let a slow, empty smile creep onto my lips. “Two hundred thousand dollars an hour. Prime rate. And I charge hazard pay for inclement weather.”
Gary’s eyes hardened into ice. “You are rotten to the core, Darcy.”
Isla stood close to him under the umbrella, sighing softly. “Darcy, if you were really struggling for cash, you could have just asked. You didn’t have to degrade yourself like this.”
I stared down at the tips of her pristine designer heels. Perfectly dry. Spotless. My knees were already starting to go numb, and my phone was still in Gary’s possession. I hadn’t let them have the last word, but physically, I was still the one brought low in the dirt.
Gary bent down, aiming my phone’s camera right at me. “Since you love money so much, I’ll give you a chance to earn some real capital.”
I blinked through the rain. “What kind of chance?”
He tapped the screen, snapping a photo of me shivering on the wet stone. “At the family dinner tomorrow, you will get down on your knees and serve Isla tea. Do that, and I’ll transfer a million dollars into your account.”
“Gary, are you sure I should sit here? What if Darcy gets upset?”
Isla’s sweet, hesitant voice floated over the dining room table just as the blue screen flickered to life in my vision.
[Today’s Persona: The Master Manipulator.]
[Prompt: Do not fight fire with fire. Do not flip the table. Beat her at her own game with pure, unadulterated sweetness.]
I had spent the night recovering, and even the slightest bend of my knees sent a dull, throbbing pain shooting up my legs. Gary sat adjacent to the head of the table, cutting his steak. He didn’t even look up when I walked in.
“She doesn’t have the right to be upset,” he said coldly.
The entire Barlowe family hierarchy was seated around us—his parents, his aunts, his uncles. Isla was wearing a pristine white silk dress, seated in the exact chair reserved for Gary’s fiancée. Her manicured fingers lightly brushed the rim of his crystal wine glass.
When the butler escorted me in, every pair of eyes in the room turned toward me.
Gary’s mother, Catherine, immediately frowned. “Darcy. I hear you threw another one of your tantrums last night.”
Isla scrambled out of her seat instantly, looking panicked. “Oh, Mrs. Barlowe, please don’t blame Darcy! It’s entirely my fault. I shouldn’t have come back to the city.”
I leaned lightly against the back of an empty chair, a soft, yielding smile gracing my lips. “Oh, Isla, please don’t say that.”
The room went dead silent. Everyone blinked in confusion.
I lowered my head, keeping my voice softer and more fragile than hers could ever be. “You are so incredibly kind. You only wanted to keep my fiancé company on our engagement day. You only wanted to cry on his shoulder when everyone blamed me. And you only stood by with an umbrella, feeling so deeply sad for me while I was kneeling in the freezing rain.”
Isla’s expression froze mid-pity.
I daintily dabbed at the corner of my eye, pretending to wipe away a stray tear. “How could I ever blame you? I only blame my own terrible luck. I’m just not as good as you are at getting people to protect me.”
Gary’s brow furrowed, his fork scraping against his plate. “Darcy, what kind of passive-aggressive game are you playing now?”
I looked at him, letting my eyes turn liquid and wide. “Gary, how could you say that? I’m being completely sincere.”
His hand froze around his glass.
I took a delicate step forward, letting my voice tremble just enough. “I just love you so much. That’s why when you told me to kneel in the dirt, I did it without question. You wanted me to come tonight and apologize to Isla, so here I am. And if you want me to give up my seat as your fiancée… I’ll step aside for her. I really will.”
Catherine Barlowe’s face shifted. “What do you mean, ‘give up your seat’?”
Isla panicked, her hands fluttering. “Mrs. Barlowe, it’s not like that! I—I just sat down in the wrong chair by mistake!”
I nodded quickly, backing her up with absolute earnestness. “Of course. She just made a tiny mistake. After all, sitting right next to Gary is so comforting. Anyone who gets a taste of that warmth would find it hard to get back up.”
Across the table, Gary’s aunt let out a sharp, poorly concealed snicker.
The waterworks began again in Isla’s eyes. “Darcy… you really do hate me, don’t you?”
I reached across the table and gently clasped her hand in mine. “How could I ever hate you?”
She tried to pull away, but I tightened my grip, smiling sweetly. “You fell down an entire flight of stairs and didn’t even get a scratch, yet you still managed to make Gary punish me so severely. I could only dream of having that kind of power over him.”
Gary slammed his palm onto the table. “Enough!”
My shoulders shook instantly, and a perfectly timed tear splashed into my teacup. “Gary, please… don’t raise your voice at me. It frightens me.”
The System went quiet for two beats before chiming.
[Ding! Toxicity levels reaching peak capacity. Beautifully executed. Three hundred points awarded.]
Catherine’s gaze slowly shifted from me to Isla, her eyes narrowing. “Isla. If you fell down the stairs, where is your medical report?”
Isla bit her lip, looking cornered. “Everything was so chaotic last night… I didn’t think to go to the hospital.”
I sniffled, looking up with big, watery eyes. “Exactly. She’s just so considerate. Too busy to see a doctor for her life-threatening fall, but just enough time to make sure Gary had me kneeling in a storm.”
Gary glared at me, his eyes burning. “Darcy, watch your tongue.”
I looked down at my hands, shrinking back. “I’m sorry. I always say the wrong things. I should have said that Isla’s fall was incredibly elegant, your punishment was perfectly timed, and my knees belonged on that wet pavement anyway.”
At the head of the table, Richard Barlowe, Gary’s father, finally laid down his silver utensils. “Gary. Did you actually force her to kneel outside in the rain last night?”
Gary cleared his throat, maintaining his rigid pride. “She pushed Isla. She needed to understand there are consequences.”
Richard turned his sharp, calculating eyes onto me. “Did you push her, Darcy?”
Before I could speak, Isla suddenly gasped, clutching her chest. “Mr. Barlowe, please… don’t interrogate her. I would die of guilt if I became the reason their engagement fell apart.”
Gary stood up immediately, leaning over her. “Isla, are you alright?”
She leaned into his chest, her breathing shallow and labored. “I think… I’m just overwhelmed from last night. It’s nothing.”
I watched them hold each other right there in front of his entire family. Catherine’s face was practically purple with embarrassment.
But instead of realizing the room’s temperature, Gary looked up at me and barked, “Darcy, go get Isla a glass of warm water.”
I didn’t move an inch.
His eyes darkened further. “You just said you didn’t blame her. Why the sudden attitude?”
The entire table fell dead silent.
Memories that weren’t mine flooded my mind—years of Darcy always coming second. Ever since they were children, the rule was simple: if Isla cried, Darcy had to yield. Yield her toys, yield her achievements, yield Gary. And now, yield her dignity.
I quietly poured a cup of boiling water from the kettle and walked over to Isla. She looked up at me, a flicker of smug satisfaction dancing in her eyes.
Gary watched me like a hawk. “Keep your hands steady.”
I extended the porcelain cup. The moment Isla’s fingers brushed the rim, she deliberately let go. The boiling liquid splashed directly over the back of my hand.
But she was the one who shrieked first. “Ah! Darcy, why would you burn me?!”
“Please, put the cameras away. I have severe social anxiety. Being perceived by living people makes me break out in hives.”
The System refreshed my prompt just as Gary dragged me into the press briefing area outside the Barlowe corporate headquarters.
[Today’s Persona: Severe Social Phobic.]
[Prompt: Actively avoid the crowd, and shift the pressure of the media directly onto the instigator.]
My hand was tightly wrapped in sterile gauze. In the end, the spilled water from the night before had been spun into “irrefutable proof” that I had maliciously attacked Isla. Gary had even ordered the maids to sweep away the broken porcelain, destroying any evidence of how the water had actually spilled.
When I asked him, “Did anyone check the dining room cameras?” he had simply replied, “We don’t need security footage to tell us what we all saw. I won’t humiliate Isla.”
And now, he was shoving me directly in front of the flashing cameras. “Clear the air,” he hissed in my ear. “Tell them it was an accident and that you didn’t burn her on purpose.”
I stared at him, incredulous. “If it was an accident, why am I the one standing trial here?”
Gary’s voice dropped to a low, warning register. “Darcy. Do not push me today.”
Isla was standing just off-camera. Her finger was wrapped in a thick, dramatic bandage that made her look like she had survived a war zone, while my actual second-degree burn was barely covered.
“Darcy, just say a few words,” she said sweetly from the sidelines. “Don’t make things difficult for Gary.”
I leaned slightly toward her. “Is that bandage a medical necessity, or is it part of your wardrobe for the day?”
She blinked, caught off guard.
Gary immediately stepped between us. “Are you trying to intimidate her again?”
Before he could say more, the reporters surged forward.
“Ms. Ward! Is it true you physically assaulted Isla Winston at the Barlowe family dinner?”
“Has your engagement to Mr. Barlowe been called off?”
“Is it true that Ms. Winston is the real love of his life?”
The flashbulbs flared, blinding me. I took a sharp step back, shielding my face. “Please… stop the flashing.”
The press smelled blood. “Ms. Ward, are you avoiding the question out of guilt?”
I clutched my handbag to my chest, letting my voice shake. “I have severe anxiety. The crowd is… too much.”
Gary’s face twisted in annoyance. “Darcy, stop acting.”
I pointed a trembling finger directly at him. “Interview him instead.”
The reporters turned their lenses to Gary in unison. Gary stiffened, his jaw tightening.
I kept shrinking back into the shadows. “He has all the answers,” I whimpered. “He can tell you all about the house rules. Like whether forcing your fiancée to kneel in a torrential downpour counts as domestic abuse. Or whether letting another woman occupy your fiancée’s seat at dinner is the new standard of high-society etiquette. He might even explain the medical miracle of falling down an entire flight of stairs without a single medical record to prove it.”
Isla’s sweet facade cracked. “Darcy! That is entirely out of context!”
I clamped my hands over my ears, shaking my head. “Please don’t raise your voice at me. The scent of cheap tea is giving me a migraine.”
Instantly, a dozen microphones were shoved in Gary’s face.
“Mr. Barlowe, is it true you made Ms. Ward kneel in the rain?”
“Ms. Winston, why is there no medical record of your fall?”
“Mr. Barlowe, is Ms. Winston an active mistress in your relationship?”
Gary’s voice was tight, his public relations mask slipping. “No comment.”
But the press wasn’t backing down. Isla shrank behind him, her eyes welling up with real fear this time. “Gary… please make them stop. I don’t want to be on camera,” she whimpered.
The hot mic picked up every single syllable. I kept my head down, slowly slipping away from the edge of the crowd.
[Ding! Social Anxiety persona threshold reached. Four hundred points awarded.]
But before I could make my escape, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. Gary had caught up to me, pulling me into a side corridor. “Are you satisfied now?” he spat.
I winced, staring down at his grip. “Let go. You’re hurting me.”
His eyes flickered to the fresh gauze on my hand, and his grip loosened marginally.
From behind him, Isla let out a fragile, dramatic gasp. “Gary… I feel so dizzy.”
Whatever brief hesitation Gary had evaporated instantly. “Apologize to her, Darcy. Now.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “She’s dizzy. How is my apology going to cure her vertigo?”
“You threw her to the wolves out there!”
“You brought the wolves here yourself,” I countered.
Gary’s expression turned stone-cold. “I brought the press to give you a chance to clear your name.”
I looked at him, feeling a sudden, deep sense of absurdity. “Clear my name of what? Clear the fact that you forced me to kneel in a storm? Clear the fact that she sends you late-night voice notes at three in the morning, begging for her ‘Gary’?”
Isla’s face went completely bloodless. Gary froze, slowly turning his head to look at her. “Voice notes?”
She immediately burst into tears. “I—I was just scared, Gary! I was lonely!”
“Right,” I chimed in, deadpan. “She was lonely, so she decided to dial up my fiancé in the dead of night. And my hand is severely burned, but clearly, I’m just being dramatic.”
A reporter who had sneaked into the corridor whispered to his cameraman, “Get all of this.”
Gary finally snapped. He grabbed my handbag, reached inside, and pulled out my phone before I could stop him. “You want to play games in public?” he growled.
He unlocked the screen—which he still had access to—and pulled up a message sent from an unknown number. It was a photo. In the photo, I was standing outside a luxury hotel, holding the glossy black keycard. The angle made it look incredibly intimate, as if I were slipping inside for a secret rendezvous.
The reporters gasped, shutters clicking furiously. “Ms. Ward, is this proof of your infidelity?”
I stared at the photo. My palms felt cold.
Isla spoke up, her voice a tiny, regretful whisper. “Darcy… I really wanted to help you keep this a secret.”
Gary looked down at me, his eyes entirely devoid of warmth. “Do you have anything to say for yourself now?”
I slowly raised my chin. “Actually, yes.”
The crowd held its collective breath.
I pointed at the screen. “That’s a fantastic shot. Really captured my good side.”
Gary let out a sharp, mocking breath. “Still trying to laugh it off?”
I smiled back, cool and collected. “I’m just saying, I’d love the high-resolution original file. I want to see whose hand was slipping that keycard into my bag in the first place.”
### Chapter Two
“If you want me to clear this up, you’re going to have to sign a retainer. Five million dollars. Flat rate.”
When Gary showed up at my penthouse the next afternoon, the System had just flashed a new prompt across my vision.
[Today’s Persona: The Cold, Ruthless Tycoon.]
[Prompt: Maintain absolute emotional control. Prioritize financial gain above all else. Match his authority beat for beat.]
The internet had been in a frenzy all night. Three headlines had been fighting for the top trending spot for twelve hours straight: “Barlowe Heir Spends Engagement Night with Muse.” “Fiancée Forced to Kneel in the Rain?” “Darcy Ward’s Secret Hotel Rendezvous.”
Gary threw a leather-bound folder onto my coffee table. “I wrote the statement. Read it exactly as it is.”
I glanced down, scanning the crisp paper. “I, Darcy Ward, out of irrational jealousy toward Isla Winston, have repeatedly acted out in a volatile manner. I offer my sincerest apologies to Gary Barlowe and Isla Winston…”
I looked up, meeting his cold gaze. “You want me to sign my own character assassination?”
“It’s the path of least resistance,” Gary said, his voice flat. “It’s the minimum cost.”
“For whom?” I asked, leaning back.
“For the Barlowe brand. For your family. For you.”
I slid the folder back across the table. “Correction: it’s the maximum benefit for Isla, and total ruin for me.”
Isla, who was sitting next to him on my sofa, spoke up in a soft, trembling voice. “Darcy… if you don’t apologize, the public will only keep tearing you apart.”
I turned my eyes to her. “And tell me, Isla—is the online hate campaign currently targeting me your standard package, or did you spring for the premium bot farm?”
Her eyes widened in panic.
Gary stepped in, his tone hardening. “Darcy, stop projecting your own malice onto others.”
I opened my laptop and slid a newly drafted document toward him. “Mr. Barlowe, this is a standard public relations consulting agreement.”
His brow furrowed.
I tapped a sleek Montblanc pen against the desk. “If you want my cooperation, you pay my retainer first.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Hardly.” I crossed my legs, adjusting the cuffs of my silk blouse with practiced ease. “I am perfectly calm. Calm enough to recognize that an emotionally volatile executive like yourself has no business managing a multi-billion-dollar enterprise.”
Gary stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “Who do you think you are to lecture me on business?”
“Your consultant,” I replied, pointing to the line on the page. “As long as you clear the invoice, I’ll happily continue evaluating your performance.”
Isla quickly reached out to grab his sleeve. “Gary, don’t let her get to you. Darcy is just acting out because of the press.”
I looked at her, tilting my head. “If you understand me so well, why don’t you pay the five-million-dollar retainer on his behalf?”
Her lips trembled. “I… I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Then why are you trying to manage my reputation on a budget?”
Gary let out a cold, sharp laugh. “You think your reputation is worth five million dollars?”
I nodded slowly. “It is certainly worth more than your selective integrity.”
His phone began to buzz frantically on the table. He answered it, his expression tightening as the voice on the other end spoke quickly. “Mr. Barlowe, the board is demanding an immediate resolution. The stock price is still in a freefall.”
Gary hung up and stared at me, his eyes dark. “Darcy. This is your absolute last chance.”
I placed my phone on the table, displaying a wire-transfer routing number. “And this is my final quote.”
He leaned over the desk, placing his palms flat, trying to use his height to intimidate me. “Do you honestly believe I won’t freeze your father’s business out of the market?”
My fingers stilled on my laptop. Seeing my slight pause, a flash of smug victory crossed his face. “His credit line renewal is sitting on my desk, Darcy. I suggest you remember that.”
Isla chimed in, her voice dripping with pity. “Darcy, please. It’s just a simple apology. Don’t let your stubborn pride ruin your father’s life’s work.”
I kept my eyes locked on her. “You seem very invested in my father’s welfare.”
“I just want what’s best for everyone,” she said softly.
“Then you should go kneel in the driveway. I’m sure that would make everyone feel much better.”
Her cheeks flushed red.
Gary had reached his limit. “If you don’t sign this statement, Darcy, I will have our legal department file a lawsuit for defamation and corporate sabotage by the end of the business day.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Are you recording this threat, Mr. Barlowe?”
His eyes flickered.
I tapped the sleek pen on the desk. “This is a digital recording pen. Brand new. High definition. Very expensive.”
In truth, it was just a regular pen. But the mere suggestion made him hesitate.
Before he could speak, the doors to my study were pushed open. Richard Barlowe stood in the doorway, his sharp eyes instantly locking onto the documents on the desk.
“You believe Gary is unfit to run the company, Darcy?”
Gary’s posture shattered. “Father? What are you doing here?”
Isla scrambled to her feet, smoothing her dress. “Mr. Barlowe.”
Richard ignored them both, walking straight to my desk and looking at me. “Explain.”
I flipped the contract to the fee schedule page. “Consulting fees apply, Mr. Barlowe.”
“Darcy, stop this nonsense!” Gary snapped.
Richard raised a single hand to silence his son. “How much?”
I looked at Gary’s stunned, pale face. “Five million. Wire transfer. Upfront.”
Richard let out a faint, dry chuckle. “Done.”
Isla stepped forward, her voice tight with panic. “Mr. Barlowe, Darcy is in a highly unstable state right now. You can’t take her seriously.”
Richard finally looked at her, his voice freezing the air in the room. “Ms. Winston, this is a private family matter. Your presence here is highly inappropriate.”
Her face drained of all color.
Gary clenched his fists. “Father, you’re choosing to believe her?”
Richard placed his tablet on the desk, showing the real-time stock ticker. “I believe in results,” he said flatly.
I slid my contract back into my folder. Richard looked at me. “And what results can you offer me, Darcy?”
I looked past him to his executive secretary standing in the hall, then turned my gaze back to Gary. “I can tell you that this crisis didn’t start with a trending hashtag,” I said smoothly.
Richard narrowed his eyes.
I said slowly, “It started the moment the CEO brought a woman with no corporate standing into the core meetings of Barlowe Enterprises.”
🌟 Continue the story here
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I went with my husband to his college roommate’s wedding.
He had gone out of his way to dig out the oldest, most buried suit from the very back of our closet.
At the reception, I went to the restroom to touch up my makeup. When I came back, I saw the group of men in their custom-tailored tuxedos, champagne flutes in hand, crowding Lester into a corner near the service bar.
“Everyone at this table is pulling in mid-six figures, Lester. What are you even doing here on an eighty-thousand-dollar salary?”
“You used to be the wild card of the Prep School Princes, man. How did you end up so thoroughly domesticated?”
The groom walked over, drink in hand, trying to smooth things over but patting Lester’s shoulder with a patronizing grin:
“Don’t sweat the gift registry, Lester. Just put fifty bucks in a card. Don’t break the bank.”
Lester downed his glass of champagne in one swallow, his face flushing a deep, tight crimson. He didn’t look at me once.
He didn’t say a word on the drive home, and from that night on, he never touched that suit again.
Soon after, he started complaining. My cooking was too salty. I didn’t dress up enough anymore.
I looked at myself in the vanity mirror. My features were still soft, but there was a quiet, weathered exhaustion around my eyes that makeup couldn’t hide.
Seven years had gone by in a blur.
Just like that old suit, I had finally become the embarrassment he wanted to keep hidden.
…
The thought hit me like a thin, sharp needle slipping straight into my heart.
I finished making dinner and sat in the living room, waiting for Lester to come home. I’d sent him a text, but there was no reply.
I opened his Instagram profile. It was completely barren.
Three days visible.
I stared at the screen, stunned. I scrolled back through my own memory to the post he had shared for our anniversary last year:
“The luckiest thing that ever happened to me was marrying you.”
That caption, along with the photo of me leaning against his shoulder, laughing so hard my eyes closed, had been hidden away.
I tried to reassure myself. It was probably just for work.
Lester was currently working as a campaign planner at a boutique ad agency. His manager had recently mentioned that his social media looked too personal, that it might alienate potential high-end clients.
Yes, that had to be it.
But as I kept scrolling, I saw a post from his college roommate, Ryan, from two days ago.
The picture showed a group of men standing on a lush golf course in matching custom Polo shirts, with a row of Cayennes and Panameras parked in the background.
Ryan’s caption read:
The Prep School Princes reunion. Just missing one.
Two days ago?
I remembered Lester telling me he had a team-building dinner that night. He hadn’t gotten home until late.
I pinched the screen to zoom in. On the absolute edge of the frame, there was a figure half-cropped out of the photo.
The light blue linen shirt he was wearing was one I’d bought him for his birthday, spending half a month’s paycheck at the boutique downtown. He’d told me he loved it, that he’d only save it for special occasions.
So, he had gone.
But there was no place for him in the picture.
Or rather, he had been edited out.
As I stared blankly at the screen, the sound of keys jiggling at the entryway broke the silence.
Lester pushed the door open.
He smelled of whiskey. His collar was slightly undone, and on the left side of his collarbone, there was a faint, dusty-pink smudge.
I recognized that shade.
It was a trendy lip stain from a high-end brand—expensive, the kind young girls on TikTok obsessed over.
A cold, bitter ache surged from my stomach. I took his coat as he handed it to me, keeping my voice as even as possible.
“Since when did you start drinking this much?”
Lester unbuttoned his cuffs, his eyes never leaving his wrists. “Client dinners. You can’t close deals without a few drinks.”
His tone was flat, conversational. He was stating a simple fact of life.
But the Lester from three years ago hadn’t been like this.
Three years ago, he would have wrapped his arms around my waist, laughing. “Don’t worry, I skipped the bar. I wanted to stay clear-headed for you.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to ask, “Why did you archive all your old Instagram posts?”
Lester paused.
He looked up at me, his brow furrowing slightly, a flicker of controlled impatience tightening the corners of his mouth. “The agency requested it. Why are you suddenly tracking my social media?”
As he spoke, his wedding band caught the warm light of the hallway.
But I noticed his right index finger unconsciously tapping twice against the seam of his trousers.
It was his tell. His lying tic.
He’d done it since college. It had never changed.
I swallowed the bitterness and let the subject drop. “Have you eaten? I made sweet and sour ribs.”
“I ate at the restaurant.”
He grabbed his jacket and walked into the bedroom. When the door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the warm, yellow glow of the living room, the apartment suddenly felt massive. And entirely empty.
This was my third year of marriage to Lester.
Counting our years of dating, we had been together for seven.
Everyone always said Lester adored me.
Years ago, for my sake, he had walked away from the path his family had paved for him, falling from the heights of East Coast high society to become an ordinary nine-to-five employee.
My mother used to tell anyone who would listen, “Lester treats my Leah like gold. He’s a man she can rely on for life.”
I had believed her.
After all, following the car accident, he had spent two grueling years by my side, helping me through physical therapy.
He had promised me:
“Leah, I am going to spend the rest of my life making you happy.”
I could still remember the overwhelming tenderness and guilt in his eyes back then.
But what about now?
I looked down at my right leg.
The prosthetic was hidden beneath my long skirt, invisible to the casual observer. But whenever the weather turned damp, the phantom aches at the amputation site would flare up.
Like tonight.
I was sitting alone, eating a plate of ribs I’d reheated for the second time, when my phone buzzed.
It was Ryan.
“Hey, Leah. I couldn’t get through to Lester’s phone. My housewarming party is tomorrow night—make sure you guys get there early, okay?”
I promised him we would, set my fork down, and walked over to the bedroom door.
Pushing it open quietly, I saw Lester was already asleep.
His phone was resting on the nightstand, the screen still glowing slightly as if he’d just put it down.
I picked it up, intending to plug it into the charger, when a preview notification slid across the screen.
The contact photo was a little pink pig emoji.
“Lester~ I saw the lipstick mark on your shirt today. I’m so embarrassed! Let me buy you a new shirt tomorrow to make up for it, okay? What color do you like?~”
My finger hovered over the screen. My hand was shaking.
A dull, throbbing pain flared at the top of my thigh.
Like my body was trying to warn me.
I wanted to tap the notification to read the full thread.
It required a passcode.
I entered our wedding anniversary. Incorrect.
I entered my birthday. Incorrect.
I entered his birthday…
“What are you doing?”
Lester’s voice came from behind me, thick with sleep but laced with an undeniable, sharp defensiveness.
I turned around. He was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, his forehead deeply creased.
I wanted to ask: Who is the little pig? What is this lipstick mark about?
But the words caught in my throat as I looked at his silhouette against the dim light.
The sharp jawline, the clear eyes.
The boy who used to chase me across campus had hardened into the silent, guarded man standing before me.
The ache in my right leg flared again.
I handed him the phone. “Just plugging it in for you. Ryan called. He wants us to get to his housewarming early tomorrow.”
Lester took the phone, searching my face for a second before the tension in his shoulders melted away.
“Okay.”
His voice softened back into its usual, gentle cadence, and he turned back to the bed.
The next evening, we arrived at Ryan’s new place.
It was a three-story colonial house with a private pool and a custom wine cellar.
I had worn the wine-red maxi dress Lester always said complimented my skin, its long hem perfectly concealing the joint of my prosthetic.
Lester kept his hand firmly under my elbow, slowing his steps to match my uneven gait.
At the reception table, we slipped our two-hundred-dollar check into the card box.
On the registry guestbook beside it, the other entries were a sea of five-figure pledges.
The young woman coordinating the arrivals glanced at our envelope, her expression shifting into a brief, polite pity.
I pretended not to see it.
But I saw the tips of Lester’s ears burn red.
Ryan emerged from the crowd, throwing an arm around Lester’s shoulders. “You made it! Leah, you look stunning tonight.”
He looked between us, then lowered his voice, speaking directly to Lester. “The guys are in the back. Grab a drink, but don’t feel like you have to keep up with them.”
Throughout dinner, Lester kept putting food onto my plate.
His fork carefully avoided the cilantro and bell peppers I despised.
If I ignored the appraising, critical glances from the guests in their designer evening wear, we really did look like a perfectly happy couple.
Until I went to use the restroom and overheard a conversation coming from the balcony.
“Where is Lester living these days? Still renting that two-bedroom?”
“Yeah. Can you believe it? He used to be the golden boy of our class, and now he’s making eighty grand. Honestly, I only gave him that referral because of our history.”
“All for some girl? What was the point? Especially since she’s a…”
The voices dropped to a whisper, and the rest of the sentence was lost to the wind.
But I knew exactly what they were saying.
I walked back to our table, smiling as I placed a piece of sea bass onto Lester’s plate.
“The fish is fresh. You should eat more.”
He looked up at me, his lips curving into a gentle smile. “Thanks, babe.”
After the party, we stood on the curb waiting for an Uber.
Lester’s phone kept buzzing in his pocket.
He glanced at the caller ID, swiped it away, and quickly began typing a message.
I watched his thumb fly across the screen, my throat feeling as though it were lined with sand.
“…Are you working on a big campaign lately?”
“Yeah. Year-end push at the agency.”
He didn’t look at me when he said it. His index finger tapped twice against the side of his phone case.
Another lie.
“The… contact photo…”
“What?” He looked up, his brow furrowing slightly.
I opened my mouth, but the courage dissolved. I swallowed the words.
“Nothing. I was just wondering if we had any of that vanilla yogurt left at home.”
“I don’t think so.”
The car pulled up, and we got in, one after the other.
The backseat was cramped. He sat close to me, smelling faintly of a new, sweet cologne.
But the distance between us felt wider than the stretch between this suburban estate and his family’s old brownstone in Boston.
Once we got home, he took another call, stepping out onto the balcony and speaking in a low, hushed tone for a long time.
I watched his silhouette through the glass door, remembering how seven years ago, on the roof of our college library, he had stood in the exact same position.
Back then, he was screaming at his parents.
For me.
“I don’t care what you think! I’m staying with her. Cut me off if you want, it won’t change my mind!”
He had been so sure of himself then.
And now?
When he came back inside, his face carried a tired but gentle smile.
“Not asleep yet? Tomorrow I’ll drive you to the clinic to get your prosthetic checked.”
I shook my head. “It’s fine. I can go by myself.”
“Don’t be silly.”
He knelt down, placing my slippers right by the edge of the bed so they’d be within easy reach. The gesture was tender, instinctual.
As if nothing had changed.
But I knew. The foundation had already cracked.
Lester didn’t come home for the next several days.
He texted to say the campaign was in its final crunch and that staying at a hotel near the office was easier.
He even sent a photo of the room: “Don’t worry, it’s clean and basic. I’m not wasting money.”
At the end, he added: “Once this is over, I’ll take you to that sushi place you love.”
I texted back: Okay.
But when our wedding anniversary arrived, he didn’t return.
I pulled the white dress he loved out of the closet.
Wearing heels with a prosthetic was too exhausting, so I opted for a pair of flats.
I cooked a full dinner, opened a bottle of Pinot Noir, and sat down.
I waited as the food went cold, reheated it, and watched it go cold again.
Outside, the sky faded from gray to a deep, heavy black.
My phone screen lit up. It wasn’t Lester.
It was an unknown number, requesting to add me. The verification note read:
“Want to see where your husband is, sweetie?”
I stared at the words for a long time.
Then, I pressed accept.
Within seconds, a fifteen-second video arrived.
The lighting in the VIP lounge was dim and intimate. Lester was sitting on a plush leather booth, a young girl pressed close to his side.
She was laughing, smearing birthday cake onto his cheek.
He leaned back with a grin, dodging her plays, but he didn’t push her away.
In the background, someone yelled over the music, “Lester, why don’t you and Lexie just make it official?”
Then came Lester’s voice. It was thick with alcohol, his tone casual, as if he were commenting on the weather.
“Cut it out. I’m married.”
“Then why do you come find us every single night?” the girl pouted, her voice dripping with sweet affection.
Lester didn’t answer.
Then, the person sent an audio recording—a voice memo recorded surreptitiously.
The girl’s voice: “Lester, if you don’t even love your wife anymore, why don’t you just get a divorce?”
Lester’s voice, low and infinitely heavy:
“…I owe her.”
I owe her.
What a familiar phrase.
Seven years ago, those same words had bound me to this relationship.
Lester and I were college classmates. Technically, he was a year ahead of me.
On my first day of freshman year, I had tripped over my heavy suitcase right outside the campus gate.
He was the one who walked over, bending down to lift the bag for me.
Standing against the sunlight, his smile was bright and effortless. “You okay there?”
Only later did I find out that Lester was a legacy kid from one of the oldest families in the city.
Born with a silver spoon.
And me? I was a scholarship girl from a small town, raised by a single mother who ran a small tailoring shop, sewing day and night to keep me in school.
The gap between us was a chasm.
But Lester hadn’t cared.
He pursued me with a relentless, loud passion. Love letters filled my mailbox, and five hundred roses were laid out from the lecture hall to my dorm.
The whole campus knew the wealthy Lester was head over heels for Leah.
I pushed him away for two years.
Not because I didn’t care.
But because I was terrified.
During our junior year, he waited for me at the bus stop after my internship ended. He stood in the freezing rain for four hours, holding a simple silver band.
“Leah, I don’t want my family’s money. I’ll make my own way. Just say yes.”
Looking at his raw, red nose and shivering shoulders, I finally broke down and cried, nodding my head.
When we got together, his family reacted exactly as expected.
His mother’s voice over the phone had been ice-cold: “Lester, if you choose this girl, don’t bother coming home.”
Lester chose me.
He went from a trust-fund kid spending thousands a week to an entry-level worker earning forty thousand a year.
I thought we were living a fairy tale where love conquers all.
Until the winter of our senior year.
The accident.
Lester was driving us to the mountains to see the first snow.
The heater in his cheap, secondhand sedan was broken, so we rolled the windows up tight and blasted the radio, singing along.
The road had iced over.
He didn’t see it.
As the car began to spin, I saw a semi-truck heading straight for us.
I lunged across the console, grabbing the wheel and wrenching it to the right.
The car missed the truck but slammed violently into the guardrail.
When I woke up in the hospital, Lester was by my bedside, his eyes bloodshot, his face covered in stubble.
I tried to shift my leg, only to realize…
Everything below my right knee was gone.
Lester grabbed my hand, his voice cracking.
“Leah, I’m so sorry… It’s my fault. I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you. I’ll take care of you. I’ll do whatever you want.”
He knelt by my bed, bowing his head in front of his mother when she arrived.
His mother sighed, looking at him with cold disappointment.
“Have it your way. Just don’t come to us when things get hard.”
From that day on, Lester never went back to his family.
And I spent two years relearning how to walk on a carbon-fiber limb.
He stayed by my side, step by step, as if carrying out a life sentence of penance.
But penance has an expiration date.
Seven years had passed.
Even debt, eventually, becomes too heavy a burden to bear.
I locked my phone, stood up, and scraped every single dish of the anniversary dinner into the trash.
I poured the wine down the drain.
The anniversary candles were left untouched, never to be lit.
The day after I received the video, Lester came home.
He brought a bouquet of baby’s breath and a box of tiramisu.
“I’m so sorry, Leah. The client added another round of reviews at the last minute. I couldn’t get away.”
He arranged the flowers in a vase, turning to give me a soft smile. “Can we celebrate tonight instead? Happy anniversary, sweetie.”
His smile was still beautiful.
Gentle, warm, flawless.
But his right index finger tapped twice against his pants.
I watched the movement, feeling a strange, hollow calm wash over me.
“Sure,” I said, taking the tiramisu with a smile.
He went into the kitchen and made me a bowl of noodles—even though it wasn’t my birthday.
As he set the bowl down, his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen, his expression unchanging.
“Work. I need to take this.”
He stepped out onto the balcony, keeping his voice low.
I couldn’t hear the words, but in the reflection of the glass window, I saw the corner of his mouth lift slightly.
People don’t smile like that during a work call.
By the time he came back, the noodles had grown cold and soggy.
“Sorry, just confirming the schedule for tomorrow’s presentation.”
He sat down to eat with me, placing a perfectly fried egg onto my plate.
Halfway through the meal, my phone vibrated.
It was the unknown number again.
An image.
Lester was standing in a brightly lit, pastel-pink kitchen, wearing an apron, meticulously slicing strawberries.
Below the photo, there was a message:
“Sweetie, your husband is so incredibly gentle when he’s making fruit platters for Lexie~ This was taken last night. Were you waiting up for him all alone? I feel so bad for you~”
Last night.
The night I had waited up for him until dawn.
The night he claimed he was pulling an all-nighter in a hotel room.
The background of the photo was entirely different from the sterile hotel room he had sent me.
The food in my mouth suddenly lost all flavor.
I set my chopsticks down and looked at him.
He was looking down at his phone, his brow relaxed, looking completely at peace.
“Lester.”
“Yeah?”
“Where were you last night, really?”
His hand froze for a fraction of a second.
Then, he resumed eating, his tone perfectly natural. “I told you, the hotel near the office. Why?”
His finger tapped his leg. Twice.
I smiled slightly and didn’t push further.
That night, he went to shower first.
I sat on the couch, scrolling through local job listings, looking for remote positions that were accessible for people with physical limitations.
When Lester came out, his hair still damp, he noticed what I was doing and leaned over my shoulder.
“What are you looking at?”
“Just seeing if there are any freelance gigs I can do. I want to help with the bills.”
He frowned, gently taking the phone from my hand.
“I told you, you don’t need to do that. Just focus on taking care of yourself. Let me handle the rest.”
His voice was incredibly tender, like a warm, heavy blanket.
But I was no longer sure what lay beneath that blanket.
A few days later, Ryan called again.
“Leah, I can’t seem to get ahold of Lester lately. My birthday dinner is this Saturday. Bring him along, okay?”
Saturday.
I agreed.
That night, I put on makeup and wore a black maxi dress, the long hem grazing my ankles to hide the prosthetic.
Lester held my arm as he guided me into the private dining room Ryan had booked.
About a dozen of his old college friends were already there.
When we walked in, their faces registered a polite, practiced warmth, masked by an undercurrent of scrutiny.
A woman wearing a Cartier bracelet smiled widely.
“Oh, Leah! It’s been ages. You look wonderful. Lester is taking such good care of you.”
Taking care of.
The words stung.
It made me feel like a caged bird.
A bird with a broken wing, kept out of pity.
As the night went on and the alcohol flowed, Lester navigated the subtle jabs and thinly veiled pity of his old crowd.
He held his glass, his remarks sharp and polite, his smile measured.
But I saw his knuckles turn white against the crystal.
Near the end of the evening, one of his friends, clearly drunk, draped an arm over Lester’s shoulder.
“Lester, man… you were the best of us. And now… damn. It’s just a shame.”
Lester looked back at me.
Just a glance, quickly averted.
But I saw what was in his eyes.
It wasn’t affection.
It wasn’t even guilt.
It was a profound, suffocating weariness.
On the ride home, I reached out and took his hand.
He squeezed it back, but his grip was weak.
“Tired?” I asked. “Get some sleep when we get back.”
“I will,” he replied, his voice as gentle as always.
The moment we stepped through the front door, his phone rang.
He muttered, “Got it,” and hung up.
Then he grabbed his coat. “Emergency at the office. I have to run out for a bit. I’ll be quick.”
The door clicked shut.
I sat in the dark living room, refusing to turn on the lights.
A few minutes later, the text arrived.
“He’s on his way to Lexie’s, sweetie. Aren’t you scared being all alone in the dark?”
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then, I deleted the thread.
I blocked the number.
Not because I didn’t want to know anymore.
But because I no longer needed anyone to tell me.
At 11:40 PM, Lester returned.
He was holding a beautifully wrapped small box.
“An early birthday present. I know your birthday isn’t until next week, but I couldn’t wait.”
He opened the box to reveal a pair of delicate pearl earrings.
Simple, not overly expensive, but elegant.
He gently put them on my ears, stepping back with a soft smile.
“Perfect. My wife looks beautiful in everything.”
So sweet.
So attentive.
So utterly stifling.
I touched the cool pearl on my earlobe and asked softly, “Lester, have you been happy these past seven years?”
He froze.
But his smile didn’t falter, and his voice remained steady.
“Of course I have. Being with you is everything to me.”
His finger tapped his thigh. Twice.
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
I looked down and let out a quiet laugh.
The next day was Sunday, and Lester spent the entire day at home.
He cooked lunch, took me for a slow walk around the courtyard, and we watched a movie together in the evening.
It felt exactly like the early days of our marriage.
I almost let myself believe it again.
But after dinner, his phone began to buzz incessantly. He glanced at it, claiming it was a client, and went out to the balcony.
I stood up to clear the table. As I passed the coffee table, his screen lit up.
I only caught three words:
“I miss you.”
The sender was the little pig icon.
On Monday morning, before leaving for work, Lester kissed my forehead.
“Your birthday is on Wednesday. I booked a table at that French place downtown. I won’t stand you up this time.”
After he left, I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the floorboards.
Then, I made a decision.
On Wednesday, I didn’t go to the restaurant.
I put on the white dress he had loved when we first met. I did my hair and makeup, making sure I looked clean and polished.
Walking on the prosthetic was painful, but today, I refused to use the cane.
I drove to Ryan’s office.
The receptionist told me he was in a meeting.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll wait.”
Twenty minutes later, Ryan came out, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw me.
“Leah? What are you doing here? If you need Lester, you should call him directly.”
“I’m here to see you. Today is my birthday, and I need a favor.”
Ryan blinked. “What kind of favor?”
“I want you to put together a dinner tonight. Just the old group, and Lester. Don’t tell him I’m coming.”
Ryan’s expression shifted through several stages of confusion and realization before he slowly nodded.
“Okay. I’ll set it up.”
At 7:00 PM, I arrived at the private dining room Ryan had reserved.
When I pushed the door open, there were already seven or eight people seated inside.
Lester was sitting in the middle, a drink in his hand, laughing at a joke.
The moment he saw me, the smile froze on his face.
“Leah? What are you…”
I leaned against the doorframe to steady myself, offering a polite smile to the table.
Then, I looked directly at him.
“Lester, we need to talk.”
The room fell dead silent.
Every eye in the room turned to us.
Lester set his glass down and stood up, moving to hold my elbow.
“Let’s talk about this at home…”
“Let’s get a divorce.”
🌟 Continue the story here
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Aaron came from old money—a dynasty built on ruthless efficiency. To him, everything had to be optimized, categorized, and managed. Even our marriage was governed by a proprietary operating system.
For five years, my inbox received a daily delivery: a Wife Performance Review.
For five years straight, I maintained a perfect “S” rating. My reward? The right to make one small request of my husband every single day.
I truly believed that made me his favorite person.
Until today, when I brought lunch to his office and watched his childhood friend, Daphne, boss him around. And Aaron? He was smiling. He was enjoying it.
Daphne didn’t have a spreadsheet. She had no quotas, no performance indicators, no multi-level approval processes. She simply asked, and my husband eagerly bent the world to please her.
Yet, on my birthday last month, when I begged him to ride the Ferris wheel with me, his face had hardened with impatience. “You already used your daily request this morning, May. An ad-hoc addition doesn’t align with the reward matrix.”
The ceramic container slipped from my hands. Hot soup splattered all over my shins, but all I could do was let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh.
I walked out, hailed a cab, and went straight home to shove five years of performance reviews into the paper shredder.
Aaron. It turned out you weren’t naturally rigid. You were just rigid with me.
I was an employee clocking in to hit her KPIs. But your childhood sweetheart was a permanent, off-the-books consultant. No clocking in, no performance reviews, yet she walked away with your entire heart.
Today, I ripped down the current review pinned to our headboard and booked a one-way flight to Charleston.
If your sacred rules only bend for her, then I am happily resigning. It’s time to be the main character of my own life.
…
“May, throwing a temper tantrum in the lobby and leaving a mess on the floor severely damaged my corporate image. That’s a direct violation of Clause 4 of our Spousal Conduct Agreement. Your rating for this month is downgraded to a D.”
Aaron’s voice was as cold and sterile as dry ice when he pushed open the bedroom door.
He stood in the frame, his bespoke Tom Ford suit immaculate, not a single thread out of place. Between his long, manicured fingers, he held a freshly printed sheet of paper—his proprietary “Spousal Performance Disciplinary Action Notice.”
I stopped folding my sweaters. My eyes skimmed the document before rising to meet his cold, indifferent gaze.
“Whatever you say,” I replied quietly.
I turned back to my suitcase, tucking a soft cashmere pullover into the corner. Aaron’s brows knit together instantly. He wasn’t built for this kind of silence.
For the last five years, the moment he produced one of these sheets, I would scramble into a panic of self-reflection, tears welling up as I desperately tried to explain myself.
“What is this attitude, May?”
He stepped into the room, his Oxford shoes striking the hardwood with a heavy, rhythmic thud. His gaze swept down to the piles of shredded paper littering the floor. He paused, his expression shifting into an unfiltered, mocking sneer.
“Shredding your old ‘S’ ratings and packing a bag… is this your dramatic way of compensating for today’s emotional outburst?”
He tossed the disciplinary slip onto my vanity.
“Grow up. Stop throwing these childish tantrums. I’ve explained this to you. The Ferris wheel was an unscheduled, high-time-consuming variable. You had already redeemed your micro-wish for the day by having me taste your soup. Adding another request on the fly violates my time-management protocols.”
He delivered this debrief with the exact same structured precision he used in his corporate boardrooms. Every word was a cold post-mortem on a failed sprint.
I placed my final coat inside and slowly pulled the zipper shut.
“I know. The rules are absolute.” I stood up, looking him dead in the eye. “Which is why I accept the downgrade. I accept all your rules.”
Aaron stared at my placid face, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his features. He loosened his tie, clearly unsettled by a quiet compliance that felt entirely out of his control.
“If you understand the rules, then why did you cause a scene in the lobby? Daphne was just passing by. She saw you spill the soup and wanted to help you clean up. Why did you look at her like she was the enemy?”
At the mention of her name, my fingers stiffened against the fabric of my coat.
Daphne. The girl who lived entirely outside his system. The girl who could cost him a multi-million-dollar deal with a single pout, and he would still smile.
“How did I look at her?” I asked, my voice flat.
Aaron let out a dry, humorless chuckle, clearly annoyed by my playing dumb.
“You looked at her with pure hostility, May. You terrified her. She’s fragile, she’s always had health issues, and she doesn’t handle stress well. As her friend’s wife, you showed a complete lack of grace and humiliated her in public. Where is your maturity, May?”
Looking at his righteous indignation, a sudden, bone-deep chill washed over me.
In the lobby this afternoon, Daphne had deliberately stepped into the spilled broth, whining that her new designer heels were ruined. Aaron had immediately dropped to one knee, using his bespoke silk pocket square to wipe her shoes. Meanwhile, the scalding soup was blistering my leg, and he hadn’t even spared me a glance.
“If she’s that easily traumatized, you should get her a therapist instead of cross-examining me.”
I stepped around him, rolling my suitcase toward the door.
Aaron’s hand shot out, clamping down on the handle. The veins on the back of his hand strained against his skin.
“What is this childish defiance really about? Our anniversary is next week. I had my assistant book that French restaurant you’ve been dying to go to. If you walk out that door, the reservation is canceled, and your wish-credits for the entire second half of the year are forfeited.”
He looked down at me with the cold authority of an employer threatening to dock an insubordinate worker’s bonus.
I stared at his hand on my suitcase, a sudden wave of dark amusement washing over me.
That French restaurant—Le Bistro—was a milestone I had put on my “Annual Goal Proposal” six months ago. It had gone through three rounds of review before he finally approved it.
And then, last night, I saw Daphne’s Instagram post.
“My absolute favorite spot! Thank you, Aaron, for giving up your anniversary table so my friends and I could have our girls’ night!”
And here I was, foolishly waiting for an explanation.
“Don’t bother canceling it.” I reached down, peeling his fingers off the metal handle, one by one. “You’ve already reallocated the slot to Daphne, haven’t you?”
Aaron froze, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his eyes before he quickly armored himself back up in righteous justification.
“Daphne needed to entertain a high-profile client, and bookings are impossible to get. It was a strategic business reallocation. We are married. We have a lifetime to go there. Why are you being so petty over a single dinner? Your perspective is incredibly narrow, May.”
He lectured me without even a hint of shame.
“You’re right. I lack the scale for your micro-optimized life.” I pulled my suitcase past him, completely devoid of any urge to fight.
Aaron watched me walk away, his voice dripping with absolute certainty.
“The second you step out of this house, your authorized cards will be deactivated. You have no independent income. Outside of my ecosystem, you won’t survive a single day. I will give you three days to clear your head. When you’re ready to act like an adult, come back and present a thorough five-thousand-word self-reflection.”
I paused at the threshold, but I didn’t turn around.
“Don’t worry about the three days, Aaron. I won’t be taking up any more of your valuable bandwidth.”
The autumn night air cut through my coat, biting and sharp, as I rolled my suitcase down the empty suburban street. I didn’t look back. I flagged down a passing yellow cab.
After giving the driver Talia’s address, I leaned back against the worn vinyl seat, watching the city skyline blur into a smear of neon.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. I pulled it out. It was a push notification from my banking app.
“Your primary authorized card ending in 7392 has been suspended.”
Aaron worked fast. A swift execution of protocol, completely devoid of hesitation. He truly believed that cutting off my funds would force me to crawl back, broken and desperate, just like before.
But he had forgotten something vital: before I became his wife, I was a rising star in architectural design. I had only clipped my own wings because he insisted that his wife’s sole focus should be the optimal execution of our domestic life.
Half an hour later, I was knocking on Talia’s apartment door.
The door cracked open, and Talia peeked out, a sheet mask clinging to her face.
“May? What is this, an impromptu midnight adventure?” She looked down at my suitcase, stepping aside to let me in, her voice teasing but laced with instant concern.
I parked my bag in the hallway and slid into the slippers she offered.
“Not an adventure. A permanent resignation.” I sank into her plush velvet sofa, taking a long sip of the warm water she poured. The tight knot in my throat finally began to loosen.
Talia ripped off her sheet mask, her eyes widening.
“Resignation? Are you telling me you finally dumped the corporate robot?” She threw herself onto the cushions beside me, grabbing my arms. “What happened? I know he treats your marriage like a hostile takeover, but what finally crossed the line?”
I told her everything—the scene in the lobby, the soup, the pocket square, and the anniversary table handed to Daphne. I spoke quietly, as if narrating a movie I had watched but wasn’t in.
Talia slammed her hand down on the coffee table.
“I knew it! Daphne is a certified snake, and Aaron is too blind to see past her sweet-girl act! Is he insane? He denies you a birthday Ferris wheel ride because it’s not ‘budgeted,’ but he hands over your anniversary dinner because she wants to eat pasta with her friends? Why did you stay with him this long? You should have thrown him out years ago!”
Talia’s fury was loud, but inside me, there was only a profound, silent stillness.
Yes. I should have. It had simply taken me five years to wake up.
“I booked a one-way ticket to Charleston for tomorrow afternoon.” I pulled up my airline app to show her the confirmation.
Talia stared at the screen, her eyes suddenly glistening.
“May… are you sure about this? Once you leave Chicago, everything you’ve built over the last five years—the professional circles, the social network—it’s all going to vanish.”
She knew me. She knew exactly what I had sacrificed to stay in his shadow.
I looked at the blue screen and let out a soft smile.
“Those circles were never mine anyway. They belonged to ‘Mrs. Aaron Bradley,’ not May. I need to go back and find the girl I used to be.”
Talia took a deep, shaky breath and wrapped her arms around me, pulling me tight.
“Okay. Whatever you choose, I’m with you. Always. I’m driving you to O’Hare tomorrow.”
The next morning, I had barely finished brushing my teeth when my phone began vibrating violently against the marble counter. “Aaron” flashed across the screen. I wanted to ignore it, but the calls came in relentless succession, one after another, refusing to stop.
I finally swiped to answer. Before I could even say hello, his sharp, commanding voice cut through the line.
“May, I need you at the office immediately.”
No panic, no concern. Just the voice of a manager calling in an employee.
I stared at my calm, unbothered reflection in the mirror.
“I don’t report to you anymore, Aaron.”
A beat of heavy silence followed. He wasn’t used to me speaking to him with such cool detachment. But his professional armor slipped right back on.
“Stop playing games. Daphne is presenting the initial design concept for the Marina Project at our board meeting in an hour. She’s using the drafts you spent last month preparing. There are some technical details she’s struggling with. Come in and brief her.”
My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white.
The Marina Project. I had pulled thirty consecutive all-nighters for that project, drowning in blueprints and engineering schematics to win over a massive client for his firm. He had promised me that once the deal was finalized, he’d fund my independent studio. That promise was the only thing that had kept me going.
And now, with a casual wave of his hand, he was putting Daphne’s name on my life’s work.
“That is my design. Why is she presenting it?” I forced my voice to remain steady, refusing to let him hear the tremor of betrayal.
Aaron sighed, his tone carrying the practiced patience of a manager dealing with an insubordinate junior.
“Daphne is new to the executive team. She needs a high-profile win to establish her authority. As a family member, why can’t you just let her borrow an idle concept draft? Besides, you don’t even have an active design license or studio registration right now. Letting it sit under your name is a waste of corporate resources.”
“An idle draft. Let her borrow it.”
I stared at my reflection, a cold laugh bubbling in my chest. The last five years of my life had been a joke, and I was the punchline.
“May, look at the bigger picture. Come in and help her ace this meeting. Do that, and I’ll wipe the disciplinary points from last night off your record. Otherwise, your year-end European holiday credit is permanently revoked.”
It was his final ultimatum.
I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath to suppress the rising bile.
“Fine. I’ll be there. But Aaron? This is the absolute last time I fix her mess.”
I hung up and turned to find Talia leaning against the doorframe, staring at me with deep concern.
“Are you insane? You’re actually going to let her step all over you?”
I grabbed my bag and began stuffing the heavy folders from the desk inside.
“No,” I said, zipping it shut. “I’m going to take back what’s mine.”
The executive boardroom on the top floor of Bradley Group HQ was thick with a suffocating, awkward silence when I pushed the heavy glass doors open. My rendering of the Marina Project was projected on the massive screen. Daphne was standing at the podium, a laser pointer trembling in her hand, sweat beaded along her hairline.
“The… the load-bearing design of the glass canopy is… it’s mostly for… aesthetic synergy…”
She stammered, entirely out of her depth, delivering a textbook non-answer. The client representatives from Dennis Holdings sat at the head of the table, their expressions souring. Aaron sat near the front, his jaw tight.
The moment Daphne saw me walk in, relief washed over her face like she’d just spotted a lifeboat.
“May! Thank goodness you’re here!” She practically ran over in her designer pumps, throwing her arms around my elbow in a desperate show of intimacy. “I couldn’t quite memorize the stress-load formulas last night. Could you explain the load-bearing ratios for me?”
She said it with the casual entitlement of a queen addressing her handmaiden. Every eye in the room locked onto me. Some were confused, some dismissive, others simply waiting for the drama to unfold.
Aaron stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. He addressed me in his usual, sterile executive tone.
“May, now that you’re here, step up and clarify the engineering specifics for Daphne. Let’s not waste our clients’ time.”
I pulled my arm out of Daphne’s grasp, looking down at her wide, innocent eyes.
“Explain them for you?” I let out a soft laugh. It wasn’t loud, but in the dead silent room, it cut like a razor. “Daphne, if I recall correctly, you haven’t looked at a single topographic survey or blueprint for this project. If I explain it, am I supposed to pretend this is your work in front of our clients?”
Daphne’s face drained of color, and tears instantly welled in her eyes.
“May… how could you say that? Aaron told me this was an old, discarded concept draft… he said I could use it to gain experience…” She turned her tearful gaze toward Aaron.
Aaron’s expression turned thunderous. He marched over, lowering his voice to a harsh, dangerous whisper.
“May, do you have any idea what you are doing? This is a critical corporate pitch. Keep your domestic tantrums at home. Stop making a fool of yourself.”
“Making a fool of myself?”
I stared at the man I had loved for five years, suddenly realizing I was looking at a complete stranger.
“Is this a tantrum to you, Aaron?” I met his gaze, refusing to back down an inch. “This is my work. It’s my intellectual property. You handed it over to please your childhood friend without even asking. Did you think I’d just let you?”
At the head of the table, the lead engineer from Dennis Holdings tapped his pen on his folder.
“Mr. Bradley, what is going on here? We are here because of the sheer brilliance of this design. If there is an intellectual property dispute within your own firm, we cannot move forward.”
A flicker of panic crossed Aaron’s face, but he quickly smoothed it over with a practiced, polished smile.
“Mr. Dennis, I assure you there’s no conflict. Daphne was the lead on this concept. May merely assisted with some of the minor structural drafts. She’s dealing with some personal issues at home, which explains her emotional state today. Please disregard her comments.”
He lied without blinking, erasing months of my labor in a single breath to protect his firm’s image. I stood there, watching him throw me under the bus to protect Daphne’s pride.
I realized then that when your heart truly dies, you don’t feel pain. You just feel empty.
“May, I know you’re upset because Aaron couldn’t take you to the carnival on your birthday,” Daphne whimpered, pulling gently at my sleeve, playing the victim perfectly. “If having your name on the project means that much to you, I’ll step aside. Just please don’t cause a scene in front of our clients.”
In two sentences, she had spun a blatant theft of intellectual property into a wife’s petty, jealous tantrum. Whispers broke out among the staff. The looks they threw me were now laced with pity and disdain.
Aaron’s patience snapped. He picked up a document from the table and slammed it in front of me.
“That is enough, May. If you ruin this pitch, the charity foundation I promised to fund in your name is off the table.”
Another promise. I had worked three years, maintaining peak performance scores, just to earn that foundation in honor of my late mother. He thought he held the ultimate leverage.
I stared at the paper in silence. The room was so quiet I could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning. A small, smug smile began to form on Aaron’s lips, confident he had won.
I pulled a pen from my bag and signed the “IP Waiver of Rights” without a moment’s hesitation.
“Fine,” I said, sliding the document back across the polished wood. “You can have the credit. And you can keep your foundation.”
Aaron’s eyes locked onto my signature, his brow twitching. The sheer speed of my surrender left him entirely off-balance. It didn’t fit into his predictive models.
“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses,” he muttered, collecting the folder, though his voice lacked its usual certainty.
I ignored him. Instead, I reached into my bag, pulled out another document, and walked straight over to Mr. Dennis.
“Mr. Dennis, this is the utility patent certificate for the structural glass canopy. The sole registered inventor is May Fitch. Since Mr. Bradley maintains that Daphne designed this concept independently, I am officially withholding my authorization to license this patent for the project.”
I laid the copy on the table.
“Without this technology, that beautiful glass canopy is structurally impossible. It’s nothing but an expensive fantasy.”
Aaron spun around, staring at the document. His face went pale, then a furious, deep red. “May!”
I ignored his roar, turning to offer a polite nod to the clients.
“I apologize for wasting your afternoon, gentlemen. Have a wonderful day.”
I didn’t look back as I walked out, the heavy glass doors closing behind me.
Stepping out of the skyscraper, I took a deep, unrestrained breath of the autumn air. The suffocating weight I had carried for five years suddenly dissolved. I didn’t look back at the glass-and-steel monument to Aaron’s ego.
I caught a cab back to our house in Lincoln Park. It was Aaron’s house, really. I was standing there as its mistress for the very last time.
The house was massive, but it had never felt so hollow.
I went to the study, unlocked the safe, and packed my passport, birth certificate, and the vintage jewelry my mother had left me. The designer bags and diamond necklaces Aaron had bought me over the years remained untouched in the closet. They were props for his “perfect marriage” narrative, not gifts for me.
I sat at his massive mahogany desk, took out the divorce papers I’d had drafted, and signed them. I didn’t ask for a single penny. Five years, and I just wanted to leave this prison with my soul intact.
I slid the papers into a sleek black folder. On the cover, I stuck a label he knew all too well: “Annual Wife Performance Review (Final Output).”
I knew him too well. The first thing he did when he got home was check the center of his desk for pending approvals. If I left a standard divorce petition, he’d assume it was another dramatic ploy and throw it away. But an official performance review? He would open it immediately and analyze every single clause.
I grabbed my suitcase and walked out the front door. Behind me, the smart lock engaged with a sterile, mechanical click. I would never step through that door again.
On the way to O’Hare, Talia texted me.
“At the lounge. Usual spot. See you soon.” I sent a quick “On my way” and locked the screen.
The highway was packed with rush-hour traffic, but inside the cab, I was bathed in a quiet peace. No weeping, no bitter rage, no cheap thrill of revenge. Just the bone-weary relief of a long-distance traveler finally laying down her baggage.
I checked my large bags and rolled my carry-on toward the security line. The intercom chimed, announcing the boarding call for my flight to Charleston. As I reached for my ID, a familiar silhouette caught my eye.
A few yards away, at the first-class desk, Aaron was standing tall. Still in his perfect suit, but Daphne was clinging to his arm, pointing at something on the counter with a childish pout.
“But Aaron, I have to bring the giant teddy bear to Milan! Please make them let me take it on board!”
Her whiny, babyish voice drifted through the crowded terminal. Aaron’s back was mostly to me, but I watched him pull his Centurion card from his wallet and hand it to the gate agent.
“Just book the adjacent seat in first class,” he said, his voice smooth and steady. “It can sit there.”
A completely uncharacteristic, boundary-free indulgence. I stood in the security queue, a soft, dry laugh escaping my lips.
An hour ago, he was threatening me in a boardroom, using every dirty corporate tactic to strip me of my patent. An hour after, he was paying thousands of dollars to buy a first-class seat for a stuffed animal, just because she asked.
It was never that he was incapable of warmth or flexibility. He was just incapable of showing them to me.
I gripped my boarding pass, turned my back on them, and walked forward.
“ID and boarding pass, please.”
The TSA agent’s voice pulled me back. I handed over my documents and stepped through the scanner. The machine beeped, flashing green. I grabbed my bag and walked into the terminal without looking back.
Meanwhile, at the first-class desk.
Aaron signed the slip and pocketed his card. He turned his head, his gaze sweeping the bustling terminal, pausing on the security line. There were only strangers.
“Aaron? What are you looking at?” Daphne asked, tugging his sleeve.
He frowned, blinking away a strange sensation. “Nothing. Just thought I saw someone.”
He pulled out his phone. No notifications. He opened our text thread, his thumb hovering over the keyboard for a long second, before he locked the screen in annoyance.
“She’ll cool off in a couple of days and come home,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s go, Daphne. Our gate is boarding.”
He turned, guiding her toward a gate that led to the opposite side of the world.
The intercom made the final boarding call for Charleston. I rolled my carry-on down the jet bridge.
Goodbye, Aaron. Goodbye to your system.
🌟 Continue the story here
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This was our third wedding rehearsal, and once again, Chelsea’s best friend, Cody, was wearing my custom-tailored suit.
He strutted up to me, tugging at the collar with a theatrical grimace.
“God, getting married is such a chore,” he complained, his voice loud enough to carry across the room. “Why do guys have to wear these straight jackets? This thing is so tight, it’s practically cutting off my circulation.” He patted my shoulder with a patronizing grin. “But hey, I’m taking the bullet for you today. No need to thank me. Just let Chelsea off the hook tonight so she can give me a proper bachelor send-off.”
Around us, our friends laughed, treating the whole display like a harmless joke.
I didn’t smile. I kept my eyes on Chelsea.
“He’s wearing my suit again,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “Did you forget what you promised me after the last time?”
Chelsea’s face darkened instantly.
“What do you mean, ‘wearing your suit again’?” she snapped, her tone dripping with defensive irritation. “Cody was just trying to help. He knew you were exhausted from work, so he stepped in to finish the rehearsal for you. Don’t throw his kindness back in his face.”
In that exact moment, shimmering golden words drifted across my vision, like a live-stream chat rolling through the air.
[Chelsea is just a scared little girl deep down. She’s so insecure, she’s only doing this to test how much Jesse will tolerate for her.]
[Once Jesse passes this third test, she’s going to give him the perfect wedding.]
[She’s literally dying for him to just wrap his arms around her and soothe her right now.]
I stared at the glowing text and felt a sudden, hollow laugh rise in my chest. For years, I had let these phantom comments guide me. But not today.
Looking at Chelsea’s tense, stubborn face, I spoke softly.
“Since he’s so eager to help, let him stand in for me at the wedding tomorrow, too.”
…
The rehearsal hall went deathly quiet.
Chelsea froze, her eyes widening in disbelief. The friends who had been snickering moments before now exchanged uneasy glances.
A profound exhaustion settled deep into my bones. I turned to leave, but Chelsea’s bridesmaid, Becca, quickly stepped into my path, blocking the exit.
“Jesse, come on, Cody was just messing around,” she said, her voice dripping with forced sweetness. “He didn’t mean anything by it. Chelsea only snapped because she’s stressed. Just say something nice to her, and this will all blow over.”
A bitter ache bloomed in my chest.
Chelsea was the one hurling insults, and I was the one left humiliated. Yet, like always, everyone in our circle expected me to be the one to swallow my pride and apologize.
For the past eight years, every single time Chelsea and I fought, those golden comments would flash before my eyes, assuring me that I was the love of her life. They told me that because she had been abandoned by her parents as a child, she had no sense of security, that she only pushed me away to see if I would run.
So, even when she was entirely in the wrong, I would always bow my head and comfort her.
But I was done. I was so incredibly tired.
I looked Becca dead in the eye, my voice entirely flat. “I’m not joking. I won’t be at the wedding tomorrow.”
Then I looked past her to Chelsea. “We’re over.”
The color drained from Chelsea’s face, leaving her ghostly pale. But almost immediately, a fierce, defensive anger flared in her eyes.
“You’re breaking up with me over this?” she yelled, her voice trembling. “Fine! Pack your things and get out! Tomorrow I’ll marry Cody instead. And don’t you dare think about crawling back. Even if you get down on your knees and beg, I will never take you back!”
The golden text erupted across my field of vision, frantic and dense.
[What is the male lead doing? Chelsea’s heart is literally breaking right now. She’s only saying these awful things to make him turn around!]
[She’s going to regret this so much. She actually planned a massive surprise for him tonight!]
A surprise?
Looking at Cody, who was still smirking in the suit I had spent a month designing, I realized I didn’t care about her surprises anymore.
During our first rehearsal, Cody complained the suit was too loose and took a pair of scissors to the seams, hacking away at my handiwork.
During the second rehearsal, Cody insisted on choreographing a dramatic dance routine. He tripped, fell off the stage, and ripped a massive hole through the delicate fabric of the trousers.
I had wept. I had screamed. I had even lost my temper and slapped Cody across the face.
But Chelsea had immediately shielded him, glaring at me like I was a monster.
“It’s just a suit, Jesse! You can design another one. Is it really worth bullying Cody over a piece of cloth?”
And the golden text had chimed in:
[Chelsea knows Cody went too far. She’s just testing to see if Jesse’s love for her is truly unconditional.]
So, I let it go.
Both of those weddings had fallen through. Afterward, I told Chelsea I just wanted to go to the courthouse, to skip the pageantry entirely. But she had insisted on a third attempt. She held my hand and swore to me that she would never let Cody touch my suit again.
Yet, here we were.
My throat felt tight, as if stuffed with dry cotton. I looked at Chelsea’s flushed, angry face and spoke quietly.
“Fine. I’m leaving.”
As I turned on my heel, Cody let out a sharp, derisive scoff.
“Unbelievable. Some guys just don’t know how to be grateful,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “I spend all evening helping out, and I don’t even get a thank you. Just this dramatic exit. Look, it’s just a jacket. I’ll take it off right now so you can stop whining to Chelsea.”
He gripped the lapels and yanked the jacket off with aggressive force. As the fabric parted, I realized with a sick jolt that he was wearing my custom-tailored shirt underneath, too.
I instinctively reached out to grab the jacket before it could hit the floor.
But Cody smirked and tossed it over his shoulder. The beautiful, off-white silk landed squarely in the middle of a messy buffet table, splashing directly into a half-empty bowl of greasy pasta.
This was the dinner Chelsea had asked me to arrange and pay for to thank the bridal party.
A hot, stinging sensation rushed behind my eyes. Thirty days of sleepless nights, of calloused fingers and meticulous stitching, ruined in a second of greasy gravity.
I raised my eyes to Cody, but before I could utter a single word, Chelsea lunged forward and gripped my wrist in a vice grip. Her hand was shaking violently, but her voice was freezing cold.
“It’s just a stained jacket, Jesse. Don’t you dare touch Cody.”
She wasn’t angry about the suit. She was just terrified I would hurt her precious best friend again.
The golden comments sped up, flashing rapidly.
[Chelsea looks like she’s taking the second male lead’s side, but honestly, if Jesse just swallows his pride like he always does, she’ll finally feel safe.]
[She’s a broken little thing. She’s already counting down the seconds until he forgives her.]
I let out a soft, hollow laugh and wrenched my wrist from her grip.
“You’re right,” I said. “It’s just a stained jacket. And just like this suit, I don’t want it anymore.”
I looked at her, letting the weight of my words sink in. “And I don’t want you, either.”
Becca gasped loudly. “But the wedding… if the suit is ruined, we can’t do the wedding tomorrow. What about the surprise Chelsea got for you, Jesse?”
The golden comments surged again.
[Chelsea tracked down the original paintings Jesse sold years ago! She bought them all back!]
[She was going to present them to him at the reception tomorrow as a reward for his patience.]
My head snapped up. I stared at Chelsea’s trembling lips, and for a fleeting, painful second, my numb heart stuttered back to life.
Chelsea met my gaze, her eyes cold and devoid of warmth. “The surprise was actually for Cody,” she lied, her voice tight. “And since Jesse doesn’t want to be here, I’m giving all of them to Cody right now.”
On her cue, several assistants began carrying large, wrapped frames into the hall, lining them up in front of Cody.
My body went entirely rigid.
Those twelve paintings were my pride and joy—the collection that had won me a national arts scholarship in college. When Chelsea wanted to start her own fashion line years ago and couldn’t secure a loan, I had sold them to a private collector to give her the capital.
I remembered the night I handed her the money. She had clung to me in our tiny apartment, sobbing into my shoulder.
“Jesse, no one has ever loved me like this. No one ever will. I swear to you, the second my business takes off, I’ll find these paintings and buy every single one of them back for you.”
I had believed her.
But now that she had finally tracked them down, she was handing them to Cody.
The text kept scrolling.
[Can’t Jesse see how much pain Chelsea is in? All he has to do is say he wants them, and she’ll hand them over in a heartbeat.]
Chelsea’s jaw was set tight, a desperate, expectant look lingering deep in her eyes.
Becca nudged my elbow, whispering, “Jesse, just apologize to her. You’ve been putting up with her for eight years. What’s one more time?”
Instead of answering, I watched Chelsea lift one of the paintings and hand it directly to Cody. “These are yours now,” she said loudly, her eyes fixed on me. “No one can take them from you.”
Cody flashed me a triumphant, nasty grin. “Well, since they’re mine, I guess I can do whatever I want with them.”
He reached onto the buffet table, grabbed a steak knife, and drove the blade straight through the canvas, dragging it down in a brutal, jagged motion.
“I absolutely loathe when guys try to leverage their past favors to guilt women,” Cody sneered, glancing at me. “Real love is unconditional. Expecting a return on your investment is just pathetic.”
He moved to the next frame, the blade ripping through years of my hard work.
I clenched my fists so hard my fingernails bit into my palms, drawing blood. With every tear of the canvas, it felt as though he was slicing directly into my chest.
And Chelsea just stood there. She watched him destroy my life’s work, and she didn’t lift a finger to stop him.
The golden text was still flashing, but I closed my eyes, refusing to read another word.
The paintings were gone. And with them, the very last piece of whatever beauty Chelsea and I had once shared crumbled into ash.
I turned and walked out of the venue, the heavy doors swinging shut behind me.
As the cool night air hit my face, Cody’s mocking voice echoed in my head.
“Man, Chelsea, your guy is a joke. So incredibly petty. His tolerance level is basically zero.”
And Chelsea’s cold reply:
“He’s obsessed with me. He’ll probably have a pathetic excuse lined up to apologize by the time I get home.”
I let out a quiet, bitter laugh into the empty street.
No, Chelsea. Not this time. There are no more apologies left in me.
Back at our apartment, I immediately began packing.
My mother had already planned to move out of the city tomorrow afternoon to go live with my grandparents in Seattle, hoping to spend her remaining years caring for them. Since there was no wedding to attend anymore, I figured I would just leave with her.
As I packed, a painful realization washed over me. All of my personal belongings—my clothes, my sketchbooks, my documents—fit into a single, modest suitcase.
Everything else I owned had been systematically thrown away over the past year. Cody had claimed my things were “eyesores” that cluttered the apartment, and Chelsea had let him toss them.
When I had protested, she had simply shrugged.
“Cody’s right, Jesse. Men have too much junk anyway. You need to learn to let things go.”
Yet, when Cody’s belongings began slowly filling the empty spaces in our home, she never said a word.
Looking around this beautiful apartment that had absolutely no room for me, I pulled out my phone, intending to call a real estate agent to list my half of the property.
But before I could dial, the front door clicked open. Chelsea and Cody walked in.
Seeing the suitcase at my feet, Cody raised an eyebrow, a mocking smirk playing on his lips.
“Look at this, Chelsea. Your little drama queen is at it again. Is he trying to kick me out, or does he just not love you anymore?” He held up a plastic takeout container. “And to think we actually felt bad for him. We brought back the leftovers from rehearsal dinner for him and Rusty.”
Rusty was Cody’s golden retriever, whom he had moved into our apartment months ago.
And the leftovers were from the very table where my suit had been ruined.
The defensive anger returned to Chelsea’s face, masking the brief flash of panic I had caught when she first saw my suitcase.
“Jesse, what is wrong with you?” she demanded, throwing her keys onto the counter. “I am warning you, my patience is wearing thin. If you walk out that door tonight, you are never coming back. Do you understand me? You will lose me forever.”
[Jesse, please hold your ground, but don’t actually leave! Can’t you see she’s just terrified of losing you?]
[She was literally crying in the car on the way home. Just give her a hug and she’ll forgive you.]
[She can’t survive without you. She’s only acting tough because she wants you to submit one last time.]
Reading the text now, I felt nothing but a profound sense of disgust.
Ever since Chelsea met Cody in the business world, I had done nothing but submit.
When I had a fever of 103 and begged her to bring me medicine, she had gone out and stayed overnight at Cody’s place because he had a minor stomach ache and “needed her.”
When Cody’s apartment was being remodeled, she had invited him to move into our home without even asking me, slowly erasing my presence from my own living space.
I had tolerated all of it because those stupid golden comments told me it was just her insecurity. But my compliance had only fed their cruelty.
The love I had harbored for her for nearly a decade was completely dead.
I looked at her, my eyes entirely clear. “I’m not coming back. And I’m selling this place.”
Chelsea’s pupils dilated in shock.
But Cody suddenly burst out laughing, a loud, grating sound. “Sell it? With what authority? This is my apartment!”
A cold dread pooled in my stomach. I turned to Chelsea, whose eyes had suddenly darted away, refusing to meet mine.
“What is he talking about?” my voice trembled.
Chelsea reached out, her fingers twitching as if she wanted to grab my hand, but Cody casually draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her back.
“It means Chelsea signed the deed over to me last month,” Cody said smoothly. “Come on, Jesse. You claim to love her, right? You’re not seriously going to grudge her giving a house to her best friend, are you?”
My hands began to shake violently.
To ensure Chelsea and I wouldn’t have the burden of a massive mortgage, my mother had sold her own beautiful home. She had used every penny of her savings—nearly $200,000—to pay off our remaining debt so we could start our lives together debt-free.
Because of that sacrifice, my mother was currently renting a cramped, damp apartment in a dilapidated part of town.
And Chelsea had handed that very home to Cody without a single word to me.
A blinding wave of fury rushed to my head. Before I could think, I raised my hand and swung it toward Chelsea’s face.
But before my palm could connect, Cody threw himself in front of her.
He hit the floor with a dramatic thud, immediately letting out a pathetic wail.
“Ow! God, Chelsea, he’s trying to kill me!” he sobbed, clutching his stomach. “He’s attacking me just so he can steal my apartment! Does he hate you so much that he’d resort to violence just to get away from you?”
Chelsea’s eyes flared red with fury. “Fine! You want to leave? Then get the hell out!”
She grabbed my arm, her grip brutal and frantic, and violently shoved me toward the hallway.
The heavy front door slammed shut in my face, the lock clicking into place.
I stood alone in the dimly lit corridor, holding nothing but my phone.
The golden text exploded, swirling frantically before my eyes.
[Jesse, don’t leave! She’s only throwing you out because she’s terrified you’re actually going to abandon her!]
[She kept your suitcase inside on purpose so you’d have to come back! If you leave now, she’s going to lose her mind!]
[He’s crying outside, and she’s crying inside. This is so devastating.]
[Even though she gave the apartment to Cody, she was actually planning on buying a mansion for Jesse anyway!]
I ignored the comments. Taking one last look at the blank, white door of the home that was no longer mine, I turned and walked away into the night, heading toward the tiny, cramped apartment my mother rented.
When I arrived, my mother was dressed and waiting, ready to call an Uber to take her to the hotel near our venue.
Seeing me standing on her doorstep with bloodshot eyes and no luggage, her heart broke. “Jesse? What happened? Is the wedding… off again?”
The dam broke, and tears finally spilled over my cheeks. “Yeah, Mom. It’s over. We’re not getting married.”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the apartment, about how her immense sacrifice had been handed over to a parasite. I simply told her that Chelsea and I had broken up for good.
But before we could even process the grief, the thin front door of the apartment was kicked open.
Chelsea stormed in, her face twisted in rage.
“Jesse! You beat Cody half to death, and you think you can just walk away?” she screamed. “Do you have any idea how fragile he is? He just had surgery last week!”
“I didn’t even touch him!” I yelled back, my voice cracking.
Cody stepped out from behind her, looking entirely fine, save for a smug, mocking glint in his eyes.
“I really thought better of you, Jesse,” he said, turning to my mother. “But I guess you didn’t raise him very well. Chelsea is the most generous woman in the world—she was nice enough to sign her apartment over to me—and your son responds by beating me up and refusing to even apologize.”
My mother’s face went instantly pale. She stared at Chelsea, her breath hitching in her throat.
“What… what did you say? Chelsea… you gave Jesse’s apartment to this man?”
Cody smiled, pulling a folded deed from his pocket. “Yep. See for yourself. It’s registered under my name now.”
My mother stared at the document, her hand rising slowly to her chest. She gasped, a choked, rattling sound escaping her throat, and collapsed heavily onto the linoleum floor.
The blood in my veins turned to ice. I threw myself beside her, panicked.
“Mom! Mom, please! Don’t do this, talk to me!”
But her body was convulsing, her lips turning a terrifying shade of blue.
I looked up at Chelsea, sobbing hysterically. “She’s having a heart attack! Chelsea, please, we need to get her to the hospital! Call an ambulance!”
The golden text flickered back to life.
[Chelsea is terrified. She only came here to find an excuse to bring Jesse home. She’s completely desperate.]
[She didn’t know Cody was going to bring the deed. Jesse, please don’t be mad at her.]
“Chelsea, please!” I screamed. My mother had already survived one major heart surgery; the doctors had warned us that another severe shock could be fatal.
Seeing the sheer terror on my face, Chelsea took a step forward, her hand reaching out toward my mother.
But right then, Cody let out a sharp, theatrical groan, collapsing against the doorframe.
“Chelsea… my stomach. My surgical wound is bleeding. Jesse must have ruptured my stitches earlier.” He looked at my mother with a sneer. “And she’s clearly faking it. She’s just trying to help her son escape the consequences.”
He closed his eyes and let his head drop, pretending to faint.
Chelsea’s hand instantly retreated from my mother. She caught Cody as he “collapsed” into her arms, cradling him against her chest.
She looked down at me, her expression hardening into bitter annoyance.
“Tell your mother to stop acting. I’m not falling for this cheap trick.” She adjusted her grip on Cody. “I’m taking Cody to the emergency room to get his stitches checked. Once you’ve calmed down and decided to act like a rational adult, I’ll come back to get you.”
With that, she turned and carried Cody down the stairs.
My mother had stopped moving. My hands shook so violently I could barely unlock my phone to dial 911.
By the time the paramedics arrived, it was already too late. She didn’t even make it to the operating table before the doctors pronounced her dead.
I sat on the cold floor of the hospital corridor, clutching her lifeless body, screaming until my throat bled.
Three days later, holding a small urn containing my mother’s ashes, I boarded a one-way flight to Seattle.
After spending three days entirely consumed by Cody’s demands, Chelsea finally found a spare moment to visit the cramped apartment.
She had bought a expensive peace offering—a watch I had admired months ago. She had convinced herself that as long as I promised to put her first from now on, she would overlook my “tantrum” and marry me anyway.
She knocked on the door, but the apartment remained entirely silent.
Just as a strange, cold panic began to tighten around her chest, the landlord from next door opened his door.
“Stop knocking,” the woman said, leaning against the frame. “The lady who lived there passed away a few days ago.”
“Dead?” Chelsea’s voice cracked. “How is that possible? She was perfectly fine when I left.”
“Well, she wasn’t fine,” the landlord scoffed, crossing her arms. “She had a massive heart attack. Delayed medical attention, apparently. Her son’s eyes were swollen shut from crying when he turned in the keys. The funeral’s already over.”
Chelsea’s face went entirely white, the expensive gift box slipping from her numb fingers and crashing onto the dirty floor.
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For seven years, the man I loved had one recurring request: Be the bigger person. Step aside.
On my twentieth birthday, he took the limited-edition necklace he’d just gifted me, unclasped it from my neck, and fastened it around Mia’s because she admired it.
“Her father saved my life, Jo. You’re my girlfriend. Just let her have this one thing.”
When I finally landed a coveted offer at a top-tier tech firm after pulling countless all-nighters, he pulled strings behind the scenes to hand the position over to Mia.
“She isn’t as fiercely independent as you are. She needs this break more than you do. Be understanding, Jo. Step aside for her.”
Even when I was hospitalized after a car wreck, shivering from the sheer agony of my fractured ribs, he abandoned me in the ER because Mia had a nightmare.
“Ever since her dad died saving me, she’s been terrified of the dark. Just give me tonight. Be the bigger person.”
I was the bigger person for seven years. I stepped aside, time and time again, right up until the day of our wedding.
By the time I rushed to the venue, delayed by a supposed “scheduling error” with my bridal car, Mia was already walking down the aisle, her arm looped through Declan’s, going through the motions of my ceremony.
Later, when he finally stepped into the bridal suite, he looked at me with an air of absolute entitlement.
“I only just found out she’s been harboring a crush on me all these years. I was just giving her a memory. Fulfilling a dream.”
“Anyway, you’re the one signing the marriage license with me tomorrow. Don’t be so petty about this. Let her have this one last thing.”
I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry in frustration the way I used to. Instead, I smiled and nodded.
Declan let out a long, heavy exhale of relief. He reached out, likely to stroke my hair and praise my maturity.
But I sidestepped his touch. I slid the diamond engagement ring off my left hand and placed it softly on the vanity glass.
“This time,” I said, my voice eerily calm, “I’m letting her have you, too.”
…
Declan stared at the ring resting on the glass, his eyes darkening.
“Jo, you’ve always been the rational one. Why are you suddenly throwing a tantrum like a child?” He loosened his bowtie, exasperated. “The ceremony is just a show. I promise, when we fly out for the honeymoon next week, it’ll just be us. Okay? You’ve been burning the candle at both ends planning this for six months. I’ll make it up to you.”
It was a script I knew by heart.
But no matter what he promised, our relationship was a crowded room. There was always a third person wedged between us.
When it was time to pick out my wedding dress, he said trying on gowns was exhausting work and had Mia model them for him instead.
When we were house hunting, he told Mia to pick the neighborhood she liked best, claiming it would be “more convenient for when she sleeps over.”
Even the honeymoon destination—Phuket—was chosen because Mia had always wanted to go.
I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and looked him dead in the eye. “Do I look like I believe you anymore?”
Declan’s jaw tightened. Patience was never his strong suit.
“I apologized, Jo. What more do you want from me?”
I was too drained to fight. I turned toward the door, only to find Mia pushing it open.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Am I interrupting?” she asked, her voice breathless and sweet.
She extended her right hand, sliding a diamond ring off her finger. She held it out to me, offering a tragic, wistful sigh.
“Joanna, the truth is… the ring I’m wearing is the real one. But today, I’m giving it back to you. The ring, and Declan.”
The air in my lungs vanished.
I snapped my head toward Declan, then looked down at the vanity.
Two rings. Identical in every way.
Declan’s eyes darted away. He stepped forward, trying to wrap an arm around my waist, his voice dripping with guilt.
“There were a lot of heavy hitters in the audience today, Jo. Board members, investors. I had to use the real diamond to help Mia save face. I… I forgot to mention it.”
Forgot to mention it.
That ring was a custom design. He had drafted the blueprints himself. It was supposed to symbolize a lifetime of exclusive love.
I still remembered the night he proposed three years ago. The way the city lights reflected in his eyes as he dropped to one knee on the balcony.
“I, Declan Wright, swear my absolute loyalty to Joanna Ellis. I want nothing more than to hold your hand for the rest of my life,” he had vowed, his voice thick with emotion. “If I ever break this promise, may I lose everything. May I be ruined.”
I had believed him.
That was why I compromised. Why I chipped away at my own boundaries, over and over, just hoping we would make it to the altar. I had worn that ring for three years. I never took it off to shower, never took it off to sleep. It had worn a permanent indent into my skin.
How had he swapped it?
And he forgot?
It was such a pathetic, lazy lie.
And now, the ring that held my entire future was sitting in the palm of the girl he considered his fragile little ward.
A physical weight pressed down on my chest, crushing my ribs, suffocating me.
Seeing my frozen silence, Declan snatched the ring from Mia and reached for my left hand, moving to force it back onto my finger.
I violently yanked my arm away. My throat burned as I choked out a single word.
“Dirty.”
The color drained from both their faces.
Mia’s eyes instantly welled with tears. She shrank back, her voice trembling in a perfect pitch of vulnerability.
“I’m so sorry, Joanna. I didn’t know you thought I was repulsive. Ever since my dad died, everyone looks at me like I’m a stray… like I’m trash. You were the only one who always shared your things with me. I thought… I thought you didn’t hate me.”
Her words plucked the exact chord of Declan’s savior complex.
He shoved me back, turning his entire body to shield Mia. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear from her cheek, before turning a furious glare on me.
“You are incredibly cold-blooded, Joanna!” he snapped. “Mia has been through enough. Are you trying to push her over the edge with this attitude? When did you become so bitter and toxic?”
His shove caught me off guard. I stumbled backward in my heels, my lower back slamming violently into the sharp corner of the vanity table.
A dull, agonizing pain shot through my pelvis, radiating down my legs and up my spine. My vision blurred. Cold sweat erupted across my forehead.
Declan caught sight of my twisted expression. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his eyes.
His tone immediately softened. “Jo, I… I just lost my temper. Are you okay? Let me take you home so you can lie down.”
The second his hand brushed my arm, it happened.
A sudden, terrifying plunge of warmth slipped from inside me.
I froze. The world went dead silent. I didn’t dare breathe, let alone move.
A horrifying realization began to claw its way into my brain.
“Jo? What is it?” Declan stepped closer, scanning my pale face.
Before I could speak, the dressing room door swung open again.
Mia and Declan were standing perfectly positioned to block me from view.
It was Mia’s mother. She swept into the room, her face flushed with champagne and triumph, teasing them playfully.
“You two have been glued together all day! Still whispering sweet nothings? Come on, the family toast is starting. We can’t miss the golden hour!”
Mia looked up at Declan, her doe eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
Declan frowned, his jaw working as he fought a silent battle. Slowly, excruciatingly, he pulled his hand away from me.
He leaned in, dropping his voice to a hushed whisper meant only for my ears.
“It’s my fault Mia doesn’t have a complete family to walk her down the aisle. I owe her a perfect wedding day. Go home and rest. Be careful driving.”
The dual agony of my spine and my cramping abdomen was blinding.
It felt like an invisible hand was wrapping around my throat, choking off my voice. I couldn’t make a sound.
Taking my silence for my usual, worn-down compliance, Declan dropped my car keys and the diamond ring onto the glass table.
He turned to Mrs. Francis, his voice suddenly bright and projecting. “We’re coming, Mom…”
Mom.
He said it so naturally.
The moment the door clicked shut, the last string holding me upright snapped. My legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the carpet.
The pristine white tulle of my wedding dress was already soaking up a dark, relentless red.
Panic seized me. I clamped my hands over my stomach, trembling violently.
Tears spilled over my lashes, hot and fast, ruining the bridal makeup I had sat in a chair at 5:00 AM to have applied.
I was in too much pain to stand. Driving was out of the question.
My hands shook so badly I could barely unzip my clutch. I pulled out my phone and dialed Declan’s number.
It rang. And rang. For three solid minutes, I listened to the dial tone. He didn’t pick up.
Using the very last ounce of strength I had, I dialed 911.
By the time the paramedics strapped me onto a stretcher and wheeled me out of the suite, the grand doors to the ballroom were propped open.
I didn’t want to look, but my eyes betrayed me.
Mia was clinging to Declan’s arm. They were standing at the head table, raising crystal flutes to a room full of cheering guests.
As the crowd chanted, they crossed their arms in a traditional lovers’ toast and drank.
Declan had a severe stomach ulcer. He never drank alcohol. Not even when closing million-dollar deals; he always toasted with sparkling water.
But today, for Mia, he drank the champagne.
My consciousness faded into a blur of sterile lights as they rushed me into the ER.
Cold metal instruments invaded my body, scraping away the pieces of a future I didn’t even know I had.
I hadn’t been asleep long in the recovery room when the sound of muffled sobbing woke me.
It was Declan. He was sitting by the bed, his face buried in his hands, weeping openly.
When he saw my eyes flutter open, he lunged forward, grabbing my hand in a vice grip. His voice was entirely broken.
“Jo… oh God, Jo, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were pregnant. I’m a monster! If I hadn’t pushed you, the baby wouldn’t have…” He choked on a sob. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call me the second you felt pain?”
My face felt like stone. I slowly, deliberately slid my hand out of his grasp and turned my head to stare at the blank beige wall.
A single, quiet tear traced down my temple into my hairline.
The child I had always dreamed of was gone.
Killed by the hands of its own father.
It was a tragedy so profound it almost felt like a dark joke.
“I did call you,” I whispered, my voice raspy and hollow. “You didn’t answer.”
Declan froze. He frantically dug his phone out of his tuxedo pocket, swiping through his screen until he saw the missed call log. The color drained from his face all over again.
He opened his mouth, desperate to fill the silence, but the door flew open.
Mia burst into the hospital room, her hair wildly out of place.
“Declan! Declan, something’s wrong! My mom passed out in the lobby!” She was hysterical. “I already lost my dad! I can’t lose my mom too!”
Declan’s eyes snapped to her. The guilt on his face warring instantly with his ingrained sense of duty to her. He looked back at me, his expression agonizingly torn.
“Jo, the… the baby is already gone. I need to go check on Mrs. Francis with Mia. I’ll be right back. Just wait for me.”
I didn’t say a word. I just watched his back as he sprinted out of the room, Mia’s hand tightly clasped in his.
The door swung shut. The room was quiet again.
I closed my eyes, letting the memory of my conversation with the surgeon wash over me.
“Miss Ellis, the trauma of this miscarriage was severe. There was significant hemorrhaging… I’m incredibly sorry to tell you this, but it is highly unlikely you will ever be able to carry a child to term again.”
In the absolute lowest, most excruciating moment of my life, when my body was hollowed out and my spirit was shattered, Declan had chosen to walk away from me. Again.
My hand drifted down to rest on my flat, empty stomach.
My mind drifted back to the night he proposed. We had been lying in bed, tangled in the sheets, whispering into the dark about what our kids would look like. He said they’d have his eyes and my resilience—the best parts of both of us.
“When we have kids, Jo… if it’s a boy, let’s name him Oliver. If it’s a girl, Hazel. What do you think?”
Before I could even answer, his phone had buzzed.
“Mia’s going to the cemetery tomorrow morning to visit her dad’s grave,” he had said, already sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed. “She said she doesn’t have the right flowers. I need to take her to the 24-hour florist.”
I had grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
“But you promised tonight was just for us. Can’t she buy her own flowers in the morning?”
He had sighed, that heavy, condescending sigh, and leaned down to kiss my forehead.
“She’s grieving, Jo. Just give me the rest of the night. Step aside for her, just this once. When we’re married, she’ll be like a little sister to you too. You need to learn to be more accommodating.”
And then he had dressed and walked out the door.
I remembered lying awake that night, tossing and turning, my chest tight with a nameless anxiety.
How much longer do I have to step aside? How many more times?
But then I had looked at the diamond shining on my left hand and told myself the lie I always told myself: Once we’re married, things will change. He’ll put me first.
Looking back now from this sterile hospital bed, the naivety of it was staggering.
People don’t change. Their fatal flaws only deepen with time.
It was well past midnight when Declan finally returned. He walked in carrying a thermal thermos, looking entirely sheepish.
“Her mom just had too much to drink at the reception and passed out. We got her an IV to sober her up just to be safe,” he explained, pulling up a chair. “Mia felt terrible about everything, so she went home and made you some chicken soup. Drink a little.”
He unscrewed the lid, poured some into the small bowl, and scooped up a spoonful. He blew on it carefully before bringing it to my lips.
I stared coldly into the oily broth.
“I don’t want anything that her hands have touched.”
Declan’s expression hardened.
“She spent hours making this, Jo. She was trying to do something nice!” He pulled the spoon back. “Fine. If you won’t drink it, I will.”
He shoved the spoon into his mouth. The second the liquid hit his tongue, he gagged and spit it back into the bowl, coughing violently.
“Why is it so… sour and salty?”
He cleared his throat, his face flushing red as he awkwardly placed the bowl back on the nightstand.
“Mia’s never really cooked before. It’s the thought that counts.”
I kept my eyes locked on his face, studying the lines, the defensive posture. I was looking right through him.
The silence stretched out for several agonizing minutes.
Finally, he shifted in his seat and tried again, his voice tentative.
“Jo, the doctor said you need strict bedrest. So about signing the papers at City Hall tomorrow…”
I cut him off.
“We’re not going.”
Seven years of shrinking myself to fit into his life. It was over.
He misread my exhaustion for grief. He reached out and tucked the scratchy hospital blanket around my shoulders, dropping his voice to a soothing murmur.
“Jo, please don’t let yourself spiral. I’ve already contacted the best fertility specialists in the country. We can afford the treatments. We… we’ll have another baby.”
I slowly shook my head.
“No, we won’t.”
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
“Declan, it’s over. We’re done.”
He shot up out of the chair, his brow furrowing in instant irritation.
“Joanna, marriage isn’t a game you can just quit when you’re mad!”
“I’m not mad. I’m entirely serious.”
His hands, hanging by his sides, began to tremble.
“Is this because of the fake ceremony with Mia? Or because I accidentally caused the miscarriage? Or is there something else?”
“All of it,” I said. “And a thousand other things you wouldn’t even remember.”
“You are seriously going to throw away seven years over these trivial mistakes?”
Trivial mistakes.
The moments that had shattered my heart, the betrayals that had rewritten the course of my life—to him, they were just bumps in the road.
The lump in my throat was agonizing, but my voice didn’t shake.
“Yes,” I said. “I am throwing it away over exactly what you call trivial mistakes.”
Declan ground his teeth, his jaw visibly ticking as he forced down his rising temper. He grabbed the thermos off the table.
“You just lost a pregnancy, Jo. Your hormones are crashing. You’re emotional and speaking out of spite. I’m going to give you a few days to calm down. I’ll come back with the medical team when you’re thinking clearly.”
He walked out.
I lay staring at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling until my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
It was a text from the interior designer for our new house.
[Hi Joanna! The last piece of custom furniture just got delivered to the living room. Congratulations on the new home and the wedding! When are you free for the final walkthrough so I can hand over the keys?]
I stared at the glowing screen.
A physical ache hollowed out my chest.
My parents had died when I was young. I grew up bouncing between reluctant relatives, living out of suitcases, always feeling like an intruder in someone else’s space.
I had promised myself that one day, I would build a home that was unconditionally mine.
The house the designer was texting about was supposed to be my sanctuary. Our marital home.
“Jo, I’m never going to let you drift again,” Declan had told me the day we closed on it. “Now that you have me, you can finally put down roots.”
When he handed me the deed, Mia had been standing right behind him. I remembered the flash of pure, unadulterated venom in her eyes when she saw that the deed was in my name only.
For the past six months, while juggling my demanding corporate job and the wedding planning, I had poured my soul into that house.
I picked out every slab of marble, every hardwood plank. I drove to a dozen different showrooms just to find the perfect shade of taupe for the walls. I supervised the contractors like a hawk, desperate for it to be perfect.
It was the first real home I’d ever had.
But now? Now I knew that even in that house, I would never be the only woman in Declan’s life. His ghost would always be living in the guest room.
I didn’t want it anymore.
[Hi Mark,] I typed back. [Please contact your real estate broker immediately. I want to list the house. As fast as possible.]
The three gray typing dots bounced on the screen for several long minutes. Mark was clearly shocked.
[Joanna, you poured your heart into this place. Are you absolutely sure?]
[I’m sure.]
[If we want a fast cash sale right now, we’ll have to list it under market value. You’ll take at least a $50k hit. Are you okay with that?]
[I don’t care about the money. Just get it sold.]
The broker was ruthless and efficient. Within three days, he found a buyer.
It was a married couple in their forties, deeply in love and looking for an upgrade. When they walked in and saw the brand-new, never-lived-in, designer-furnished space, they made a cash offer on the spot.
The money hit my bank account.
I signed my own discharge papers and walked out of the hospital.
…
A week later, Declan pulled into the driveway of the new house with Mia sobbing in the passenger seat.
“My mom kicked me out after we got into a huge fight over the hospital bill… I almost had to sleep on the street,” Mia cried, clutching her designer purse. “Declan, I don’t know what I’d do without you. But… will Joanna really let me stay here? It’s your marital home.”
Declan paused on the front porch, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. But then he squared his shoulders.
“Don’t worry about it. Jo is generous. She’ll step aside and let you have the guest room.”
He walked up to the smart lock and punched in my birthday.
Error.
He tried again.
Error.
He frowned, pulling out his phone to call me. Just as he dialed, the heavy oak door swung inward.
A strange man and woman stood in the foyer, staring at them in bewilderment.
“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded. “And why are you trying to break into our house?”
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